In Bruges - Brugge, Belgium
Brugge, Belgium
Where I stayed
Bauhaus, St Christopers Inn, Langestraat
I've often wondered where to start. Do I land my audience straight in to the heart of my journey, as if eternally sat patiently on pause waiting for someone to open the page and press the play button? Are my reasons or intentions of any value to anyone but myself? Should I not jot a word until back home – cooped in my tiny apartment – before reflecting and reminiscing on all the little quirks that travelling anywhere inevitably conjure up?
It was during this ponderous state of mind, whilst I sat at St Pancras International gazing romantically at the list of evocative departures, when I was pulled dramatically back to reality. A lumbersome, lone man had plonked himself down on the next seat, so close that our thighs gently brushed each others with any slight adjustment. I had barely pulled my gaze from the departure board before the waft of the morning drunk filled my nostrils.
"Excuse me."
“Do you know what time the 1131 to Paris goes?”
“Um.. I’d expect around 1131” I replied, desperately trying to mask the stupidity of such a question with my answer. I half expected him to ask me where it was heading and if I could pick from his foul stench just how many lagers he had consumed by half past ten in the morning.
“I’m James” he croaked, holding out an uninviting sweaty palm. “Want a beer?”
Despite my polite refusal and gentle acknowledgement of the time, he carried on and a fresh can was plucked from his rucksack. As the gas on the ring pull hissed for the umpteenth time of his morning, he began to unravel.
“Where are you going?” he enquired.
“Bruges..”
A puzzled face glared back at me.
“Belgium?”. The penny dropped and he moved on with haste. “I’m off to Paris. On my own. My girlfriend just broke up with me after eight years. We were supposed to go together. ******* women, hey!”
Suddenly his alcoholism, lack of hygiene, red raw face, and tear stained cheeks carried reason. Perhaps that was the reason she left him. Despite this, I suddenly realised that, even for these few fledging moments, I was all he had. Having just been through my own emotional car wreck that invariably occurs when you have your heart crushed like a tin can by the boot of an SS soldier, I was filled with sincerity and sorrow for him. I’m almost certain his plans for a romantic four day jaunt to a city literally dripping in love and lust hadn’t incorporated a morning of heavy boozing whilst stumbling from stranger to stranger, spilling all and sundry before them.
We spoke for some time; my heartfelt words of reassurance occasionally perforated by his random outbursts of anguish – almost as if his mind was programmed to dissipate in to a million fragments of disillusion the moment my lips were pursed to speak.
“You want to come with me? You want to come to Paris with me? I’ve spent £1000 on this holiday, it’s all paid for. You should come!”
Whilst it’s not every day that you are invited on a romantic, all expenses paid weekend away in Paris by a tall, dark (if not intoxicated) stranger, the hairs in my nose were beginning to singe as his toxic breath continued to flow unrelentingly, and I politely declined. I couldn’t help but imagine his other half – sweet, seductive, and sober – on the hunt for her own Parisian companion. It’s always like this. I tend to attract the insecure, the erratic, and the incapacitated. Whether that’s due to a reassuringly friendly and welcoming glow I emit or they see comparisons that bind us secretly together, I doubt I’ll ever know.
I began to stare at the clock, desperate to summon any suppressed superhuman timewarp powers of the mind that may be hidden within, and counted the microseconds until boarding would be announced. As the last drop of train station brew was thrown back, James leaned in closer, with the kind of eyes reserved for late night dance floors, when those desperate for a snog aim wildly before the lights are flicked on and you’re made grotesquely aware of the sea mammal you’ve just made a beeline for.
He began to tell me how handsome I was, that I need to fight until the bitter end, and just how many brasses he was going to sleep with once he arrived in France. He clasped my knee, shook my hand, hugged me twice, and gave me his scarf as a gift before departing as swiftly as he appeared. I watched as he stumbled off, weaving through the masses of suitcases and Japanese tourists, before he settled next to a gentile-looking white haired man and unzipped his bag. That’s the last I would see of James. As the 1058 to Brussels was called, I headed for the platform, scarf in hand (partly as there were no bins around and partly because I feared James was watching my every move).
