EUROPE – PART 2 – BELGIUM

From the window of my hotel room, I watch as cyclists — from 8 to 80 — pedal past on their way to the Saturday morning market.  Others walk.  There are very few cars.  The pace is slow.  I can’t help but wonder what the center of Charlottetown would look like were we so fortunate as the citizens of downtown Bruges.  I wonder how many of our decision-makers — planners, politicians, and business leaders — have ever visited a place like this on their own dime to see what a real city should look and feel like.

We flew from Dublin to Brussels and took the train from the airport to Bruges Station, a ten-minute walk from our hotel, the Salvators.  While many things are more expensive in Europe, travel is not one of them.  The flight and train cost a mere fraction of what it would have set us back in Canada: $260 for the two of us!

The Lonely Planet Guide says of the city: “If you set out to design a fairy-tale medieval town, it would be hard to improve on central Bruges.  Picturesque cobbled lanes and dreamy canals link photogenic market squares lined with soaring towers, historic churches and old whitewashed almshouses.” 

The city center, one of the best-preserved medieval towns in Europe, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  It’s almost too beautiful to be real.  The clippity-clop of horse-drawn carriages on cobblestone streets added to the ambiance as we sat in the central square on a cool Saturday evening and people-watched.  We spent two enjoyable days wandering around, sampling the famous Belgian chocolate and waffles, and taking in the atmosphere of this special place.

We arrived in Ghent just before noon and walked 30 minutes or so to our hotel using a feature I discovered on my iPhone: Google maps without WiFi, on airplane mode!  Although Ghent lacks the charm and intimacy of Bruges, it proved a very nice place to spend a couple of days.  It’s a port and university city of some 250,000, about twice the size of Bruges.

On our first afternoon there, we took a boat tour on the central canal and learned about the history of the city.  We also visited the Gravensteen, a twelfth-century castle built for the Counts of Flanders.  It is much better preserved than the castles we visited in Ireland and has a great display of instruments of torture, much enjoyed by Elva, I might add.

The centers of both cities are dominated by bicycles and public transit.  It’s fascinating to watch people come and go, riding casually to work or to shop; mothers and fathers cycling to and from school with their children.  There is little evidence of obesity here.  Everyone seems relaxed and healthy.  As for parking, this is what an underground lot looks like in downtown Bruges.

Belgium has a population of 11 million and covers an area about half the size of Nova Scotia.  The country’s capital and largest city, Brussels, is home to the European Parliament, NATO, and international agencies such as the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, and the World Trade Organization.  The northern part of the country is Flemish and the southern part, closest to France, is Waloon.

We had to change our travel plans because of a national rail and bus strike.  Fortunately, our friends, Liz and Ira, were able to pick us up in Ghent and drive us to Ypres.  We settled in to our comfortable apartment in downtown Ypres, ready for a seven-day stay.

Next morning, we headed straight for Vimy, with the young couple in the front and the old people in the back.  It sure was nice to get a break from driving.  The Vimy monument was easy to spot, dominating the landscape as we approached from the north.  Driving through the village of Givenchy-en-Gohelle, we noted many Canadian flags flying in people’s yards.  The names of the 3,598 Canadian soldiers killed in the Battle of Vimy Ridge are inscribed on the magnificent Vimy Memorial.

Our victory at Vimy Ridge, the first time all four divisions of the Canadian Expeditionary Force fought together in a coordinated effort, became an important national symbol of achievement and sacrifice.  Canada entered World War I when Britain declared war on Germany; as a member of the Empire, we had no choice.  But things changed after Vimy.  Many historians claim that Canada took a first step toward true independence on April 9, 1917.

Wherever I go, I look for the Island connection.  One room of the brand-new interpretive centre features the stories of veterans who survived the battle.  Alfred McKenna made it back to Prince Edward Island; he and his wife raised a family of 13 children. 

A small plaque leaned against the tomb at the foot of the Vimy Memorial.  Something drew me to it and helped me discover the story of Patrick Raymond Arsenault who fought and died on April 9, 1917.  I shed a few tears when I read the words: “May this fine Island boy rest in peace”.  Georges Arsenault, good friend and eminent Island historian, helped me fill in the blanks.  Private Arsenault, son of Joseph and Isabelle of Seven Mile Bay was a machine-gunner.  But, he wasn’t supposed to be at Vimy.  The person who should have been there was Benjamin Arsenault of Summerside who sailed to England on the same day, on the same ship.  Their names were reversed due to a clerical error.  Benjamin Arsenault survived the war.

