Boring Brussels? No!
It is a massive cliché that the Belgium capital is a boring place full of bureaucrats and Eurocrats with little to offer the weekend visitor. Not so.
We were whisked from the fabulous St Pancras terminal in North London to the city of sprouts (they really came from here) in around two hours. The Eurostar trip was smooth and tranquil. Admittedly, the immediate environment around the Gare du Midi is scruffy, down at heel, and a little unprepossessing. Once orientated though, we soon realised we were only a 2km walk from the centre.
Having negotiated an area where a huge amount of road development was taking place, we found ourselves on a wide pedestrian boulevard. Strolling towards the centre in the afternoon sunshine was pleasant and peaceful. With no intrusive traffic noise, we could take our time, relax and appreciate our surroundings more fully. Admiring the range of attractive buildings showing different architectural periods and styles was fascinating. Listening to the birds twittering amongst the prolific greenery made the stroll even more enjoyable.
Soon, a refreshment stop was in order. At exactly the right moment, we happened across a bar offering an extensive range of draught and bottled Belgian beers. After a delicious pint of Duval, not to be glugged too rapidly as it comes in at a hefty 8.5%, we moved on to find our accommodation.
Belgium is renowned throughout the world for its beer. Several places were selling impressive ranges of, for example, thirty draught offerings and no less than 2,000 bottled varieties.
My wife was looking forward to sampling other specialities of this small European country: chocolate and waffles. I could therefore focus on tasting La Chouffe, Chimay, various Trappist monks’ products and the Delerium Tremens range.
Our apartment was above a shopping mall. Intriguingly, the range of services available was limited to nail bars … or nail bars. We counted no less than twenty-eight such establishments in the circular retail area. Weird.
Suitably ensconced in our modern, sixth-floor apartment, we rested awhile.
In the early evening, we ventured out for further exploration. We were very central, and the streets around our temporary home were all pedestrianised, which was much appreciated. It is helpful not having to dodge trucks and cars while trying to take in the sights.
We quickly discovered Les Galeries Royales de Saint Hubert just a few hundred metres away from our base. This venerable Renaissance-style covered passage, some one hundred and seventy-five years old, was a wonderful place to visit. It was brim full of high-end chocolatiers, other specialist luxury retailers and a restaurant with eye-wateringly high prices. (Bureaucrat expense account territory, I felt). Saint Hubert was a place strictly for browsing rather than making purchases. My wife, however, felt otherwise; she disappeared into a chocolate emporium and emerged with an exquisitely wrapped little package which must have cost the earth.
The Gallery reminded me of the Burlington Arcade in London’s Piccadilly, which is of a similar vintage.
Looking at mountains of beautifully hand-crafted chocolates made us realise it was time for dinner. Amongst the plethora of restaurants, which were filling up rapidly, we plumped for a likely contender to host us for our moules-frites supper. It had to be done. When in Brussels and all that? The portions appeared to be generous, so we shared a dish. A wise decision. The single serving was more than enough for both of us.
More gentle perambulations, taking time to admire the many Tintin murals on various gable ends, found us in a local café-bar for a nightcap. The Cherry Bar was conveniently close to home.
Tintin in Brussels
Here we offered seats to a couple of young men who then joined us at our table. We chatted amiably and were delighted to find they were good friends despite one being a Muslim from a North African background and the other, Jerry, a Jew. Jerry insisted on buying me a beer, which I accepted gratefully. Raf, originally from Algeria, a tall, gangly chap of around thirty, offered during our conversation that he used to play water polo at a decent level. This was something we immediately had in common, as this was my sport in my younger days.
The next day dawned delightfully sunny. We set off to find the jewel in the city’s crown. The magnificent seventeenth-century Grand Place was only a few hundred metres away. Access to this impressive and world-renowned cobbled square and its range of wonderful buildings was via a narrow passageway. Thus, the delights of the Grand Place were hidden from view until we emerged from the gloom into the bright sunlight. The sun theatrically illuminated these ornate Baroque buildings. Detailing is picked out in gold and it is a tremendous feast for the eyes. Beautiful old Guild houses formed a square with two larger edifices, the Gothic style Town Hall and the King’s House dominating the skyline.
Guildhouses in the magnificent Grand Place
We settled down with a coffee and croissant at a friendly, bustling café to drink in the view, and enjoy the warm Spring sunshine. Wonderful.
A bride then appeared on a high balcony in the Town Hall. She surveyed the crowds of tourists on the square below as she awaited her photo opportunity before her wedding.
Coffee over, we then set out to find another of the iconic images of Brussels. This popular visitor attraction is a statue of the little boy peeing in the fountain. The Manneken Pis was found after a bit of a struggle. We negotiated some narrow twisting streets, with more buildings featuring stylish artwork on their gable ends. The fountain and its irreverent statue were tucked into a corner, surrounded by crowds of smartphone-wielding tourists taking snaps.
More random explorations brought us to the Mappo Mundo bar. This hostelry ideally offered a sunny aspect, a chance to sit down and rest our legs, enjoy a beer and indulge in some decent people-watching. The pub was lively, friendly, and welcoming. Screen doors were drawn back so the entire front of the building was opened up and we could enjoy the well-curated chilled music coming from the sound system.
By now the sun was strong and I wondered if the chap next to us was in danger of overheating as he was wearing a heavy black leather jacket. The German fellow, as he turned out to be, read my mind. He felt the need to explain that he had just bought a vintage scooter and decided he needed a leather jacket for riding it. He had bought the jacket for a song at a nearby vintage clothing establishment. Appearing to be melting by now, he took it off.
Chatting with the barmaid, we were advised to check out the St. Catherine area a little later. This buzzing neighbourhood offered a lively street market and an eclectic range of bars and restaurants. It was just a few blocks away.
St. Catherine’s was well worth a visit. Market stalls were set out in front of the eponymous church and there were some interesting-looking foody places and bars on the periphery. Another great place for a beer, a snack and some more people-watching.
Our later evening entertainment was decided on a whim when we saw an A board promoting a Eurovision Party. Not normally our thing, we went with the flow and embraced the glitz, glamour and razzamatazz. The event had been in the news for weeks and excitement had reached fever pitch in Liverpool. The Merseyside city was hosting on behalf of the previous year’s winners, Ukraine. They could not stage the spectacular themselves, for obvious reasons.
There was a full house with everyone in high spirits, so it was easy to get into party mode quickly.
When it was all over I found a live rock club for an hour which was more my cup of tea.
Our weekend in Brussels was ending. Eurostar was calling, and we could reflect on a most enjoyable visit to the exciting Belgian capital. Boring? Not at all.