Having wandered through the hoards of confused tourists who’d flopped off the Eurostar and were leaking in to Brussels train station, I pointlessly studied the local departures board. I soon remembered I didn’t know any Belgian, and tracked down the only person anywhere that resembled anything like a station official. Fortunately, he was, and I was soon on Platform 16, bound for Knokke Blankenberge.
I’d read a lot about Brussels lack of vitality and character, and as the two tiered juggernaut of a train lurched itself away, it was difficult to find a case against. The suburban areas of Brussels appeared lined with squalid housing, deteriorated beyond apparent repair, and it was sometime before the flat Belgian farmland appeared. There are many beautiful train journeys in Europe. Brussels to Bruges is not one of them.
I arrived in Bruges with much anticipation. My hostel was 3km from the station, so map in hand, I followed my pre-planned dotted line through the cobbled lanes and narrow canals in to its heart. Bruges is beautiful. The belfry juts high in to the sky, providing a constant beacon for any lost wanderer. Quaint shops, cafes, and secret doorways adorn each street, whilst tourists and locals blend effortlessly together, sharing the marvels before them.
Having swiftly dealt with the small issue of someone sleeping in my bed, I dropped my bag and did what any lone traveller is entitled to do. I got lost. With the belfry acting as my watched guider, I submerged myself in to the tiny alleys that twist and turn as if with no direction. Delightful architecture leapt from every corner; the waft of freshly made waffles enticing you to venture further. Finally the stench of James had been replaced.
I sat for a beer in the Markt, the belfry by now illuminated before me, accentuating its dominating but delicate features. To my left sat proudly the Provincial Court, itself worthy of being the centre piece of most European cities. Through the square ran large queues, formed to ride the eve by horse and carriage. Each and every doorway in sight invited you to eat, drink, unwind, and embrace.
It had not really occurred to me until this point that I hadn’t the foggiest idea what I expected the Belgians to sound like. What I discovered was a confusing blend of French, Dutch, and possibly German dialect thrown together to a point where it was impossible to establish just where anyone was from. I found this delightful.
I walked some more before stumbling across Herberg Vlissinghe; the oldest pub in Bruges. Established in 1515, it’ll soon celebrate its 500th birthday. It still thrives today, packed to its limited rafters with beer-swelling locals (or tourists, it’s impossible to tell), each playing their part in its rich heritage. Portraits of yesteryear cling to the walls, whilst the humble bar pumps out local brews to the thirsty revellers within. A rather detailed array of irons and copperware make up the central 'feature’ and its impossible not to throw your mind back in time.
By this point, the 8% lager was starting to take its toll and my quest for local delicacies began.
Spoilt for choice. Everywhere you look, frijtes, waffles, chocolates, and beer are the order of the day. If it’s not made of lace, chances are you can consume it. Having perused enough shop windows to leave a trail of drool so large that Americans had began to queue for its tour boat, I grabbed some classic Belgian chips, plenty of sauce, a good portion of waffle, plenty of sauce, and continued on my merry way.
By now the night was fraught with a chilled air, light drizzle leaving every cobble glistening beneath my feet. After confusing my Maandag with my Vrijdag at Comptoir des Arts, my exertions had begun to take its toll, and I retired for the night. Tomorrow I would don my tourist cap and venture deep in to Bruges heart.
Fully fuelled, I set off early in search of Bruges’ wonders. With the Jerusalem Church a small stones throw from my hostel, it seemed as fitting as anywhere to begin my journey back to the Middle Ages. Built in the 15th century by an overly keen merchant, desperate to seal his place in heaven (why go to church when you can build your own?) it was eerily mysterious and as my lone footsteps echoed through the dark back chambers, a sense of serenity and tranquillity was bestowed upon me. The small stained glass windows offered the only light within, with the merchant and his wife laying cocooned in their graves; the church’s centrepiece. I lit a candle for family and friends and left. I’m not remotely religious but I would soon learn that the holy places of Bruges would hold a certain mystery that would intrigue me.
