In Bruges – for a long weekend

Friday October 13 – To Bruges

There are things that by a certain age you should probably know. Like the fact that you can’t hum while pinching your nose. Or that Humphrey Bogart never actually said “Play it again Sam” in Casablanca. And that car headlights are asymmetrical.

That last one? News to me. Turns out, right-hand drive cars aim the left headlight higher and wider to light up road signs. So, if you drive your UK car on the right side of the road, you’ll blind oncoming traffic with your “helpful” headlight. Some fancy cars fix this automatically. Others let you tinker with the settings. The rest? You slap on some ridiculous stickers and hope for the best. Riveting stuff, I know.

This little nugget surfaced only when we decided to go to Bruges for a long weekend, and the exorbitant last-minute Eurostar price made driving a preferable alternative. It’s a 2-hour drive from West London to Dover, a 1.5 hour ferry journey to Dunkirk, and just over an hour’s drive from Dunkirk to Bruges. At £99 for one car and two people, return, the ferry is a veritable bargain. And as luck – or my immeasurable skill behind the wheel – would have it, we made it to a hotel in Bruges without incident.

Hotel Bryghia sits on Oosterlingenplein, ten minutes north of the Grote Markt, run by a Belgian who speaks better English than I do. Rooms at the back overlook the Speelmansrei and Augustijnenrei canals, and the whole area is blissfully quiet. As we’d soon discover, the streets north of the Grote Markt are a damned sight quieter than the streets to the south.

Bruges is a small city. You don’t have to walk very far before tripping over a landmark. A few minutes from the hotel is Jan Van Eyckplein, a square dedicated to the Renaissance painter, although most people probably know it better from the film In Bruges, where Brendan Gleeson and Colin Farrell’s hitmen pondered whether they believed in hell.

We wandered past the Frietmuseum (yes, a museum for chips), skipped the Grote Markt and Stadhuys for now, and headed toward Hoogstraat for dinner and Langestraat for its indie shops (including two record stores, though I kept that detail from the Good Lady). After a couple of hours of happy meandering, the rain finally arrived. Time to find a bar.

A feller sitting outside an antique/junk shop overheard us and ushered us inside. And there, among the bric-a-brac, a dozen or so people sat on various mismatched chairs and tables, drinking bottled beers from the shopkeepers fridge. So we squeezed in, found some seats that had been on sale half an hour ago, and in truth, probably still were, and ordered us some local brews. The Good Lady, not usually a beer fan, bravely tried the least pungent, lowest-strength option I could find, although the owner seemed proud of the fact that all his beers were turbo-strength. And it cost just €7 for two beers – a veritable bargain compared to London prices.

We had another beer in Charlie Rockets, a rather gaudy backpacker bar, where the beer of choice was served in a 33ml measure, given that it was 8% volume. After which it was time for dinner. I like to be spontaneous and eat wherever we can find a table, which usually means the less popular/empty places. The Good Lady, sensibly, likes to book ahead. So while I’d taken care of all travel and accommodation arrangements, she’d had the prescience to actually book a table at a restaurant, Diligence. And very nice it was too.

Upon checking whether my moules marinieres came with fries, the waiter said with a smile “This is Belgium. Everything comes with fries.” For a nation that is frequently lampooned for having contributed little to the world stage, the Belgians are very proud of what they can lay claim to, i.e., strong beers, waffles and fries.

And it turned out incidentally, that this very restaurant was where the aforementioned assassins had a drink after Colin Farrell’s character’s date had gone tits up.

After which there was time to wander back up in the direction of the hotel and stop in Bar Des Amis for a well-earned Stella or three. I think I might have been a little wobbly on me feet by this time.

Saturday October 14 – In Bruges

Now the thing to do in Bruges, the Venice of the North, is a boat trip. And in a wonderfully egalitarian example of a municipal council working to good effect, there are five boat companies, who each have no more than five boats, and each have their own landing stage. They all ply the same route, and all charge the same €12 fee. There’s no haggling, no price-gouging, no one claiming to be the best. And no fear of choosing the wrong option. It is all so perfectly fair.

Our chosen carrier was Bruges River Cruises, on account of the carefully considered fact that it was the first one we came across. Somehow everything looks better from the water, doesn’t it? So even the backside of Hotel De Orangerie and the otherwise nondescript De Dijver Park and Garden seemed lovely. Over thirty minutes, we glided under gorgeous bridges (Boniface, Beguinage), ducked under one that nearly took my head off cos I was looking in the wrong direction, and floated past Saint John’s Hospital, Minnewater Park, Rosary Quay, Jan Van Eyck’s statue, and countless beautiful old buildings. I could happily have paid my €12 and gone round again.

