On the Belgian Coast sits the strikingly ugly town of Blankenberge. A kilometre long wall of apartments, uniformly ten stories high, separates the land and its low lying town from the rolling brown waves of the North Sea.
This sea, that provides so much of Europe’s energy, is characterized by sands and mud, by flood, storms and destruction, by trade and carriage, by crossings and connections. Not here the wild cliffs of the Atlantic, or the wide sweep of Pacific surf, nor the blue and shallow tides of the Mediterranean. But instead a northern chill, a swell of browns and greys. Oh I know there are days of blue and warmth, and I know there are holiday beaches, red cliffs and white, but North Sea to me is too often the cold sea, a coast of pebbles and sands, eroding cliffs and building spits, dunes and wind, of holiday shelter from mists and squalls, beach huts and out of season dying fun fairs.
At Blankenberge this line of apartments has replaced the dunes. Both inward facing, a guardian over the town, and standing proud to the sea they seem to defy the elements, as if challenging the sea to throw all it can at them. In front, a flat plain of sand. Peppered with play areas that coral children and families, incongruously themed of tropics and warmer climes, the beach stretches north to the stark line of cranes that mark the port of Zeebrugge. Off shore a line of container ships wait their turn to unload their cargos, threaded by cruise ships and passenger ferries in more of a hurry. Night and day a work-horse dredger sits anchored, it bows headed into the waves and currents.
But at the other end of the beach it is a different story altogether – a parallel line of beach huts stretch to the southern pier, a curving slatted structure overlooked by the old lighthouse. One line of beach huts face the sea, the other face inland. Generally white the uniformity is broken by the odd splash of yellow, green blue and red. Quiet radicals have painted names on their huts, and one bold soul has decided that yellow stripes will mark their property.
I arrived on a weekend of squally showers, with worsening weather on the way. I arrived dressed in my best suit ready for work in Brussels the following week. My raincoat lay neatly packed in my bag along with clothes suitable for exploring a windy wet beach and sadly would remain that way, for my bag languished, courtesy of some airline or other, in Geneva airport. A fat lot of good when the need was in Blankenberge.
Still, I ventured out, besuited and smart, photographer at large, dodging squalls and despite all I’ve said above, falling slowly in love with this rather diffident and magical place, empty of people, whether residents or holiday makers. A ghost of a seaside town, architecturally strangely different.
I bought an umbrella, but that was destroyed by a particularly violent gust the next morning. And I knew the game was up when, wet and bedraggled, I was politely informed by a gentlemen’s outfitter that I would “not be able to buy a raincoat in Blankenberge.” I retreated to a cafe to review my photos and write my journal.
Before I left from the rather forlorn railway station for inland calm, I spied through the grey, another set of apartments further down the coast rising like an ancient fortress straight from the dunes.
Almost surreal and strangely compelling.