like century-stranded Lisbon or Valparaiso but it was damp and colourless on a visit last week. There were some giggles but no mirth. And the gluhwein crowds were stumbling and stolid and blank-eyed at the Christmas markets. The museums have sold all the decent Magrittes and the war fields you coast past to get there are as drab and boundless as war thoughts demand, part-hidden in mist. I sank a few Grimbergers and that made it better but there was no whiff of magic and I caught the night-morning cab to the Midi station feeling, “who the hell are you coming here, skipping the Menin Gate and dissing King Leopold?” Next time I’ll go straight to Ypres, pay my respects and head on south.