I wandered the back streets, almost entirely alone, Bruges apparently still sleeping off the previous night’s antics. Every house and building appeared hand-crafted, every inch meticulously considered to all around it. It was like a movie set. It is a movie set.
I flitted through the beautiful array of vintageware at Madam Mim’s Shop, whilst Mim, the owner lent her darning fingers to my coat, and then proceeded on past what appeared to be a construction site. However, the scaffolding is permanent, as is the self-proclaimed 172 year old vampire within. Unfortunately, Willy Retsin’s Lucifernum – complete with coffin display – would not be open until tomorrow. One to note, I thought.
Instead, I pushed on to Burg, nestled neatly next to the Markt. I had come to get as close to Jesus Christ as many people on Earth ever could. As I entered the square, The Basilica of Holy Blood stood out immediately - its deep, dark gothic façade adorned by eight golden statues, tucked in the corner, and bolted on to the adjoining Stadhuis (Town Hall). Inside was gloriously, intricately decorated. Huge windows of stained glass lined the walls, illuminating the magnificently detailed interior. I sat with the rest of the assembly in perfect silence as a large grey box was carried forth to the altar. Removed from within was a golden cylinder, which in turn was placed on a lush red velvet cushion. Here, believers say, lay the blood of Christ.
The cylinder itself had arrived from a crusade to Jerusalem way back in the 12th century. Along the way, it was stuffed with a bloody cloth used to wash the dead body of the Saviour, bound and sealed, and delivered to Bruges. Simple. We were invited forward in procession, one by one, to marvel, pray, touch, or simply witness quite possibly one of the most remarkable holy relics in existence. This is because, if all is as they say, you can actually see it. Within the golden frame, held a glass container filled with a clotted, congealed, lumpy rag of claret and yellow. It looked disgusting, like the state of your last tissue after a heavy cold.
Nothing though could prepare me for the tingle that wiggled up my spine, to the hairs on the back of my neck, as I stepped forth. I sat for a few moments afterwards, legs slightly trembling (!), as I allowed all doubts, all sense of reality, to escape my mind momentarily and simply take in what I was being told and shown. Quite remarkable.
I left, collecting all my doubts and sense of reality back from the cloakroom on the way out, and went for a waffle.
I spent the next hour admiring the exquisite Flemish art housed in the Groeningemuseum, wondering how just how art seemed to go backwards over the centuries. From the unimaginably detailed workings of the 15th century Flemish Primitives, each and every fibre painstakingly perfected, it baffled me how as the years advanced, the emergence of expressionism and cubism allowed artists to paint like five year olds. Each to their own, I suppose.
With Michaelangelo’s Madonna and Child only on display in novelty souvenir shops due to the renovations at The Church of our Lady, and my stomach starting to whinge, I set off to find lunch.
I am notoriously unlucky when it comes to eating out. Perhaps my fussiness hinders me, but nonetheless, I’m the kind of person to book a table for two, 3 years in advance, only to turn up and discover the restaurant was burnt to the ground overnight by overzealous Klanners furious at the appearance of black olives on the entrée menu.
Now Bruges is great for eating out. If you happen to be happily entwined in love, ready to feast on someone else’s lap by candle light, whilst you wine and dine your wallet empty. I searched high and low for a quiet corner that lone oddballs often slunk in to, but as lunchtime for thousands of ravenous tourists neared, I scarpered to the fringes. I’d read great things about L’Estaminet, a place for locals to eat, situated a bit further out by Astridpark. Jammed from ceiling to floor. So I wandered even further out to another recommendation, ‘T Ganzespel, which would be subsequently closed for another six hours. Of course it would. By this point, I had started to weigh up which arm I could afford to lose first. Finally, doubled over with hunger cramps and swollen feet, I crawled through the doorway of Balls and Glory and dined on their finest balls, in all their glory. Delicious.
