#3023: Giethoorn, Netherlands
Original photo: @themichaeldonovan
Recently heartbroken, Cornelia takes a solo trip to the romantic village of Giethoorn—a journey she had originally planned with her ex-fiancé. Though love isn't on her itinerary, a charming tour guide named Noa turns her day into something far more intimate and unforgettable beneath one of the village’s most notorious bridges.
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Transcript
ke up early to the sounds of the village already stirring outside. Booking a trip to Giethoorn during peak season probably wasn’t my brightest idea, but the dates had been chosen long before—back when I still had a fiancé and an anniversary to celebrate. Now, the idea of spending this romantic escape alone felt both ironic and a little pathetic. Still, everything was booked, and I was already here. There was no turning back.
Giethoorn had been on my list for years. A village of canals, bridges, and quiet charm—it was the kind of place that called for hand-holding and stolen kisses. Instead, I arrived solo, with no romance, no shared laughter, no one to experience it with. The sadness of that hit me, but I reminded myself I didn’t come here to mourn. I came to reclaim something—my time, my peace, maybe even a part of myself.
From my window, I was met with a wave of green—the grass, the trees, even the rooftops looked mossy, like nature had softened everything in a painter’s palette. The water was still, gently tinted with green from the plants beneath its surface. Boats passed by like clockwork. One floated past my house full of tulips in every color imaginable. It made me smile despite myself. Even in my disappointment, this place was impossibly beautiful.
Today’s itinerary had already been set—a romantic boat tour through the canals, complete with lunch and champagne. Originally meant for two. Now, just for me.
I dressed carefully. A light white dress, just enough makeup to feel presentable. The boat was coming to pick me up directly from my rental house, so all I had to do was wait by the edge of the water.
It wasn’t long before a sleek dark-blue boat approached, steered by a man around my age. He had ginger hair, a neatly kept beard, and eyes that caught the sunlight in the softest way. He smiled as he saw me, and I felt something shift inside me, subtle but impossible to ignore.
He helped me into the boat. I wobbled slightly, unsure, but he guided me gently, reminding me to keep low in case of the bridges—some were low enough that sitting up straight could be risky. I nodded, tucking that away, and we set off.
He talked as we drifted—stories about the village, little bits of history. I listened with genuine interest, but my attention kept flickering back to him. Maybe it was the rawness of the breakup, maybe the champagne I hadn’t even touched yet. Or maybe it was just the quiet magnetism of a man who seemed to belong here.
We reached a quiet part of the canal where the water widened and stilled. He offered to pause the tour so I could enjoy lunch. The picnic basket sat at my feet, and the idea of eating it alone suddenly felt unbearable. So I asked him to join me.
He seemed surprised at first, but then smiled and accepted. We unpacked the food—sandwiches, fresh fruit, and that bottle of champagne—and shared it as if we were old friends rather than strangers. We talked easily. He told me he’d moved here six months ago, seeking peace after years in the city. I shared that I was recently single, that this trip was meant to help me let go of something that had already fallen apart. He offered quiet sympathy, and something about his words—simple, kind—made my chest ache in the best way.
As we resumed the tour, the warmth of the food and the buzz of the champagne lingered in my body. I spotted a small red bridge we hadn’t passed under and pointed it out. He hesitated, then steered in that direction. The space beneath it was low, almost hidden from the world, and we had to press ourselves to the bottom of the boat to slide underneath.
Suddenly, everything felt closer. Darker. The light filtered in through the slats above us, little threads of gold over water. The air grew still, quiet, expectant. We were alone beneath the bridge—alone in a way that felt intentional.
I moved toward him without planning to. I climbed onto his lap, my hands on his shoulders, my body leaning into his. When I kissed him, it was soft at first, then fuller, hungrier. His beard scratched lightly against my skin as he deepened it. His hands moved up my legs, underneath my dress, and I gasped quietly at the warmth of his touch.
He explored me with a kind of reverence, as though I was something he hadn’t realized he was hungry for until now. The rhythm of our bodies fell into place with surprising ease. We kissed and touched in the shadow of the bridge, every breath louder than it should have been. My heart was pounding when we heard another boat glide into the same space.
There was a couple in it, older, content. They looked at us, unbothered, even smiling. At first, I froze. But then something inside me cracked open. The couple didn’t care. They were caught in their own intimacy—and I wanted the same.
The straps of my dress slid down. His mouth found my chest, my skin tingling with every kiss. I rolled my hips against him, the fabric of his pants between us. I whispered what I needed, and he didn’t hesitate. He undressed quickly, slipping on protection as I straddled him again.
When he entered me, I let out a sound I couldn’t hold back. It was raw, needy. The boat creaked softly beneath us as I rode him, the warmth of his body grounding me in something real and immediate. The moans around us—theirs, ours—became a symphony. We were strangers, but we were experiencing something together, all four of us.
The climax hit me hard. My body arched, trembled, broke open. As I gasped, I looked up through the wooden slats above us and caught a glimpse of someone watching. Strangely, it didn’t feel invasive. It felt... shared. As if the village itself had quietly welcomed me into this strange, beautiful ritual.
We dressed again in silence, both catching our breath. The boat drifted out from under the bridge and back into the open canal.
I didn’t speak during the return. I didn’t need to. The moment had spoken enough.
When we reached my house, I stepped out of the boat, turned back, and kissed him. Softly. Meaningfully.
And I knew I would return for another tour.