An Englishman In Brugge

This must be the most beautiful city in the world, not that I'm such an experienced traveller that I can say this with a great deal of authority, but certainly it is prettier than anything South Africa has to offer. Its narrow cobbled roads, medieval architecture (even the most recently constructed buildings emulate the style), rivers and canals; make for a charming setting. The sweet smell of marijuana that hangs around the youth hostel suggests that Brugge isn't too far from Holland and, as if to confirm this, there are a number of windmills dotted along the river bank. But this is a modern world and the new electricity-generating variety vastly outnumber the traditional type that Don Quixote made famous. Even early in October, with the autumn chill settling down on Europe, the city is overrun with tourists; one simply wonders what it must be like at the height of summer... perhaps, not the best place to be. The tourists make the city almost impossible to navigate by car, never mind the innumerable bicycles and horse-drawn carriages that dominate the streets. Not that the locals seem to mind, they zoom down the narrow streets regardless of the pedestrians and barely slow down in the face of oncoming traffic. How they miss each other is a wonder, but then they are in left-hand drive vehicles which are all the better for driving on the wrong side of the road with. Out in the country, near the campsite where my tent has been pitched, the local provides some clues as to the nature of the rural Belgium population. On the entrance door and stuck to a huge fly swatter (which hangs behind the bar and has the words TEXAS FLY SWATTER emblazoned upon it) are no-smoking signs; despite this, the old bar maid lights up a cigarette having just extinguished her previous one. Behind her, hanging over the bar are the words: "Niet zagen maar pinten bragen." I have no idea what it means, but it must have something to do with beer, so I immediately feel quite at home.

(The little pub where I met the local folk)

The pub is neat and clean, so the calendar hanging on the side of the bar which boasts a well endowed and decidedly topless blonde seems just a little out of place. Regulars, and they must be regulars because the barmaid greets them by their first names as they come in the door, are equally oblivious to the no-smoking signs and within minutes of opening (which doesn't happen on Mondays and Tuesdays) the establishment is filled with a blue smokey haze that would delight the youngsters hanging out at the youth hostel, but would have the politicians in the European Parliament in Brussels having hissy fits. Perhaps the rural Brugge folk feel the same way about Brussels, and its laws, as the British do. That may as be, but the traffic laws have certainly gone decimal, everything is in kilometres per hour, which plays havoc with the GPS and it insists on travelling in miles; and it being a new accessory; I've no idea how to adjust it. Driving here was simply a matter of going a little faster than the trucks, a little slower than any BMWs and keeping pace with anything that remotely resembles a family station wagon. Having said that, the Flemish must be perpetual law breakers because every single traffic light intersection boasts a red-light camera - South African taxis simply could not exist on these roads. On that note, it's probably a good idea to be heading off back to the campsite, the police here are as bad with drink-driving as Sergeant Rose was back in Newcastle... 'Til next time.