We are on the final approach to Brussels airport, and my seat belt has been securely fastened the whole way. If my only clue to the nationality of this airline was the ‘st’, I’d say it was British. And it is. If ever you want to zoom around Europe for next-to-nothing, Easyjet is the way to go. (Shameless promotion of an airline in which I do not have shares.)
From the air, Belgium is a harvest vegetable stew of oranges, reds and yellows on a green backdrop. With few exceptions, vivid fall colours are missing from the autumn landscape in the south-east of France, which stays pretty much green all year round. I miss the definition of the seasons by colour and temperature, although this is only a mild complaint! - anyone lucky enough to live in Provence has no business moaning about anything. From a few thousand feet up, the villages look like they belong to that toy train set my older brothers never let me play with; their matchbox houses built of brick, with steep-pitched roofs. Why is that? There’s no snow to slide off them in winter, so perhaps it’s because of the extra room gained under the eaves. It all reminds me a bit of England, but prettier and less dense.
We are picked up at the airport by a welcoming party of two of my Favourite Belgian's children, some grandsons, and a son-in-law who whisk us away to the coastal town of Oostduinkerke to spend the weekend. All of Brussels is on the highway heading west, it seems. High-speed bumper-to-bumper traffic is not something I'll ever get used to, although it's the norm in the densely-populated countries of Europe, whose citizenry heads en masse for the sea, the mountains or the countryside on their days off.
Belgium is the Canada of Europe, according to me. To the south is a much bigger, more powerful neighbour with a voice that carries, if not around the world, then at least around Europe. Like Canada, it is a country of two cultures and languages - French and Flemish - that struggle for supremacy against a backdrop of sometimes-bitter history. The level of concession is astonishingly low – if you live in a Flemish-speaking commune but are a Francophone, you’re sunk. All administrative business is conducted in Flemish and you have no right to put so much as a For Sale sign on your lawn in anything other than the official language. Shopkeepers, even those who speak French, are known to refuse to serve French-speakers. The Flamands, chafing from old injustices and an inferiority complex, are known for their refusal to accommodate the Walloons - French-speaking southerners - who are viewed through a historical lens as aristocrats unwilling to acknowledge the linguistic and economic clout of their northern neighbours.
Brussels is caught in the middle. As the capital of Belgium and the capital of Flanders, it is a distinct region in its own right and recognizes both French and Flemish as official languages, although only a small minority speak Flemish. French-speakers account for well over half of the population, with the rest taken up by the multitudinous languages of Brussels’ international community, the result of both the European Union and NATO being headquartered here. The city is wonderfully cosmopolitan as well as being very attractive, and is at the top of my favourite-cities list.
Despite their deep political divisions, Belgians are viewed as friendly, welcoming people with a reputation for unpretentiousness. Like my Quebecois compatriots, they move to the familiar tu more readily than the French. They have a reputation as peace-brokers and negotiators, take no major stands on the international scene, do no sabre-rattling and generally go about their business with a minimum of fuss. Ignoring, for the moment, that they have been unable for months to achieve the necessary compromise to install a functional government acceptable to both sides, Belgium is nevertheless a place that exudes calm, prosperity and efficiency.
It's a fascinating place from an architectural point of view. An architect or urban planner would able to explain to me how the Belgians manage to create a sense of uniformity while remaining highly individualistic in their building and house construction, but what comes across to this visitor is a very pleasing originality in which the unexpected is entirely expected.
Stone, bricStone, brick and wood are common materials, but what the Belgians do with them is limited only by their considerable imagination. To be expected, of course, of the birthplace of the surrealist René Magritte.
On this mild November long weekend, the tidy town is filled with couples, dogs and children strolling the esplanade and the vast, hard-packed beaches.
Even at thisEven at this time of year, the outdoor seating areas of the restaurants lining the esplanade are full, their patrons swathed in woollen scarves. 
Most places offer the Belgian specialties of mussels and fries, or waffles loaded with whipped cream and chocolate. My preference is for le gaufre Bruxellois, a lighter-than-air waffle made with yeast. Its Liège counterpart is heavier, sweeter and irregularly-shaped – both are scrumptious and the variety of toppings nearly limitless. Apart from waffles (and chocolate!), the Belgians are known for their hundreds of varieties of beer and a peculiar habit of eating fries with mayonnaise.
