FRANCE
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MIDDLE EAST
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Flat? Yes. But not empty. Belgium folds its green fields into soft hills, opens up to forests, and, to the north, a coastline that feels quiet even when it’s full. Ostend, Knokke-le-Zoute—names the wind seems to carry. The North Sea close, always grey, always present.
With a local guide, the country shifts. What looked simple starts to show depth. Hidden stories, streets that meant something long before maps.
Two regions—Flanders and Wallonia. The rhythm isn’t the same. Walk Ghent. Or Bruges. Or Antwerp. Each unfolds differently. In Brussels, you stop for a beer, and suddenly architecture happens—Art Deco, Gothic, something in between.
Bruges, in West Flanders, feels like it never rushed. Cobbled streets. Houses stitched together in Flemish brick. You wander. You glance up. Something old always waiting.
At the Begijnhof, silence. The Church of Our Lady, still standing. The Belfry, 83 meters high—350 steps if you’re counting. From the top, the city folds into canals.
They call it the Venice of the North, but the water came by accident. A wave, centuries ago. Now boats float slow between bridges. Museums sit quietly nearby—life from another era at the Folk Life Museum. Paintings, soft and serious, at the Groeninge Museum.
Three rocks. A river curling below. That’s where the Bouillon fortress stands. In Wallonia’s southwest. Old stones, thick walls. And a name—Godefroy de Bouillon.
He sold it once. To fund a crusade. 1099. Now there’s a museum—Scriptura—all about that journey. But the place? It’s more than history. You feel it in the drawbridge, in the way Vauban reshaped it around 1680.
In the village, quiet most days, falcons circle above the rooftops. From March to November, they land. The show begins.
Looking for movement? Head south. The Lesse Valley cuts through the Ardennes, and the river calls for paddles. From Houyet to Anseremme, about 20 km. Anyone can do it. You just let the water guide you.
Forests, limestone cliffs, pebble banks. Somewhere near Walzin, a castle watches from a rocky perch. Looks like a painting.
Then there’s Furfooz. A reserve where nature and time get tangled. Caves. Roman baths. Traces of people who once lived there. The trees remember.
Take a weekend. Brussels doesn’t need more. Small enough to cross on foot. Big enough to surprise you. The old center—called the Pentagon—holds most of the names you’ve heard. But stray further.
In Saint-Gilles, galleries bloom. Les Marolles wake early for the flea market. Le Heysel slows it all down with its parks. You’ll miss things if you don’t walk with a guide. But maybe that’s fine too.
Some places linger:
– Manneken-Pis. A statue, barely knee-high. Built in 1619. Dressed differently every week. Locals love him.
– The King’s Palace. The royal family works there. In summer, doors open. You wander through power.
– The Grand-Place. All roads seem to lead there. The Town Hall watches over it—Gothic, tall, from the 15th century.
– The Atomium. Nine spheres, built for 1958. You walk inside an iron molecule. At the top, 95 meters up, a restaurant spins slowly into the sky.
Just outside Brussels, maybe 15 km, the Hallerbos Forest. Locals call it the Blue Forest. In spring, they come in quiet waves.
From April, bluebells flood the ground. Soft, wild, fragile. Paths curve through them. Walk. Ride a bike. Some go on horseback. There’s even a trail—Achtdreven—for wheelchairs. Everyone finds their rhythm here.
Try the Sequoia road. Trees that tower above the rest. But the real secret? Weekdays. Fewer people. More forest.
Brussels
Dutch, French, German
30,528 km²
July 21
11.5 million
Euro (EUR)
CET (UTC+1)
Temperate
+32
230 V, Type C & E
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