In April 2025, we explore the Belgian coast. Our journey begins with a visit to the seaside resort of Ostend. We reach the beach via the huge Kursaal – Casino where Marvin Gaye recorded the music video for “Sexual Healing” in the early 1980s. The American soul singer stayed in a flat apartment along the promenade to build a life here without cocaine. That life ended tragically: in 1984, he was shot dead by his father. Nowadays, mostly tribute bands perform at the Casino (Queen, George Michael, Dire Straits).
On the promenade, we encounter a curious mix of architecture and decay. While the Venetian Gallery, where pictures of cycling marching bands are shown, is still pleasant to look at, in the Royal Gallery the difference between art and vandalism is indistinguishable. Although this section still houses a neat restaurant and an art centre, it smells emphatically of piss. Coherence is woefully lacking.
The pier sticks out into the sea a long way, blocking the wind. A middle-aged woman lets her patient husband photograph her from every possible angle. Then she spends ages selecting the best photo. A boy makes a rhythmic noise with an energy drink can, each time singing at the top of his voice: ‘Y.M.C.A!’ His uncomplicated cheerfulness is a relief among the crooked necks of the many phone addicts.
The Crystal Ship is a successful Ostend initiative: a city walk that leads you along many larger and smaller murals. Not far from the promenade is the James Ensor House. The artist lived here for much of his life. His most famous painting “The Entry of Christ into Brussels” (1889), had been displayed above his harmonium for a long time because no one wanted to buy it. After his death, the monumental work was given a place in the Casino, but is now one of the highlights of the J.P. Getty Museum in Los Angeles. It feels like a privilege to wander through this house that has remained in its authentic condition.
Looking for bookshop Corman, I discover the closed branch at 38 Wittenonnen Street. The original bookseller, anarchist and journalist Mathieu Corman raised the alarm in 1937 after the German attack on Guernica, inspiring Pablo Picasso to create his famous painting.
By ferry, we reach the eastern side of Ostend. Passing a German mortar bunker, we arrive at an old ship lift in the company of a wooden ship from the same period (the 1930s). On a wall, someone has painted some huge Delft blue vases that cannot be distinguished from real ones. We walk around Fort Napoleon and eventually end up back at the ferry. There is a huge platform in the harbour, which, according to the lavatory attendant polled by my travelling companion, is designed to put wind turbines in the sea.
We have dinner at Le Basque on the boulevard, formerly called Hotel Helvetia and frequented during the interwar period by Stefan Zweig and Jozef Roth who had fled the Nazi regime. The latter had a serious alcohol problem and Zweig did his utmost to keep his literary friend working as much as possible. Those efforts were rewarded with the masterpieces: “Die Legende vom heiligen Trinker” (‘The legend of the holy drinker’) and “Die Geschichte von der 1002. Nacht”. (The story of the 1002nd night). Nevertheless, Roth died in 1939 from the effects of his excessive drinking. Stefan Zweig committed suicide in 1942. To my surprise, after dinner we bump at Leopold I square on another store called Corman where they sell flowers and books. I check and indeed: the bookshop appears to have recently moved.
The ticket machine for the coastal tram line is not working, so we dodge the fare during the first five stops. In Mariakerke, we get off to visit the Dune Church. A roadside sign points in the direction of Ensor’s grave behind the church, which is strewn with flowers and floral arrangements (his birthday was on 13 April 1860). The small church, built around 1600, features ceiling paintings, statues and stained-glass windows. Behind the main altar I notice “The Downfall of the Invincible Spanish Armada”. The seventeenth-century canvas shows drowning shipwrecked sailors. This is the other side of the story. The little church has been stripped several times in history by barbaric Dutchmen. You can also see that they wreaked havoc here in the wetlands in this area. These are the result of flooded land. The Sea Beggars lived up to their name.
By the way, Belgians ruin their own environment as well, as evidenced by the vanished dune landscape that has had to make way for grey flat blocks as far as the eye can see. ‘The coastline’ sounds romantic, but we only see the sea as a glimpse between the concrete apartment blocks. Are there so many Belgians who want to live on the coast? Or are these all summer residences? The towns we drive through make a desolate and empty impression. Many shops are closed, even though it is a normal weekday. An exception is Koksijde, which does look cosy. We get off just before the terminus in De Panne.
It is dry, although there is a cold wind coming in from the sea. On the beach, we see not only characteristic white houses but also some red-and-grey-striped wagons in which bathers can be driven right up to the surf. We enter Restaurant Albert I and enjoy waffles and coffee. The staff try unsuccessfully to hide an argument between them. Two things strike me: the Belgian coast is short, only 63 kilometres, and it runs from west to east (and vice versa) rather than south to north. Here, we are close to Dunkirk and thus to England. Yet De Panne is higher than Brussels, so the coast is almost entirely Flemish.
On the way back, a group of schoolchildren board with two attendants. They behave exemplarily, innocence radiating from their faces. “What are you going to do?” I ask a couple of boys standing next to me. “We are going rafting on the canal,” they reply. When they have got out again, I take a photo of the Nieuwpoort monument. The year 1600 (the battle of Nieuwpoort) may be etched in my memory, the exact site is only now clear to me. During World War I, this spot was again the centre of the battlefield.
After Ostend, the route becomes considerably more attractive. We cross an eclectic bridge (of which we are relieved that it holds the weight of the tram) and then the houses become more beautiful and there is much more nature to admire. The sometimes high dunes have been left intact. At the market in Blankenberge, which looks like a nice little town, a whole group of British shoppers board, leaving the tram at the port of Zeebrugge where they take the boat home I guess. The name Zeebrugge reminds me of the disaster of the Herald of Free Enterprise, the ship that capsized in 1987 because a crew member had not closed its tailgate. We leave the tram at the Knokke station terminus. It is still a long walk to the beach. Although Knokke is only half the size of Ostend in terms of population, the place looks much more metropolitan and clearly has more allure. We rummage around in a spacious bookshop, where it is cozy and warm. Outside, the cold sea breeze blows straight into our faces again.
When I try to enter a shop where they sell old posters, I notice a sign saying: ‘Open weekends only.’ Even in Knokke. In restaurant Cambridge (since 1927), we have dinner overlooking some tubs of tulips. Behind it is the vast beach, on which beach houses have also been erected. To the horizon, the North Sea glistens. Large ships sail by, occasionally a plane descends. ‘Would those tulips be real?’ I wonder. ‘I don’t think so,’ says my fellow traveller, ‘they are too unnaturally lined up in this cold wind for that.’ However, after a short beach walk and a closer inspection of the tubs, my travelling companion concludes that we are indeed dealing with living nature. The square in front of the promenade is also full of blooming tulips as exuberant harbingers of a spring that is surely not long in coming.
(to be continued)
