I never saw the movie In Bruges, and having now seen
the real thing I don’t understand why the beautiful city is associated with
Hell—there’s a line in the movie that says maybe that’s what hell is, the
entire rest of eternity spent in Bruges.
It was a last-minute getaway; we were expecting company on
the Isle of Wight and when plans changed and the weekend became free, it was an
opportunity to dash off on Saturday morning to someplace near, potentially
someplace warmer than England, and if possible someplace we’d not been. Bruges
has been on my go-to list for some time now (it’s the canals; I have a
mad “thing” about water) so when Tim suggested it and the weather
was looking sunny, I closed the browser open to Pisa and started guiding Tim to
hotels with a canal view . . .
And in no time we found ourselves wandering Bruges’
centre—we parked the car and decided to walk, as having been rerouted due to
road works our Google map directions were no longer applicable. The centre is
compact enough to navigate on foot and in fact easier, as the roads are narrow,
crowded with people, and often circular in direction.
When we found the hotel Die Swaene I was pleased to see its
Old World style and, gleefully, windows opening up to the canal in our room.
One of my favourite things to do during the weekend became sitting at the open
window and waving to the tourists, 36 per open boat, gliding by along the
canal. About every 10 minutes another boat packed with camera-carrying
foreigners would look up as I waved, and I never failed to get at least one of
the crowd to wave back. (And no, we never took the boat ourselves; Tim offered,
but I preferred seeing it on foot).
I was expecting Bruges to be a lot like Amsterdam—the
canals, stunning architecture, bicycles, shops, narrow cobbled streets. Bruges
does have all of that, yet it felt quite different—the canals don’t dominate
the city as much in Bruges, and the centre felt more open and light than
Amsterdam. I hesitate because when I’ve been to Amsterdam it’s been cold and
rainy, and that lends a certain ambience—closed, narrow, dark—whereas it was
lovely and sunny in Bruges.
And I loved it, all of Bruges. It didn’t matter that I hate
walking on cobbles and they were making me tired; I wanted to walk and see as
much of the city in 36 hours as we could. And eat! We found a place for lunch
shortly after checking in, and it was brill—the interior looked like a big
kitchen, and Tim and I sat near the crepe oven where the owner would
occasionally come to make one fresh for a diner. The service was a bit brusque,
and the place was filled with an older crowd that didn’t look much like
tourists. My simple croque-monsieur and white wine fortified me to spend the
rest of the day exploring, a sole map in hand that Tim purchased for three
euro.
Given it was a spur-of-the-moment decision, we hadn’t
planned much; I spent about an hour on Friday looking at places to go—museums,
churches, and medieval buildings worth a view. I also asked my friend Leah to
recommend a few places to eat. The rest would just have to come together, and
it did.
We spent some time at the Groeningemuseum, which
holds six centuries of Flemish and Belgian painting. The museum was fairly
empty, and we had opportunity to stroll through the rooms and take in the
paintings at our leisure. My favourite was a portrait by Adriaen Thomasz
Key—it is beautifully detailed, right down to the wrinkles around the eyes and
the delicate structure of the fingers.
Most streets you turn down in Bruges will have a niche
within one of the old buildings displaying the Madonna, sometimes with child,
and often with the words Ave Maria at the base—it would appear the Flemish are
a largely Roman Catholic population. The buildings are lovely, with pretty
ironwork on the windows and lace on the interior. The streets a distance from
the centre were very quiet and often it was just the two of us strolling,
peering in at windows and remarking about the varying ages of the buildings,
some clearly more modern while others from the early 1900s wanting to be more
like those far older on the same block. I wanted to go to the Church of Our
Lady, which has one of the world's highest brick towers (so says the Wikipedia
page). Michelangelo’s sculpture Madonna
and Child is here, behind plate glass
and up high on an altar, a lovely white marble piece and the only one of his
works to have left Italy within his lifetime. History says it was purchased by
wealthy Belgian merchants and still resides there today, though in 1944
German soldiers smuggled it to Germany enveloped in mattresses in a Red Cross
truck. (It was later found and returned.) I was happy to take Tim’s last four
euros to see it—we were short of cash and it was one of the last stops of the
weekend. The Madonna looked pensive, a rather different expression than I’ve
ever seen on statues or portraits of her.
Tim was happy to wait just inside the church while I roamed;
there are effigies of Charles the Bold and his daughter in the choir space, and
a glass floor that looks down to crypts below, some with decorative art and
writing within them.
We also wandered into at least two other churches, one St
Jacob, the other St Magdaleine and Catherine, and what is striking about all of
them is the ornate carvings inside, particularly the pulpit, where the
intricate details catch your eye. Alas we did not venture into one of the more
famous churches, The Basilica of the Holy Blood, though we wandered outside of
it several times–it is a stone’s throw from the hotel, and in fact our landmark
for finding the hotel in the first place. The church was built in
the early 12th century, and a relic of the blood of Christ, said to
have been collected by Joseph of Arimathea who washed the body after
it was taken from the cross, is here.
