Life in the mean time has been rather busy and conspired to keep me from updating sooner.
I had no real agenda with Belgium. I have an old mate in Brussels and thought it was time I popped over and acquainted myself with the bars of Belgium under the guidance of PJ... a drinker of some repute whom I have known from the days when I was but a teenager. So, on Monday morning I decided to book and go. 15 minutes later I was booked onto the Eurostar for a Friday evening departure and into what turned out to be a rather nice hotel on Avenue Louise. It was at this point that I decided it might be wise to actually have something to do in Brussels than drink.
Lunchtime saw me at Stanford's (the bestest little travel bookshop in London, and conveniently located about 100 yards from my office) buying a travel guide for Brussels. Surprisingly it was not easy to find and when I did find it my selection included Berlitz or Berlitz. I chose Berlitz. If you have the opportunity to choose a Berlitz travel guide, don't. It gave me interesting, but vague, tidbits about the various sights of Brussels, but absolutely no guidance on how to get there, how much they might be, or what hours they were open. From here on I will stick to Lonely Planet or Time-out.
Thankfully Brussels is an easy city to navigate. But, I didn't start there. Well, my train delivered me there, and my hotel was there, but I arrive late in the evening, went straight to my hotel and first thing next morning I went straight back to the train station and climbed aboard a train to Brugge. Brugge hadn't even been on my horizon when I booked, 6 days prior, but having 
mentioned my weekend plans to all and sundry I was inundated with testimonials as to its charm and beauty, including "it's the Venice of Western Europe" (which perhaps elevates it a tad above its station) and general insistence that I must go if I had the time. So, I did. 50 minutes from Brussels I was outside the monolithic, post-war Brugge Station and wandering across the park toward the town centre. Thanks to a long spell of no-one noticing it was there, from about 1650 until about 1850, Brugge has managed to retain a remarkable collection of buildings, and a canal system, pretty much unchanged for 400 years. There are no tacky '60s or '70s office buildings to blight the views along the narrow cobbled streets or in the squares and plazas. The canals are fringed with overhanging trees and criss-crossed with ancient stone bridges.
mentioned my weekend plans to all and sundry I was inundated with testimonials as to its charm and beauty, including "it's the Venice of Western Europe" (which perhaps elevates it a tad above its station) and general insistence that I must go if I had the time. So, I did. 50 minutes from Brussels I was outside the monolithic, post-war Brugge Station and wandering across the park toward the town centre. Thanks to a long spell of no-one noticing it was there, from about 1650 until about 1850, Brugge has managed to retain a remarkable collection of buildings, and a canal system, pretty much unchanged for 400 years. There are no tacky '60s or '70s office buildings to blight the views along the narrow cobbled streets or in the squares and plazas. The canals are fringed with overhanging trees and criss-crossed with ancient stone bridges. I took the required tour of the town by canal boat (it's either that or a tour by horse and buggy) along the waterways that snake their way through the brick and timber houses and stores, followed it up with a very pleasant lunch at a cafe overlooking the water and then climbed the steps of the town hall bell tower. The view was splendid, and the carillon is expansive, but the thing that impressed me most was that the carillon is actually played by a organ type keyboard (and was being played while I was up there). No ropes to be pulled in Brugge! I am not really sure what else happens in Brugge other than tourism... the town did not seem to have any other visible means of support, but it probably doesn't need it.
Brussels, on the other hand, has a lot more happening, and it is still a charming town. The Grand Place, in the heart of the city, is something of an architectural gem and of course the Atomium (a Relic of a 1950s world exposition) is worth a visit for its kitsch value alone. Avenue Louise is lined with good shopping, unless you are wandering along its length on a Sunday as I was, when everything is closed.
I may or may not have had a slight hang-over, and the day is ever so slightly fuzzy. (I had spent the evening previous sampling a new, local beer that the brewer had deigned to give away in a number of pubs as a promotion. Free beer anywhere is a very dangerous thing.) I know I had a Belgian Waffle with cream and fresh strawberries at some point, wandered past Manneken Piss - small, isn't it? PJ joined me about midday nursing a similar ailment to my own, and we had lunch at an Irish Pub (you can't escape them anywhere). I marvelled at the Australian Ice-cream shop selling world famous Australian Ice-cream (please correct me if I am wrong, but I have never thought of Australia as being famous for its ice-cream...apparently only in Belgium), and trundled into the suburbs of Brussels to experience the delights of the aforementioned Atomium.
Basically a giant atom of iron constructed out of polished stainless steel and propped up in the middle of a park. It is a testament to the adage that bright shiny things appeal. It really has no useful purpose beyond giving the visitor (after handing over 8 Euro) a nice view of the park in which it stands and a distant glimpse of the city of Brussels. I thought it was pretty cool. And so, with a shiny little model of the Atomium in hand, I climbed aboard the Eurostar back to London, and sipping a very pleasant champagne, departed Belgium.