Children on double-bladed tin skates push chairs ahead of themselves for balance Punks and neo-hippies

Children on double-bladed tin skates push chairs ahead of themselves for balance Punks and neo-hippies shiver past. And veteran couples in sensible woollen jackets, arms entwined, sway along like ballroom dancers.When I first started skating I prepared by walking the art galleries of Amsterdam. Brueghel and Averkamp had painted skaters accurately enough to show basic ice technique, and I adopted the traditional skates that their medieval peasants used: Friesan doorlopers - metal blades set into wooden platforms that one strapped on over one's walking boots They had two advantages. They were available in second-hand shops, and they gave the tyro-skater the possibility of unstrapping them and walking away if things were going badly.My first venture on to the ice started on the banks of Delft's park lake, where I cinched my blades on, and listened to a friend's summarising of the Brueghel technique.

"Blades upright, then push off with one skate away from the other .. at an angle of 45 degrees, more or less Make a good long glide. Swing the back foot forward and do the same again but to the other side."A small child swept by, following instructions to the letter. I stood up and launched myself from the bank, copying the child And to my surprise it worked. I spent an hour charging up and down the narrow strip of ice, blasting through the clouds of icy breath that I blew ahead of me.There was, however, much more to learn. Efficient skaters lean forward at the waist, hands held behind the back, legs lazily scissoring back and forth to notch up 15 to 20km an hour, hour after hour. This classic pose was a little more difficult than the arm waving and leg jerking I had perfected.

And stopping, though an essential skill for avoiding disaster in crowded areas, proved even more challenging. I struggled to angle the blades into a snow plough, so I could skid to a halt without diving forward on to my nose in a painful shower of ice crystals.Having put a few kilometres of duck pond under my skates, and the freeze biting deeper, it was time to get out into the country. Though purists would argue that the Netherlands' best skating is in the Friesland, the most waterlogged and least populated province, from my base in Delft I concentrated on the equal attractions of the canals and lakes of Zuid Holland. The Netherlands' small size and round-the-clock rail service makes it practical to set up base in any large town and sally forth by train and bus to reach the chosen skating grounds, returning after a day's hard blading to traditional skater's fare of pea soup - snert - and boiled wurst. To return to Delft and its snug bars became the metaphysical goal of my each day's skating.For my first big outing I joined forces with Marten Klein to run the Amstel river, skating south from Amsterdam, via the waver, to the lake at Botshal.

We were following a route famous among English "touring skaters" of the last century. C G Tebbutt writing in the Badminton Library series of sporting guides in 1891 describes exactly this tour, and also noted the egalitarian nature of Dutch life. He pointed out that in Holland you "must put on your own skates, even if you are a lady", conjuring up a vision of hip flasks, plus-fours and deer-stalker hats.Serenaded by funeral bells and a mournful French horn, Marten and I strapped on our skates next to the graveyard in Ouderkirk, and cast off past the dark hulks of barges frozen into the ice. Within a few hundred metres my sang froid was shattered, literally, by a sudden explosion beneath my blades. A jagged crack shot through the ice and water gushed up in jets and spurts. I skidded back to the bank for some reassuring words on safety. The ice takes its strength from floating on the water, and cracks, crazing and sudden noises are all welcome proofs that the ice is safely under tension.