Parsnips, bicycles and knitting: Antwerp

Fully laden with our gear we sheltered from the rain, hunched under a sagging tarpaulin as a group of large, heavy-set Belgium stevedores puffed up the ladder.

It was time to leave the Rickmers Singapore and step on our first European soil for nine months.


The weather was foul but the stevedores didn’t seem to notice as they boarded the ship. Sporting dirty old orange boiler suits and grimy helmets, each had a pudgy, weatherbeaten face, a smoldering dog-end poking out from it, clamped between yellowing teeth.

They looked like miners setting off to face down the Maggie Thatcher in the 1980s, and we let them pass before it was our turn to totter down the slippery ladder to the waiting taxi below.

The cab was soon speeding us away from the quay, weaving between piles of split timbers, rotting ropes and all the other detritus of the dockside.

A large crane swung low, its cargo swooping in front of us causing the cabbie to swerve. Health and safety didn’t seem to be of great importance around here.

Neither did security, as we zipped about the enormous port apparently at will before finally exiting onto a highway, no barrier, no officials, no anything.

I looked back at the forest of cranes receding into the distance, the mountains of heavy containers, the little trucks with their flashing lights and the little workers in their dayglo jackets scuttling about under the heavy sky.

Perhaps China didn’t have it all – this port was just as big as those we’d seen back in Yantian and Hong Kong.

It's vital to Belgium – the country wouldn’t exist without Antwerp we were told by a local – and to Europe as a whole.

Along with Rotterdam, just over the Dutch border, and Hamburg, this port is one of Europes’s arteries, a lifeline between the continent and the rest of the planet.

Heading into town, soaking in new sights and sounds, we started to adjust once more to new surroundings.

There were red car number plates, imposing and timeworn buildings, strange and unpronounceable Flemish words.

The grid-patterned streets on the map have been replaced by a mess of wonky angles and confusing dead-ends; the broad, confident American voices have been usurped by a odd combination of European tongues.

There’s Flemish, heavy, awkward-sounding and, well phlegmy; Dutch, similarly impenetrable and unwelcoming; French, language of their Walloon compatriots and even English, a reminder that England lies just over the water.

Even people’s faces seem to be different, and far more interesting too. There’s not so many flat round faces here, instead there’s more angles, more dark shapes under the eyes.

Faces look more lived-in, as if they have been outdoors more, weathering the elements on their bicycles rather than opting for the air-conditioned comfort of a large SUV.

Perhaps the greatest difference though only became apparent when we spoke to people. I was amazed by the difference in attitudes and the general outlook which people seemed to hold.

We were back amongst ancient European enmities, built upon centuries of fractious relationships between tribes, kingdoms and nation states.

It didn’t take long to hear what Belgiums thought of the Dutch (and vice versa), nor did it take much persuasion to learn what the average Flemish Belgian made of their Walloon neighbours.

After two months in the US, that great melting pot of cultures where everyone pulls together under one flag it seemed very strange, almost petty.

There was little of that hearty American welcome here either, the smiley, friendly can-I-help-you American service was replaced by haughtiness, in some places almost barely disguised dislike.

Perhaps it was our dishevelled appearances after ten days at sea and ten months on the road, but I’ve never visited a town where more waiters turned their noses up at us.

At least we found a warm welcome with our couchsurfing hosts, Walter and Vera, an entertaining Belgium couple who are keen on cycling and absolutely obsessed with knitting.

Whilst the former hobby was no great surprise in a country such as this the latter was more curious.

Wool lay around the place in great heaps, there were huge scarfs galore and we couldn’t leave without stuffing several of their products into our backpacks.

What is it about wool? Surely it can’t be very practical in all this rain.

I wondered about this as Walter lent me a bike and peddled to their nearby allotment in search of dinner.

Their plot was muddy, given a good soaking in a recent downpour, and I enthusiastically joined him in harvesting parsnips.

Walter told me Belgians consider parsnips to be rather old-fashioned. I was shocked – surely not, how could they attach such an appellation to the mighty, immortal parsnip, the King of the vegetable world?

Parsnips, bicycles, allotments: It all felt strangely like home.

The next morning we found that the miserable drizzle had given way to beautiful sunny weather.

We rode the tram into town and made for the huge cathedral, standing proud in the centre. It’s a massive edifice, which took two hundred year to build, funded entirely by voluntary donation, I was told.

Inside the vast vaulted interior rang with sombre organ music; visitors and the faithful spoke in low voices and admired the Rubens hanging above the altar.

A local lad, Peter Paul, along with other Flemish masters (surely this is the name of a darts tournament?) cropped up several times in our visits to various churches and cathedrals.

I tried my best but found them all a bit grim. Give me one of the many fine Belgium comics or graphic novels anyday.

A couple of hours later we found ourselves at the Groot Markt, an impressive square surrounded by fine mercantile buildings all squashed together.

I craned my neck up at their crow-stepped steps, topped off with golden statues denoting their specific trade.

They couldn’t speak louder about how vital the port is to Antwerp, a city built on trade. “Without the port”, Walter told us, “Antwerp would not exist.’

And it would be considerably duller as well. The port has given the city, alongside many other things, a very interesting ethnic mix.

Besides the Flems and the Walloons, there’s a Chinatown (like in many ports), plus a sizeable community of Orthodox Jews (many here for the diamond business) and more recent immigrants, such as Moroccans and Congolese (a former colony).

All this sightseeing had given us a thirst and it seemed a fine time to sample the local fare.

This being Belgium we were keen to try their famous beers and soon we were supping on bollekes (those wide-bottom Belgian beer glasses) of De Koninck, one of the many local ales.

A large stag party of Dutch fellows larked about in the square, apparently touring the hostelries on scooters – it all seemed very European.

Suitably oiled up we stopped by a chip stand for another Belgium speciality – pommes frites, deep-fried twice (to give them an added crispiness) and drowned in mayonnaise.

I don’t know who thought of this idea but it works a treat. Can’t see it catching on back home though.

Maybe we should try it with parsnips…