Full of balls, my afternoon began with a boat ride through the canal ways. As any tour guide will tell you, this is a must. Led by the multi-lingual captain, Justien, we sauntered casually along the idyllic waterways – stopping occasionally for those Kodak moments that just kept on coming. It was simply sumptuous to see the every day housing that lined the canal’s edge, water gently lapping against someone’s wall or garden, kitchens that looked out as swans swam by, balconies that hung out precariously a few feet about the surface. Coming from Milton Keynes, it was impossible to fathom living in such poetry. We passed under the smallest, the oldest, and the most romantic bridges in Bruges – constantly engaged by Justien, who’s well drilled commentary carried a dry wit expectant of a man who’s told the same jokes a million times.
Every now and then, sticking out like the sorest of thumbs, would lurch some of Bruges’ most architecturally modern of buildings. Large glass panes framed by plain brickwork and metallic trimmings wedged themselves between classic neo-gothic housing, centuries old, in such an unseemly manner that – as the entitled Brit I am – I tutted furiously.
I just don’t get it. Here you have one of the most beautifully carved cities in all of Europe, and yet permission is granted to slip great big piles of modern manure right in amongst it. Fortunately, it is limited, but it is yet another instance of things going backwards as time moves forward. Are we all just so busy these days that despite five hundred years of development within the building sector, the best we can now muster are copy/paste houses or those so modern, so 21st century, that the most defining feature is the sole black dotted doorbell used to beckon the new generation of wealth and arrogance to the front door of their 40,000 sq foot goldfish bowl? Somewhere, somehow, the detail and craft and sheer dedication to constructing such delights as found in the cobbled streets have been lost. Now we build like five year olds who’ve grown bored of painting.
As dusk descended and I wiped the remnants of yet another waffle from my lips, the only next natural progression was to drink. After all, there’s a lot to get through here. Unfortunately, as the cold set in, le tourist en masse, had the same idea. Feeling like Mary and Joseph as they arrived in Bethlehem, I tapped in to my new found knowledge of the city and ventured away from the magnet of the Markt.
I headed to ‘T Poatersgat, an underground basement bar with huge leather couches, plenty of tables, a low domed ceiling, soulful tunes, and a great array of beer. The kind of place you can sit for hours. So I did. I wrote and I read, I drank and I encountered the most incomprehensible human being I have ever met. Heavily cut and propping up the bar he’d just spilt the last remnants of his drink over, he introduced himself as a modern priest. Or really ******. One of the two. Desperate to pluck just one word of his extremely limited English out of the torrent of slur he was spouting, I resorted to simple nods and ‘mhm’s every time his facial expression suggested to. I will go to my grave never knowing what he said.
I was then graced by the beautiful presence of Josephina, a 24 year old from a small town near Buenos Aires, on a month long tour of Europe. Having already visited London, Paris, and now Bruges, she was on her way to Amsterdam, before visiting Rome, Milan, Florence, Barcelona, Madrid, and many other places along the way. There is something about broken English. It leaves me feeling over-qualified, jealous of the evocative sounds that flow from someone less in tune. The long pauses and uncertainties; the inquisitive tone, always seeking reassurance in what they’ve said. It gets me every time. We spoke of life back home, of journeys past and present, and of what tomorrow will bring. Alas, as her three friends reminded her of their early morning train to the Netherlands, her heels were dragged off and in to the night.
Josephina was replaced by a large family of locals, headed by Sofie (39) and flanked by her two daughters Esthelle (20) and Jamie (17), sons Dennis (15) and Laurenc (10), along with Esthelle’s boyfriend Dylan (23). It was quite the gathering. We were quick to converse, sharing tales of the city over a bottle of melon Jenever, a sweet spirit made from a blend of malt wine, distilled water and a neutral alcohol, and drank, apparently, in shots. ‘T Poatersgat was their Friday and Saturday local, away from the madding crowds of tourists that flood their gorgeous home every weekend.