Bruges is a wonderful city to walk—the cobbled streets do
wear on your legs after a while, but what glorious sites to behold down the
narrow streets that make the aches well worth it. There were many a lace and
chocolate shop, none of which we ventured into, but we did do plenty of window
shopping. We stopped in a bookshop to buy postcards, and wandered in and out of
a few shops looking for cheese—I was actually quite surprised there weren’t
more of those. The main thoroughfares were filled with tourists—and why not,
the weather was really quite perfect with blue, sunny skies and warm,
comfortable temperatures throughout the day. We peered into shops with
furniture and lovely kitchen goods, and even went to a supermarket so I could
buy some chocolate-covered waffles for the office and Tim bought some coffee
for home. My valued purchase, a gift from Tim, was from an artisan potter in
the market who had lovely vases, pitchers, ash trays (!) and such on display,
and I found a lovely small blue pitcher to bring back to Cowes. I had to smile
as I unwrapped it from its newspaper cradle and looked at the print—all in
Dutch—the sports and property sections that I may hold on to for a little bit
and take a closer look at.
Dinner turned out to be a delight after a minor
disappointment—Leah’s suggestions for venues for dinner were fully booked, and
I wasn’t amenable to walking up and down the streets to find something else—when
I’m hungry and irritable it’s not pretty. We decided to try the hotel’s
restaurant, listed as a Bib Gourmand (Michelin inspectors’ favourite
establishments). The restaurant is in the lower ground floor, in
age-old cellars at the water‘s edge with a view of the Groene Rei canal.
It was decorated to a contemporary standard, romantically lit, and the set menu
had interesting choices—one was called The Three Naughties, another The Four
Pleasures. We both went with the former, choosing different mains of salmon and
chicken, and Tim found a lovely red Bordeaux on the wine list to start the
evening. What a treat—the service was lovely, the food quite good, and we
shared the vices of crème brulee and chocolate tart. It was a very short walk
back to our room overlooking the canal, but we decided to venture out and have
a walk, perhaps find a coffee. In the end we found ourselves at the hotel
lounge sipping an Oban whisky and chatting with the host, who either liked us
immensely or was completely forgetful and didn’t charge us for our very
generous pours!
Unfortunately Bruges' most famous landmark, the belfry known
in the movie In Bruges from where Colin Ferrell leaps, was surrounded
by white tents and metal gates—there was a triathlon taking place, and the
centre was where the runners would come through on the last leg of their event.
You can of course still look up and see the tower; there are 48 bells in the
belfry and they have a full-time carillonneur in the city. There are so many
churches that it’s hard to know where the sound of the bells is coming from on
Sunday morning! We did have breakfast al fresco with a view of the belfry—the
one time I would allow us to dine in a touristy square with hundreds of tables
where the food was bound to be edible but nothing special—hey, it’s bacon and
eggs and beans on toast, after all. We were both disappointed that there were
no croissants; the bread provided in lieu could have been Hovis or Wonder. The
coffee, I must say, was delicious, and a second cup kept us there a bit longer
to watch the city wake up, which it did in very short order.
We did find a lovely place off the beaten track for lunch on
our second day while walking around the city—another al fresco dining
experience with a wonderful hostess who did her best to explain in English the
specials of the day. I decided on the simple white fish with frieten, and Tim
went for the three-course special of the day, which included two fish courses
and fruit. The first course was a bit of a surprise—a whole, small fish, and
not cooked but pickled, much like a herring. We both tried it. We both left
about half of it on the plate. It was served cold, with white onion, and while
it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t delightful to my palate, perhaps a bit too strongly
flavoured. My white fish, which looked very much like skate, was delicious and
perfectly cooked, served with a delicate homemade tartar sauce, and the “French
fries” as the hostess called them were a nice treat. The half carafe of rose
suited our meals and our minds, perfectly—it was a wonderful meal and a
glorious way to idle away a couple of hours in Bruges.
Oh, and, why not Belgian moules frites? Not the right month!
So, can one do Bruges in 36 hours and thoroughly enjoy it?
Ja. Its proximity to London makes it that much more appealing—a 90-minute drive
to Dover, 40 minutes in the Eurotunnel, and then another 75 minutes on the
other side from Calais to Bruges went by quickly, helped along by pretty
countryside, a bit of conversation, and The Telegraph.
We had a quiet drive back to London, I suspect both of us
reminiscing about the weekend’s walks and talks and food and sights and sounds.
I didn’t even mind the traffic once we found ourselves back in North London. Of
course if I had one of these, known as a Twizzy, I might zip through the
traffic!
