I haven’t been in 10 years.
Belgium is a faded memory, frayed at the seems as it unravels, losing its battle with time. I was 14 years old when I visited Belgium. It was a school trip, and in a teenage blur, I can remember only captured moments of food, of friends, and of my awful outfit choices.
In the ten years since, I still vividly recall the cramped coach seats of kids piling in, and trying to find the ‘coolest’ spot, or the one next to a window. My diet was annoyingly vegetarian due to religious constrictions, making the food memorable in its own right. But one thing that sticks with me is the camaraderie, a vicious bond of school representation, for we were in a foreign land, and the only people we knew were stuffed into a single decker coach.
The familiarity of faces and the probability you’d be speaking to classmates you tend to avoid is what makes trips aboard so special.
The reason for the trip wasn’t a catch up or a chance to have a good time, but instead was a stark reminder of the past. The city we visited was Ypres, a city drenched in history. More specifically a city crammed with, battlefields, cemeteries and museums dedicated towards those who fallen and died in World War One.
The city is a reconstructed haven, with many poignant buildings reconstructed into their original styles. Gothic architecture is the allure, but I felt it trapped the city in time, to be eternally haunted by it’s past. And the ominous shape of churches, arches and Cathedrals did not help the vibe.
Ypres is famous for ‘The first battle of Ypres’ where the Germans under estimated the strength of the Allied forces. But this battle also saw the British Army — feared for its size and experience — crumble, making this battle a significant turning point, and an indication how the rest of the war will follow. Allied time in Belgium also led to the next phase of the war, the race to the sea.
My memories pour into brilliant white headstones so carefully conserved , neatly mowed grass vibrant against the brilliant blue sky, serving a as reminder of my own mortality, and the lives and stories of those who came before us.
10 years is a long time, and writing about a fleeting memory on a travel blog doesn’t seem like the greatest action to take. But as we emerge from the pandemic, reminding myself how far I’ve come with the people I love has proved to be the best thing of all.