Sofie was tall and thin, with free-flowing blond hair and genetics that flowed down through the ranks. They had lived here all of their life; the cobbled streets their way to work and school, the picturesque canals as accustomed to them as the roundabouts of Milton Keynes are to me. Their vision of England was hilarious – it would seem the only portrait of my homeland that’d made its way to Belgium was through the medium of On The Buses, Dad’s Army, and Absolutely Fabulous. Whilst the idea of Captain Mannering sharing the 5A with Joanna Lumley seemed peculiarly appealing, I did my best to bring them up to date with ‘that funny little island with the pounds’.
As the Jenever turned from melon to chocolate, to apple to passion fruit, interspersed with round after round of award-winning Belgian beer, it appeared to me that I had had my phone stolen. I had barely turned my back for a second. After a frantic uprooting of chairs, tables, and grand pianos, I was too drunk to contemplate and too much in the moment to care. The family were wonderfully considerate and set about alleviating my worries with yet more of Belgium’s finest tipples. As Sofie retired with the underage, I was left in the hands of Esthelle and Dylan, eager to give me a taste of Belgian nightlife.
We headed to Kuipersstraat, packed with bars and clubs heaving with youthful locals, rowdy and in high spirits. I have no idea where I ended up but as Dylan conversed with friends, Esthelle’s increasingly-obvious advances hit new heights and as the dance floor filled, it was impossible to avoid her gyrations and gesticulations. Dylan appeared unperturbed by such actions. Whilst the brief possibility of a three way knees up flitted across my intoxicated mind, so did the far more realistic notion of being hung, drawn, and quartered on one of the many crucifixes across town by Dylan and his entourage should I dare respond in the meagrest of manners to the flouting Flemish femme fatale before me.
With the latter option too big a gamble, I thanked my evening’s hosts and swaggered home. As I bounced from wall to wall, one step forward, two steps back, and three sideways, I finally understood the relationship between Bruges’ beer and its tight roads. Kept in check by the narrow streets, unable to stumble too far off course, the sprawling cobbles – glistening in the inevitable light mist that seems to fall eternally here – led me back and I finally fell asleep, semi-declothed, around **** knows o’clock.
I awoke with a hangover concocted in the deepest lairs of hell, that’d been syringed in to my ear whilst I slept by the awoken gargoyles of Bruges. With a stomach that bubbled like a witch’s cauldron, and a head on quick spin, there was little room for breakfast.
Despite my unease, today would be my last full day here and I was determined to make the most of it. As the sun teased the streets below, I rented a bicycle and headed out for some much needed fresh air. Having explored much of the inner hub, I ventured slowly to the boarder of the city’s walls and began the 7.2km ride around Vesten. The large canal ran parallel all the way around, broken only occasionally by the old city ramparts used in a bygone era to protect the city and its inhabitants. I was treated to the refreshing sight of those far more healthier and fitter than I utilising the gracious surroundings to run, cycle, and exercise in the morning sun. It took me over an hour to venture around the winding gravelled paths, stopping briefly to admire the windmills, lakes, and bridges along the way – and of course, on the odd occasion, to stop myself from throwing up on an innocent child passing by.
With my fuel tank running off its last fumes, and immensely proud that I’d managed to complete a journey without getting totally lost, I settled in to a local patisserie and watched the world go by over a croissant and doppio espresso. With the fuel light off, I spent the next few hours weaving majestically around the centre, straight through the middle of the Markt and to the door of its immense belfry, Berg, through the shopping districts of Steenstraat and Wollestraat, and out toward Minnewater Lake.
Minnewater Lake is as important to Bruges as it is picturesque. It marks the control point of the canal system, small locks allowing the water levels to be manipulated as and when required. Fresh water flows in from the now canalised river Reie, and funnelled in and out of the canal ways inside Bruges’ city walls. Considering it seems to rain 99.6% of the time here, it’s fair to say there’d be a few more canals appearing without it. The adjourning park is not big but packed with tiny footpaths that disappear amongst trees and shrubbery, enticing you to continue wading through the increasing stacks of burnt red autumn leaves that fall like snow from the huge trees above. As the sunlight pierced through the rushing clouds, bringing a new lease of life to the monumental towers that pierce the skyline, even the carnival of African drummers partying away in my head began to recede, if only fleetingly.
