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A Belgium Barge Odyssey
| Article
# : |
14157 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
Date : |
1 / 1988 |
2,922 Words |
| Author
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Cynthia Foster
Cynthia Foster is a freelance photojournalist based in
France. |
I had passed through Belgium before, mainly to enjoy a few magnificent meals in Brussels. This time I planned to experience more, packing as much daring as I could into each day and pushing my way from the French-speaking east to the Flemish west, at the sea. At Oostende, on the coast, shrimp fishermen gather their nets from horseback. This I had to see.
My odyssey began in Dinant, a historic town in the Meuse Valley. Although the town had a bloody past--the Citadel, perched on a sheer cliff, is a testament--modern visitors are struck by the relaxed atmosphere and can enjoy Dinant's special "patisseries" and Belgian brew.
I continued my journey by train to Spa, a resort town in the Ardennes, two hours east of Brussels. Spa, superbly situated in a valley surrounded by malachite-colored mountains, captivated me as it has many other common folk and most of the continent's royalty and high society who visited during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Whether for the proverbial healing powers of the water, to revel in the rare natural setting, or to wager their wherewithal at the casino, Spa has always held numerous attractions.
And so it was with me that bright autumn day. I dawdled all morning in Spa, window shopping and sitting in sunny cafes, before catching the last possible train to land me in Brussels for my appointed rendez-vous. Not far from the Grand'Place I would connect with a small group of Americans and drive with them to Ghent, where our luxurious barge, the Lyys, was docked. Once aboard, we would cruise Belgium's rivers and canals to Bruges near the coast.
But in Liege the train developed an obscure "problem technique" that held us in the station for twenty-five minutes.
To relieve the frustration I spent time advising a young "punk" on his unmanageable pink hairdo. "Forget the hairspray," I suggested as he emptied the can. "Try some gel. And snip a smidgen off he top, it'll stand up better." As we chugged out of the station he smiled (we all did), and I still wonder whether he tried the gel.
In search of the Lys
I arrived late in Brussels to learn that my fellow bargers had departed, leaving behind a neatly folded note: " . . . in Ghent on the Lindenlei Canal. Everyone knows where the Lys docks, it read. I dragged my gear
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