Berkshire to Bruges ... by Train

I had meticulously planned the journey to Bruges, but knew the timing would be tight. Unfortunately I’d mentioned this to Mum yesterday, so every time I’m about to get on a train, my mobile phone starts ringing.

“Was the train on time? Did you make it?”

I decide not to find out what it says – although "Danger de Mort" seems worryingly clear.

“Yes, no problem!” I reply, as I desperately juggle with my bags, phone, coat and the train door. Despite these minor interruptions the journey is pretty uneventful. I do get a little confused at Reading when I somehow miss Platform 4b, but I still manage to make my connection.

Things become a little more interesting when I get to the Eurostar check-in desk. It is absolutely packed (probably because it’s a bank holiday weekend) and frankly it’s chaos. I join three separate queues before I find the right one. Then just as I get to the front of the queue, I discover I am ten minutes too early. However I’m not the only one, so we are just asked to step to one side, whilst passengers for earlier trains checked in. Dead on 11:30 we try again to get through the barrier, but someone has obviously forgotten to update the system. Eventually I make it through the security and passport controls into the waiting area. There is about an hour to wait before boarding, so I find myself a smoked salmon and cream cheese roll to eat and possibly the largest cup of tea I’ve ever seen.

“Yes Mum, I’ve made it … Yes, I’ve checked in … Yes, I have had something to eat”

I start queuing up at the doors early, keen to beat the rush and be able to stow my bags as near to me as possible. After my last trip on Eurostar, I learnt how to find the right carriage, so quickly get to my seat. Great stuff, I have a window seat! A rather attractive gentleman with a French accent asks me if we are going to Lille. I have to confess that I’m not entirely sure. A few seats up a French grandmother and her grandson have sat down with their luggage blocking the aisle, ignoring all the safety announcements. The Stewards have to move them twice through the journey – presumably health and safety isn’t a major French pastime.

I’m lucky enough to have two seats to myself throughout the journey. I spend most of the journey with my nose in a book. At Brussels I leave the Eurostar terminal and find my way to the main part of the station. There are trains heading off to all part of Europe and the temptation to just jump on one is quite overpowering. My friend Jo had been talking about doing that kind of trip just the other day. I’d love to do it, although I’d be nervous of arriving without having any accommodation booked.

Within a few minutes I have found the right platform, with a train heading for Knokke. As I wait, I become aware of a number of British couples around me, presumably all heading in the same direction as me. The train is a few minutes late but that’s not a disaster, it just means I have a few nervous moments.

The journey takes about 50 minutes and passes through some really beautiful countryside. In fact it is hard to remember that we are in Belgium, as the view could easily be southern England. Apart from Bruges we only stop once, at Gent. It would be an easy place to get to for a day out later on in the week.

At Bruges I disembark and manage to find my way out of the station onto the square outside. After a few false starts I manage to find a bus that I think may be going the right way! It says Centrum, so that should at lest get me to the town centre. I should be able to navigate my way from there. Eventually I reach the Markt and I alight just outside of the Belfry. The weather is fantastic and I’m baking in my boots, jeans and fleece! Unfortunately my guide book is buried deep in my suitcase, so all have to go on is a very sketchy map from the internet. I decide to take the road beside the belfry that should take me down to a canal. If I follow this it should take me to the right street. What I hadn’t considered were the cobbles. It’s not fun trying to drag your suitcase over them.

After a few minutes I find myself in the right street. It’s a very quiet residential area and for a while I’m not entirely sure I haven’t made a mistake. However just as I’m about to give up, I suddenly come across the restaurant. I can’t see any other entrance for the B&B so I gingerly go in and call out. Eventually a woman appears and I ask her if this is the right place. It is and she is Nicky, the owner. I have taken her rather by surprise and she tells me later that she had in fact been expect a man, because she thought my name was male. Laughing, I tell her I had been a little unsure whether she would be a man or a woman.

She takes me upstairs and shows me my room. It is a bit old and dated, but clean and comfortable. What slightly alarmed me was a rather scary warning sign on my door. I decide not to find out what it says – although Danger de Mort seems worryingly clear.

Once I have made myself at home and discovered that I can watch BBC 1 and 2 on the television, I decide to see what the restaurant downstairs is like. It is very small and divided into two halves. In one side are the locals, in the other there’s myself and a young French couple with a little boy. I’m not deliberately being antisocial, the other room is the smoking room and like good Europeans, the locals are puffing away like steam trains.

Nicky, my landlady comes over to explain the menu, but hits me straight with the specials – two courses for a frankly ridiculous €7.30. My maths works this out to be about £5! I go for the lightest meal she has – sole covered in a white sauce and served with rice. The first course is a bowl of vegetable soup (or consume). Then came the main course, which the cook assured me was very light. He was a barefaced liar! What appeared in front of me was enormous! Luckily it was also very good. Even so it took a lot of effort to get through it.

Whilst I was attacking the fish a group of English tourists came in. They had been sent round by their very expensive hotel. First off they mistook the French couple for the owners, and then they tried me. They were rather surprised to get an English answer. I pointed out the owner to them and told them they had made a good choice. They were very pleasant and we chatted from time to time. They had the latest cricket score – we are doing really well apparently.

The two couples represented typical English tourists – the type that always make me cringe. The French couple’s little boy was running about playing and generally being very cute. Unfortunately he had quite long hair which made my countrymen assume he was a she. More confusion followed when they asked his name and the Mother said “Paula”. In fact he was called Paul, but her accent added the “ah” sound at the end. In only the way an Englishman can, they kept mishearing it and then told her how to pronounce it! Oh ground open up and swallow me now.

I didn’t stop for a pudding. I would have exploded with a single wafer thin mint. So I paid the exorbitant bill and managed to find my way upstairs. This I did in the dark as I simply couldn’t find the light switch. My room was pretty basic but the bed was really comfortable. It was a little disconcerting not to have a bathroom en suite, particularly as I had forgotten my dressing gown. However the bathroom I had access to was huge. It was on two levels, contained a sunken bath and separate shower as well as a kind of utility room. This seemed to have storage for bedding and towels and Nicky’s ironing board.

As my room was directly above the restaurant I knew it would be a while before I could settle down and fall a sleep. The home crowd rather predictably were one of the loudest contributors. Still I found plenty to watch on TV. The restaurant closes at 10pm, but of course you can’t just throw everyone out. However good as her word, things have quietened down by midnight. This doesn’t bother me too much as it would still only be 11pm back home.