Disappearing Cobblestones
Guide
〰️
Guide 〰️
Bruges has a scent of crunchy almond blossom and the comfort of returning to the house of the grandparents of someone you used to know (but you don’t really know them anymore, so there is a patina of awkwardness over all of this). In the silence of switching songs while making my way through the centre, I overhear the tour guide’s agitated speech: ‘This is a lovers’ bridge. A bridge for lovers. People come, take pictures, always kissing, propose, leave’. He says it in such a serious, instructive tone that I crack up with internal laughter. As if the guide were a character in an arcade, meant to explain to players what they need to do at this location: how to jump, which buttons to press on the control panel to defeat the final boss, etc., – to make it to the next level. I cannot unsee the scene as a movie shot, with those absurdly matching, concentrated faces of a floc of tourists in juxtaposition.
On a train to Bruges‑Saint‑Pierre from Brussels‑Midi, a comical news article came my way: CNN reported that the municipality of this medieval‑romance dream town keeps losing its cobblestones. Pocketing a stone or two is just pilgrim behaviour updated for the age of modern tourism: in the Middle Ages, believers chiselled souvenirs from Jerusalem’s paving and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre – now, weekenders lift a rounded set stone from beside the Dijver. Surprisingly, Bruges, unlike Jerusalem, has no syndrome named after it, which is an oversight perhaps, because this Venice of the North remains a magical and somewhat entrancing place. This summer it will once again be Belgium’s most‑visited destination. Locals shrug (‘too many tourists, and anyway it’s always there’, – says an art historian Johannes, who now resides in Ghent but whose family roots go back to well‑known Brugeois lacemakers), but the town, watched over by its step‑gabled skylines and rickety carillons, still radiates some of its authentic charm.
The tension between being a medieval Disneyland and a significant historical city for Flanders is hard to resolve, just as is the impact of globalisation on many local products and traditions; take, for example, how remote the strawberry oat matcha sipped in London now is from the rich cultural tradition of Japanese tea‑making. Popularity has its price of simplification and distortion. As it happens, at times what you need is just to tune the approach and learn from the locals. In Bruges, do as the Brugeois do.
Anne‑Lise, the owner of an airbnb conveniently located on the floor above her beige‑toned artist’s studio next to Minnewaterpark, is one of the few born and raised here who also chose to stay. Her workshop, specialising in calligraphy, is the main reason why: in the tradition of the Early Netherlandish masters, it has been a family affair for generations, and while her two daughters have already found a home away from home in the towns of Leuven and Liège, Anne-Lise and her two black cats keep each other company here and generously accommodate tourists. ‘In February the town falls into a ghostly slumber, so I wouldn’t recommend visiting then; just before the Easter holidays is exactly the best time’, – says the soft‑spoken artist. With a tiny escalier leading up to the attic where the guest room is located, this apartment appears to be most homely and charming. At first, all the calligraphy notes painted on wooden surfaces, including but not limited to ‘love nature’, ‘smile and take deep breaths’, and especially the beaten classic ‘live, love, laugh’ (located fittingly on a beam into which I smashed my head), induced a bit of scepticism, but over a few days spent in sugar-coated Bruges I was taken off my high horse and traded scepticism for warm contentment.
For hotel accommodation, the De Tuilerieën is, beyond doubt, the house you want. Inside, a mellow duet of creams and Wedgwood blues sets a tranquil mood; outside, a slip of a terrace kisses the canal. Rooms on the top floor offer their own kind of magic, allowing guests to survey the beautiful spires of the city’s churches and overhear the bells that ring gently in the slow patrician afternoons. Breakfast unfolds beneath espaliered pear trees: a silver pot of coffee and waffles covered in icing sugar and clouds of Chantilly. You eat, promenade, and watch the well‑fed swans practising indifference, and Bruges begins to feel privately yours despite the otherwise Disneylandish theme-park ambiance.