I had planned to visit the belfry on my last day, as the Saturday queues had been so long I anticipated it’d take a good two days just for those to clear. However, it was far quieter today, and with glorious sunshine scarcer than a solar eclipse for this time of year, I chose to ignore the returning sense of unease stampeding towards me like a herd of elephants in the Serengeti, and began the 366 step climb to the viewing tower high, high above anything in sight – probably in Belgium.
Despite its enormity, the curators of this imposing structure rather held back on the old staircase front. In fact, I’d say around 0.000324% had been reserved for getting up and down it (at least for us tourists). Every now and then I became embroiled in an unavoidable game of two-way tourist tetris, until someone managed to tuck their elbow up their ****, leaving just enough room for the backlog of bodies to tumble in to their next web of victims.
Fortunately, there are a number of rooms along the way, allowing you to seek refuge whilst learning a little something too. There are, naturally, a number of bells on display, as well as cast iron trunks – behind cast iron bars – impenetrable to mankind, in which the city’s charter and other important documents were housed. I imagine they kept King Leopold’s passport there, much like that little tin everyone has at the back of their sock drawer. Also on display is the huge chime bell, a goliath chrome drum with intrinsically placed raised rivets, that I can only imagine used to be turned using an oak tree as a key by the hunchback these sort of places seem to come with. Nowadays it’s mechanised but still plays out the glorious chimes that fill the Brugian air daily.
I reached the top and with the crisp, gushing air flowing freely – like god sent gift aid for my fledging state – I was able to take in the quite empowering sight of what appeared to be the whole country. The sun still miraculously showered the land with a glorious glow as the towers of The Church of Our Lady and Sint-Salvator Cathedral, stood with backs arched and chests puffed out, paraded their feathers like horny peacocks. Down below, miles and miles of terracotta roofs jammed together to create the city’s lanes and small tour boats chugged the glistening waters. Directly beneath lay the Markt, tiny horses carting even tinier people across the square. It was like Legoland. As my eyes squinted further afield, I was even certain I could see the sea (they have a beach, you know) but blinded by the sun, the horizon smudged in to a blend of greens and blues.
As I had been one of the last in line before closing time, I was fortunate that my descent back down the 366 steps (I make that 732 overall) was obstacle free and with my legs trembling like a virgin on prom night, I took the scenic route back to my hotel and finally succumbed.
I awoke two hours later, still wondering how I had reached this point. I’m sure there used to be a time when I could sink a few beers without spending the next 24 hours requiring life support. I’m only 28. By the time I’m 38, half a shandy is going to leave me comatosed. By 48, I’ll have to watch what chocolates I eat at Christmas. Feeling desperately shady but in need of nourishment and keen to see more of Bruges by night, I found the quietest restaurant I could, shovelled in some frijtes, and set about my way.
There was no way on Earth I would be drinking tonight, and with the sound of a mouse’s hiccup enough to send me tumbling like a wrong move in jenga, I set off in to the night, the comforting return of the drizzle on my cheeks fully established once again. I spent the next two hours meandering through tranquil streets, a city at utter peace with itself. Barely a soul stirred around me; I felt like I had the whole place to my self. Wrapped in my entire luggage, the cold and wet that was keeping the rest of Bruges locked away went entirely unnoticed.
The dark streets were broken by the warm glow of the latest resting hole, as relaxed revellers and late night diners fogged the windows inside. I continued along Braambergstraat and Dijver, following the motionless canal being dusted by the light mist that filled the air. Occasionally I would be joined on my way by romantic dwellers easing through the night, but mainly I was totally alone.
