The Belgian seaside
I was born in Belgium, probably the most surreal country I have ever been in. Living in Ireland for the last forty years or so, the coast at the sea evokes the wildness of cliffs, the roars of waves crashing upon the rocks, and a myriad of seagulls, terns, gannets, kittiwakes, and countless other species of birds circling overhead, searching for food or chasing each other for the sheer fun of it.
Not so in waffle country, where grey, boring concrete buildings line the straight 67 km of coastal sea road, towering over the odd turn-of-the-century stylish villas — reminders of a period when property developers, concrete mixers, and ever-so-uniquely boring architects were not directing that unglamorous scene, yet. Repeated endlessly in perfect order, you will find in each of the wee towns a succession of quick-tax-cum-bicycle rental places, followed by luna park arcades, followed by cafe-restaurants, followed by plastic bucket-and-spade shops... ad vitam aeternam...
When you reach the end of one lot of constructions, you have a kilometre or so of often-fenced sand dunes before you get to the next lot of constructions that marks the beginning of the next hamlet by the sea... By chance, Belgium offers dozens of delicious beers, aromatic hot waffles, and the delicacy of shrimp croquettes, waterzooi, and a great variety of Belgian dishes... Their chips, cooked in beef fat, are probably the best I’ve tasted in the world.
Thousands upon thousands of workers take their month-long holidays at the same time and flock to their seaside apartments, hotels, family pensions, or caravans. Most of them bring their pet dogs, which they walk endlessly up and down between the variety of commercial businesses, a hundred yards or so of grey sand, and the monotonous grey North Sea... The near horizon is dotted with ferries going to England, the odd sailing boat, and a few wandering seagulls looking for scraps, as the sea has long ago been nearly fished out by the local commercial fleet of small trawlers operating out of Zeebrugge and Oostende.
When I was a child, we went to Wenduyne or De Panne for a week’s Easter holiday. How blissful it was to spend your pocket money on a rented go-kart (quick-tax) or a bicycle with racing handlebars... The straight coastal road, when no cars could travel, was perfect for roller-skating. The smell of hot waffles was in the air. Old black-and-white Laurel and Hardy films were playing every night in the seaside cafés' covered verandas, where my hard-working father would allow himself a beer, my mother a cup of milky coffee, and my sister and I a hot chocolate each.
The cherry on the cake was a game of ping pong with my father in the cellar of the pension. We didn’t care about boring architecture; for us, the Belgian seaside was heaven. We did venture out on the beach in the dry mornings, where my sister would make and trade paper flowers for seashells. Ever the hunter-gatherer, I was appointed chief seashell collector by my father and mother, who would keep a distant eye on us, hidden behind their daily newspaper and women’s magazine.
At the time, the only danger was to find dog poo on your sandals and, of course, there wasn’t a mobile phone to be seen for another forty years or so.
Belgian waffles are bliss.
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