Cultural pursuits start at the Groeningemuseum, the locus of Early Netherlandish painting, where Jan van Eyck’s Madonna with Canon van der Paele greets visitors in a sublime fashion. St George’s polished shield reveals a tiny self‑portrait of the artist – one of the clever optical trick for which Van Eyck is celebrated. The remainder of the galleries opens up like an illuminated manuscript; whether you admire Hugo van der Goes’s bold, acidic hues or complex proverbial Boschian iconography, you will find something to look closely at. Jan Provoost’s Death and the Miser, too, might merit your attention, for it is a strikingly unusual painting that poses more riddles than it provides answers to a contemporary onlooker, the intellectual resourcefulness of this less famous Bourgeois painter being second to none. A short walk across the courtyard (one of the joys of a town you can cross in twenty minutes) stands the Sint‑Janhospitaal, a former infirmary housing Hans Memling’s celebrated Last Judgement triptych. Its narrative richness (the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse alone deserve lingering scrutiny) is accompanied by displays on medieval medicine, offering a rare chance to appreciate Memling’s art in situ.
Next to Sint‑Janhospitaal there is a picturesque bridge (one of many, of course) with a beautiful tiny garden connected to it. This hortus conclusus (enclosed garden) is accessible through one of the narrow passageways, so it is my strong recommendation to wander around the stone maze. If it is your desire to admire more nature, go to Minnewaterpark and sit by the river. Perhaps take your embroidery with you, or a book, for it is a lovely place to stay for a second and let your mind take five.
For more sightseeing, I would recommend the Church of Our Lady, which houses two incredibly well‑made effigies: that of Duke Charles the Bold, the last Valois Duke of Burgundy, and his daughter Mary of Burgundy, the duchess whose marriage to Maximilian of Austria brought the Burgundian lands into Habsburg hands. Mary’s tomb is particularly beautiful: the perfectly smooth slab of black marble is surrounded by brass metalwork that features details of her lineage on the sides and captures the most intricate initials on the hem of her dress. In the same church there is a curiosity that leads to another: the Van Gruuthuse family balcony, a wooden gallery that links their house directly to the nave and once allowed its occupants to attend Mass without stepping outside. Much like a private opera box, the snug wooden niche looks positively cosy from within, and the adjoining Gruuthusemuseum still preserves an impressive array of works of art and late‑fifteenth‑century decorum.
Picking up souvenirs here is indeed inevitably seductive. Particularly enticing are Chocolaterie Sukerbuyc and Chocolaterie Mary, purveyors of silken chocolate truffles in elegant boxes. Lace, too, remains a local glory. Seek the blue ‘Handmade in Brugge’ seal at ’t Apostelientje, where you will find the best ivory‑coloured lace coasters and dainty cobweb-like bookmarks. I got away with a lace strip of butterflies that now adds a touch of arranged prettiness to my kitchen cupboard.
Evenings invite liquid exploration – we are in Belgium, after all. Until Bruges I had never encountered the ‘fantastic beer horn’, but the town’s beer lists eclipse many a St James’s wine bible. Succumbing to curiosity, I traded my habitual Chardonnay for Westfalle served in a ‘fantastic beer horn’, which is an experience to behold (and to hold, quite carefully), rewarding both palate and photograph. Traditional beer stews merit equal attention, and the fare at Gambrinus proves generous compared to other central restaurants.
Sweet cravings meet their match in waffles. Bruges venerates two shrines: Lizzie’s, beloved by locals for plate‑sized waffles buried beneath icing snow, and Otto Waffle Atelier, where batter is piped into an antique iron that stamps it into a crisp lace-like rosette.
When the sun drops, day‑trippers file back to their trains and Bruges exhales: bells toll, swans hiss, and the remaining polished cobbles gleam under the lamps. On the walk to the hotel, one of them chips under the sturdy heel of my boot. I look at a cobblestone’s inviting edge for a while, almost falling off the precipice of seduction and pocketing it as a joke, but I end up choosing not to. If this is indeed a fairytale‑like computer game, then the player chose not to pick up the loot.