Last year when we were here in September, I was lucky enough to catch an unusual sight. There are fewer than a dozen fishermen left along the North Sea who practice the 500-year-old tradition of shrimp fishing on horseback. A net attached to two planks is pulled through the surf behind the horse, catching shrimp and other fish.
On my
On my bucket list is a horseback ride along a beach like this one, but the older I get the less likely it is to happen. Remember that scene in The Black Stallion, when the boy finally gains the trust of the horse and clambers aboard to canter through the surf? It chokes me up just thinking about it.
This weekend holiday at the coast is a lapsed family tradition, renewed in recent years. My FB – the patriarch – has three children from two marriages, and his lovely daughter’s two sons each have their own dad. The French word for a family like this is recomposée, which seems a bit more realistic than 'blended'. I am the only non-Francophone in the mix and the conversation between the younger ones often goes too fast for me to take in everything, but I never feel excluded. They have been warm and welcoming of me from the start. We spend Saturday evening playing cards, making origami figures and watching movies projected onto a lovely old damask tablecloth stuck to the wall, but mid-viewing the duct tape gives way and the screen puddles gracefully to the floor. No matter - we don't mind Nicholas Cage on a cinder-block background.
The second day dawns overcast but blooms into sunshine by late morning, perfect for another long beach walk. When I first spotted this little fellow, he had his underwear on, but eventually ended up with nothing at all, much to everyone's amusement. eventually ended up with nothing on at all, to his well-wrapped mother's amusement. Other than us, he and his well-wrapped mother were the only French-speakers we heard in two days in Oostduinkerke.
Had to take a spin on a cuistax (from cuisse meaning ‘thigh’ and tax for ‘taxi’) along the esplanade. Every imaginable kind of these wheeled vehicles is available for rent, and I try out a low-slung recumbent tricycle that steers by body lean. After about thirty yards my legs are in agony, but it's more fun than a step machine.
I’m dying to try out the bungy swing/jump with my FB’s daughter, but we’re turned down for being too grown-up! Very disappointing – just when I had worked up enough nerve to make a fool of myself. We finish off the day with a fine meal – huge bowls full of steaming, garlicky mussels for the initiated and an excellent steak for me.
Next morning we head back to Brussels, with a stop along the way in Ghent, where the War of 1812 between Britain and the United States was put to an official end. The first mechanical weaving machine was also built here, and as a result Ghent became an important centre for the wool industry.
A turbulent history saw the city traded back and forth between the Romans and the Franks as well as the Spanish, French and Austrians but these days it is resolutely Flemish. Were it not for the electric tram and the street signs, one could well imagine being transported back into the Middle Ages. 
I also noticed, not for the first time, how well put-together people generally are. Women do not wear running shoes with ill-fitting jeans. Or ski jackets. Or, god forbid, sweats.
Dinner on our last night is put on by my FB's son-in-law, whose skills in the kitchen are second to none. Here is Mario's ‘Roulade Paupiettes de Volaille’ - too good not to share.
Ingredients:
Boneless, skinless chicken breasts.
Cream cheese, about 1 ½ Tbsp per chicken breast. (If you can get French cheese, so much the better, otherwise Philadelphia will do.)
Sun-dried tomatoes, finely chopped (1 per chicken breast)
Shichimi Togarashi (Japanese seasoning)
Orange zest (optional but adds that little je ne sais quoi that distinguishes a chef from a mere cook)
Directions:
Place wax paper over opened chicken breasts and flatten with a meat mallet.
Mix cream cheese with tomatoes and a feeling of Shichimi Togarashi. (A feeling – pronounced with a French accent – is Mario’s equivalent of ‘a bit more than a pinch’)
Spread cream cheese mixture on one half of chicken breast.
Roll breast, securing with toothpick.
Brush lightly with cooking oil.
Finish with a sprinkle of orange zest over breasts.
Bake at 400F (200C) for about 20 minutes or until cooked through.
Serve with oven-roasted potato slices or risotto. Or whatever you like – it’s absolutely delicious no matter what you eat with it. I have no pictures of it, but your imagination can manage something, I’m sure.
I'll leave you with a few more Belgian specialities, although my tastes run simpler than these extravagant confections. They're a bit like baked-good version of George Clooney - awfully nice to look at, but out of my league.
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