Bike Lanes, Beer And Super Wim

We left the ferry terminal at Zeebrugge and my mind very nearly imploded trying to turn left at a roundabout from the right-hand lane. Once we’d found our bearings we joined the fietsnetwork, the intricate web of dedicated bike paths that covers most of Belgium. It made for beautiful riding on another scorching day, though the constant turns and map-checking kept our progress slow. The first night was to be spent in Gent, only about forty miles away even after going round the houses a little and detouring briefly into the Netherlands. One thing struck me about the suburbs through here: real care had clearly gone into the homes and the layout of the streets, barely a thing out of place, one idyllic little town after another.

Bikes survived the night.

The road stayed flat as a pancake all the way to Gent and we coasted most of it — I doubted I’d need my bottom cog again until the Ardennes drew closer. We found the campsite, tucked inside a larger sports complex with a park, tennis courts and a swimming pool. Gent turned out to be home to some genuinely mind-blowing medieval architecture, and the next morning we could have spent hours simply gawping up at the spires of St Nicholas’ Church. It quickly became clear a proper fry-up was not going to happen on the continent. In its place, an immense choice of pastries at a euro apiece did a very respectable job of holding us over past lunch.

Breakfast, om nom nom.

In Belgium, bicycles seem to cross in front of cars without warning and simply take the right of way. More than once, standing slightly lost by the roadside, we watched cars stop in anticipation of us crossing, only to back up a line of traffic behind them — sorry about that. Every road, it seemed, was sided by a bike lane; you couldn’t turn onto a bad road if you tried, because even the busiest ones had a dedicated path running alongside. It wasn’t only the cities either — we rode a straight thirty-five miles without a single turn from Gent to Antwerp along the N70, a major road, with a perfect bike path the entire way.

On the Wednesday we stayed with my friend Wim in Mortsel, a suburb south-east of Antwerp-centrum. We’d spent a month on the road together back in 2010 and I hadn’t seen him since. Once he’d finished work he gave us a brief tour of Antwerp by bicycle, followed by a sample of the local brew, De Koninck.

Back at Wim’s place he set about showing us the most amazing hospitality either of us could have dreamed up. Wim is an experienced bicycle tourer himself, so he knew exactly how to spoil two road-weary guests and how much we’d appreciate it. First came a fine barbecue and a much-needed salad, washed down with a refreshing mojito made from leaves snipped straight from his patch. Then he brought out the big guns — an extra blonde beer, Vedett, followed by a blue Chimay Trappiste, and by then the strong Belgian beer was well and truly landing, several rounds deep already that afternoon. The showstopper was a Rochefort 10, an eleven-point-three per cent monster as dark as the night outside.

That was just about enough to knock us out cold, after an amazing evening with Wim and Anka, swapping memories and talking Belgian brilliance long into the night. I thought about how a decision made on a previous tour had led to meeting Wim in the first place, and how that chain of small choices had brought us here, to this table, this evening. I could only hope everyone else we met along the way turned out to be half as generous as Wim and Anka. I owe them one.