The city of Ypres lies at the center of the World War I battles of the same name.  The third and last battle resulted in an Allied victory over the German army, but at great cost to both sides: close to half a million casualties and the obliteration of the old town.  The photo below was taken in early 1919 before reconstruction started.

In the early 1920s, the Commonwealth War Graves Commission built the Menin Gate Memorial for the Missing.  On its walls are engraved the names of more than 54,000 officers and men who died in and near Ypres but have no known grave.  Every evening at 8:00, 365 days a year, hundreds gather for a remembrance ceremony at the Menin Gate.  We attended several of these and found them deeply moving.

Cycling was the second main theme of our visit to Ypres.  On our second full day there, we drove across the border to Roubaix, France, to see the finish line of the famous Paris-Roubaix bike race.  The race, a one-day, 260-km torture test, is run on a course that includes long stretches of cobbles, slick as ice when wet.  I saw my first indoor velodrome and we walked over to the outdoor velodrome where the annual race finishes.

The four of us set out on a sunny Saturday morning to ride the Peace Cycle Route, stopping at a couple of war cemeteries.  We’d ordered “racing bikes” from a local tour guide.  Danny of MacQueen’s Bike Shop wouldn’t be caught dead renting the clunkers Kurt from Biking Box showed up with.  One was a 25-year-old street bike with a suicide shift.  Two of the others were very low-end Scatto, a brand we’d never heard of, and the fourth was a beat-up Scott.  But the ride was glorious and the Belgian countryside looked lovely in the bright sunshine and 20-degree temperature.

We rode to Tyne Cot Cemetery, the largest Commonwealth War Graves Commission in the world, and the final resting place of almost 12,000 servicemen killed on the Passchendaele battlefields during the First World War.  We were there to attend a special ceremony marking the 100^th anniversary of the final battle.

My mother’s first cousin, Ulric J. “Spud” Arsenault, enlisted in the Army on April 29, 1916, on his 18^th birthday.  At least that’s what the recruiters thought.  Spud was actually 17, stood all of 5-foot-3 and weighed 130 pounds.  He fought with the 26^th New Brunswick Batallion and was wounded at Amiens and Passchendaele.  I thought of him as I watched the sun go down over Tyne Cot Cemetery and remembered the child soldier depicted in this photo.

The ceremony was called “Silent City Meets Living City”.  I don’t know how many thousands attended, but it seemed that someone stood behind each one of the graves, holding a candle as night fell.  Letters from the battlefield and soldiers’ diaries were read, a pipe band played, and the choir sang On the Road to Passchendaele.  It was a low-key affair and demonstrated yet again that Belgians are experts at veneration and tribute.  There were no patriotic speeches by politicians feigning knowledge, glorifying war and sacrifice, and pretending to be sincere.  We rode the 10 kilometres back to Ypres in the darkness, trusting feeble lights to show us the way.

We hopped in the car next morning and drove to Zonnebeke where we visited the Passchendaele Museum, followed by the Canadian Memorial, a German cemetery, and Essex Farm, where Canadian John McCrea wrote the definitive World War I poem, In Flanders Fields.  The German cemetery holds the remains of 44,000 soldiers, 25,000 of them in a mass grave.  The contrast between this one and Allied cemeteries is glaring: black stones bearing several names lie on the unkempt ground.  In the Allied cemeteries, the lawn is immaculate, there are flowers everywhere, and the plain white tombstones stand arrow-straight.  Relatives and schoolchildren leave wreaths and notes.  The one that read “Dear Grandad” brought a tear to my eye.

Ira and I saddled up one last time after our tour and rode to the small town of Kemmel, about 10 kilometres from Ypres.  The town centre marks the start of the 3-kilometre climb up Kemmelberg, averaging 4% and topping out at 22%.  That’s bad enough, but half the climb is over cobbles!  Not my favourite way to travel.  But we made it up and back down safely and, after a detour to Zonnebeke, rode triumphantly into Ypres, through the Lille Gate.

I can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like to be a soldier in World War I, but these few words I read on a plaque in an Ypres park sum it up best for me:

“Here for all of a couple of years

it’s the second before you die.

Little things are all there is.”

(Herman De Coninck)

On our last full day in Ypres, we reluctantly said goodbye to Liz and Ira, our sterling travel companions for the six days we spent together.  Then, we took one last walk along the Ypres rampart and through the main square.  It was time to pack and prepare for the next phase of our European adventure.