I dug deeper in to the northern reaches of the inner city, through the streets that house some of the 20,000 inhabitants inside the city walls. Gorgeous, homely, misfit boxes of individuality pack tightly together, centuries of curation perfectly juxtoposed. I passed a fourteenth century convent as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
As the ghost of beers past finally ****** off to find the nearest pub to bother some other poor soul, I used the various spires across the city to navigate back, and retired for the night.
I arose early and fresh. I checked out and spent the morning harvesting souvenirs. I have a thing for postcards and little ornaments and am currently constructing my own miniature version of my travelled world inside my living room. When you live in MK, you need those constant reminders. The rain fell heavier than normal, and Monday was clearly the day the locals spent piecing their city back together, restocking ready for the next influx, so I decided to hop on the train and spend an hour or two in Brussels.
I bid a fond farewell to Bruges, a city I now knew better than the back of my own hand, and enjoy -dured the painfully grim train back south.
My arrival in Brussels left me totally perplexed. This was not the station the Eurostar had spat me out at four days prior. I stood momentarily in a completely bewildered state, wondering just where it had all come from, and half expecting David Copperfield to appear. When I arrived, Brussels had one chip shop, one station officer, and several dozen lost tourists. Now it had a multi-storey complex the size of Luxembourg, teeming with shopping, eateries, and even travel information.
It was only when I stepped out of exit no. 153 of 372 that I allowed myself to accept that it must be. The rain had relented but there was a much colder chill in the air, the cosier nature of Bruges long lost on this expansive city. I didn’t have too long, but from what I’d heard of Brussels, that’s not such a bad thing. With no map and no concept of where I was, or what relationship my position held with anything else for that matter of fact, I looked to the skyline, plucked the largest spire out from amongst the endless concrete blocks before me, and made haste.
Fortunately, that spire belonged to the city’s Town Hall, the King piece in the Grote Markt, Brussel’s main square and attraction. Standing at 315ft tall, and 600 years old, its striking gothic façade is littered with statues of nobles and saints, who stare down the Broodhuis (breadhouse) opposite. The Broodhuis – very similar in style, but far more compact - was built a hundred years later as competition to the municipal symbolism of the Town Hall. It’s my guessing that, given the chance, these two icons of Brussels would charge across the square and kick the living daylight out of each other. Holding the two bickering siblings apart are rows of staggering beautiful guildhalls, trimmed in rich gold, whose doorways now provide access to swanky restaurants and hotels. I spent a good while studying the lavish décor up close before retreating to the fringes to take in the full scale of this magnificent UNESCO World Heritage Site.
As I ambled back to the station, it occurred to me I was yet to see any sign of the famous little boy that pees on everything. Literally, within half a second of this thought, I stumbled upon the exact fountain that has as many souvenirs carrying its image as it does legends for its existence. Oddly enough, the Belgians have adopted this example of public disobedience as an icon of their land, and spend most days dressing the cheeky chappy up in various regalia. This has been a tradition for so long that he’ll soon be approaching his thousandth wardrobe change. It’s also not unlikely to find a keg hooked up to it and bewildered passers by being offered a plastic cup of odd-smelling dark yellow fluid that’s just been projectiled out of a bronze phallus. Unfortunately, there was no costume or alcohol for me today.
I stopped for a warming break at CoffeeWorld, which actually turned out to be a smoky pub that served just the one type of coffee, and returned to the ever-expanding Brussels train station. My journey was over.
Naturally, my return to the UK was a soul-destroying experience. My train was inevitably delayed the moment it came anywhere close to England, and just enough to put pay to my advanced connecting booking. How foolish of me to trust train operators to function as advertised, I thought. I deserve to pay more. With no phone or car on arrival in MK, I rode the late night bus home, keeping my duty-free Duvel away from the watchful gaze of the hobo on the back seat.
Bruges had been a delight; a wondrous city that makes you feel at home the moment you arrive. The labyrinth of streets swallow you up but you are never far from familiarity and there are hidden gems dotted all over. It is a place of intrigue, of mystery, and of indulgence. But not a dwarf in sight. It was like a ******* fairytale.