But there is more to Bruges than just delightful sights – there are waffles. Waffles dripping in rich, warm chocolate sauce. Like their beer, and their frites, the Belgians are proud of their waffles.

From the waffle shop near Rosary Quay, we strolled to the old Fish Market (now a lackluster craft market), along Rozenhoedkrai, past Saint John’s Hospital Museum (again), and onto the crowded Katelijnestraat, where horse-drawn carriages jostle with chocolate-hunting tourists. A detour down Wijngardstraat led us to the photogenic Beguinage Bridge and the Begijnhof, a cluster of thirty white houses built in the 16th century for lay religious women. The Insta-tourists snap their bridge pics and move on, leaving the convent itself peaceful and calm.

We wandered aimlessly, ticking off sights as we stumbled upon them: the Belfry, Grote Markt, Burg Square, City Hall, Basilica of the Holy Blood, Blind Donkey Street. In Bruges, you can’t help but trip over history. Free guided walking tours are available and apparently worth your time.

Had we joined one, we might have learned that, despite German occupation in WWII, Bruges escaped destruction. The German commander, Immo Hopman, refused orders to bomb the city, recognizing its medieval beauty. So we have Herr Hopman to thank for Bruges being one of Europe’s best-preserved medieval towns and a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

And it transpired that me own sister Barbara was in Bruges that weekend. She claims she told me, but like most things I’m told, I forgot. We met for some swanky cocktails, then dinner at the oddly titled Mozart, More Than Just Ribs. And while the name doubtless tries to emphasise that they do more than ribs, there is barely a table which is not enjoying their very reasonably priced all-you-can-eat-ribs. The ribs, a jaw-dropping 14oz steak, sides (frites, obviously) and a bottle of the very-drinkable house red was less than €70. I feared I may never need to eat again.

Sunday October 15 – Leaving Bruges

The Bruges Marathon was taking place that morning. Our friendly hotelier advised an early escape to avoid being trapped by road closures. It sounded like a siege…get out before they lock the city down.

Thankfully, we’d been planning an early start anyway. One hour’s drive southwest of Bruges is the town of Ypres. Despite the impressive Cloth Hall, Cathedral and Market Square, Ypres is best known for its role in the First World War. It had the misfortune to stand in the path of Germany’s planned sweep across Belgium and into northern France. The area around Ypres was the site of three major battles between 1914 and 1917, which resulted in the death of a staggering 850,000 Allied and German soldiers.

A few miles from Ypres, near the village of Passendale, is the Tyne Cot Memorial. Or to give it its full name, Tyne Cot Commonwealth War Graves Cemetery and Memorial to the Missing. It is the largest cemetery for Commonwealth forces in the world. It is home to nearly 12,000 graves, of which over 8,000 are unnamed. Most just say “A Soldier of the Great War”. The stone wall surrounding the cemetery contains the names of 35,000 British and Commonwealth soldiers. The central monument bears the inscription “Their Name Liveth For Evermore”.

It is an overwhelmingly moving place. The headstones are beautifully simple – all equal irrespective of rank or class. The serried ranks of graves are orderly and militarily disciplined. The silence is dignified. But as reverential as it is, it is ultimately a place of profound sadness.

The name Tyne Cot, incidentally, is said to come from the Northumberland Fusiliers. They apparently saw a resemblance between the many German concrete pill boxes on this site and typical Tyneside workers’ cottages (Tyne cots). Doesn’t say much for Newcastle’s pre-war housing, does it?

From Tyne Cot we moved on to Ypres itself, admired the staggeringly large and beautifully restored Cloth Hall, and the equally large Cathedral of St Martin and St. Nicholas, then found a restaurant on the medieval Market Square in which to enjoy a lengthy lunch. With frites.

Ypres is a place forever defined by its history. Every single evening of the year at 8pm, the Last Post is played at the Menin Gate Memorial. And it still draws a crowd.

All that remained for us was to get back in the car and drive up to Calais. Then get on a ferry back to the White Cliffs of Dover.

Tot ziens Bruges

So that was our long weekend in Bruges. I’d heard it was beautiful, but I wasn’t prepared for just how stunning it is. Yes, it gets crowded, but nothing like Venice. Step away from Katelijnestraat and you’ll find peace again. Bruges may be small, but for a long weekend, it’s perfect. And I will maintain that the €12 spent on the boat trip must be one of the best €12 you could ever spend.