One writer, one Interrail pass and a wildly over-ambitious, 37-stop journey to test railway accessibility in Europe. Wanstead-based travel writer Carole Edrich presents the eighth instalment of her Big Rail Story
Built for the 1913 World Fair, Ghent Station’s entrance hall features ceiling paintings, intricate sgraffito (scratched) panels and murals of 13 Belgian cities, including Brussels, Antwerp, Ypres and Bruges. The idea was that visitors could tour Belgium without leaving the station. These days, it’s one of the country’s largest bicycle hubs, with around 17,000 parked in the nearby facilities. I had a good look on the way to Ypres. This time, I head straight for the loo.
Back on the train and on the way to Lokeren, through the canal-side industrial zone. Ghent’s own tourism blurb praises the graffiti artworks along the way. I don’t.
As the day brightens, the golds give way to soft greens and blues of scattered farms, endless fields and never-ending drainage ditches. As we approach Lokeren, the grassland sparkles in the sun. There are herons here (unsurprising, considering it’s water-laced marshland), the occasional flash of what I hope is a kingfisher, and a century’s supply of ducks for a huge Chinese restaurant.
Dappled light, reflecting off nearby water surfaces and diffused from the roof, contrasts with long, sharp shadows cast across the paved platform approach. It’s spellbindingly beautiful, so I don’t think to look around at Lokeren station until we start to move. Once a hub for fur and flax processing, local inhabitants are nicknamed Rapenfretters (turnip eaters); a nod to the region’s agricultural roots. Apparently, not an insult, because it’s on the city’s coat of arms.
A man passing down the aisle brings the slight scent of green herbs and musky, healthy dog. The steward sits across from me. I’m enveloped by the strong scents of Nivea and soap. You know those people who smell offensively loud? The teenager who hides his days-old sock-smell with excessive deodorant, or the young adults who need to advertise their presence by smell before you can see their faces? It’s here. In my head, I blame the steward. As the profusion of graffiti announces the imminence of Antwerp Station, I realise that some of that horrid loud smell is coming from me.
We arrive on time in Antwerp, and the cheerful steward announces to anyone who’ll listen: “We can have coffee now,” (only in Dutch, obvs). Don’t think he knows he is on the tannoy, but it’s a great idea, so I’m off.
It suddenly strikes me that I’ve spent so long looking for a place that serves my favourite type of coffee that I wouldn’t have time to drink it and give up. The station’s confusing, with platforms on different levels and signs that I can read (I speak Dutch, after all), but they don’t help. The train pulls in just as I get myself to where the platform’s digital train diagram says my carriage is. It is not.
For links to the places and to listen to Carole’s podcast, visit wnstd.com/rail
