Ostend Weekend (3/5) By John Allbones

(1/5), (2/5), (3/5), (4/5), (5/5),

Belly full, I wandered out of the 'Hotel Sauna'. I thought it might be a bit cooler outside. Wrong! The mythical prostitutes were still not apparent as I walked the two hundred yards or so to the front. People were still in the sea at 9.45 in the evening. I wondered to myself. Is it always like this in Belgium? As I looked beyond the twilight bathers at one of the loveliest sunsets I'd ever set eyes on. I slowly made my way along Albert Promenade. Past the dog walkers, lovers, skateboarders, and everyone else who wanted to make full use of the nicest day of the year so far.

I looked up in awe at the simple but incredibly effective statue of a seaman looking watchfully out to sea. Then towards the impressive harbour I'd only seen from the bus. Then, I realised this tremendously warm May evening was causing me to have the most incredible thirst.

The harbour would still be there tomorrow. I needed a lager. I slipped down a side street off the main harbour side thoroughfare, and found myself in a small quiet square, Mijnplein. It is here that I spent the next hour or so, sitting outside the imaginatively titled Café d'Ostende, enjoying a cold beer, the stillness, the now very pleasant warmth, and my incredible good fortune. Day two. A visit to Bruges, or Brugge, as it says on the signposts. There could be no messing about today, strict orders from the driver.

Straight after breakfast we must be on the coach. As the tall ships were in, there were going to be re-enactments and parades on. Believe me, we don't want to get stuck behind a parade, reiterated the driver. So 9.45 sharp.

We did as we were told. Everyone was up early. All down for breakfast in good time, and with military precision we filed on the bus not a second after a quarter to ten. There was the head count. Thirty-eight, bang on! We were ready to go. The sun was out so we were happy. We were away on time so the driver was happy, as we pulled away with nothing between us, and a sun-kissed Bruges, except 25 kilometres of road. Oh, and a parade. It took about an hour to make our way out of town. Lot's of people in colourful costumes marching very slowly was a novelty for a couple of minutes, but soon wore thin. It was a parade to commemorate Napoleon's visit to Ostend.

The reason for his visit was unclear. Maybe he'd heard it was full of prostitutes. His nibs was being played by quite a rotund, red-faced chap, his body image didn't really seem to fit with the Napoleon I'd always imagined.

I had the feeling he may have been the main mover and shaker in local amateur dramatic circles, and that he'd threatened to take his bat and ball home if he didn't land the plum role of Bonaparte. Eventually they turned off towards the civic hall, or something like that, and we were free to carry on our journey. Relief spread through the coach as we reached the Kennedy roundabout and on towards Bruges. I had previously meant to ask the driver why the authorities in Ostend had named a roundabout after JFK, as I'm sure he would have known.

But after the thick end of an hour looking at Napoleon's arse, I reached the point of not caring one way or the other.

As we made our way down the N9 I felt a real sense of excitement about the new city I was about to visit. Anywhere that is referred too as the Venice of the North must be worth getting excited about, mustn't it? The outskirts were misleading. You couldn't help but be impressed by the fine looking residential dwellings, with their manicured lawns, but it was more reminiscent of one of those suburban American neighbourhoods you see depicted in programmes like the Wonder Years than the mighty, unique Venezia.

Everything seemed so spotless and perfect that you couldn't actually imagine anybody living here. Indeed, the first sign of life we saw was when we drove past the station, and saw the five million (a rough estimate) bikes parked in the Taj Mahal of bike sheds.

Continued ... next page (4/5)

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