‘But do you know what I miss most about the Flemish coast? The screech of the gulls.’ Chiel is staring at something outside the window. I cannot see what. We are on the Kusttram, the line from Knokke to De Panne, two hours and thirteen seaside resorts. He is a Pannenoare, born within walking distance of the French border, ‘where you hear more bonjour than goeiendag.’ He is fleeing the 24 Hours of Ypres, his current home, for his mother’s shrimp croquettes. ‘Already caught,’ he says, nodding at the shopping bag on his lap, something passengers in both carriages have already smelled. I tell him my plan for the day: ride the tram to the last stop, then cycle the coastal route to Ostend, ‘the city of grandeur and the smell of fish.’ He nods. ‘Only real pearls smell of the sea.’ Then, ‘Ah, this is my stop.’ He gets up, walks to the door, and turns around once more. A poodle by the exit sniffs curiously at his bag of shrimp. ‘And keep an eye on the horizon. For the horse fishers.’
One stop before Plopsaland I get off. The tram tracks disappear behind me, the same line that follows the entire coast to the Zwin, a reassurance for anyone who has had enough halfway: never more than a tram stop back to civilisation. I pedal off, wind at my back, faster than the tram. The beach promenade: the horizon on my left, trembling on the sea’s surface, a row of white beach huts like teeth before the river mouth. On my right, a wall of apartment blocks, here and there Belle Epoque, mostly concrete. On the sand lies a stranded octopus, or something that looks like one, one arm raised with a burning light bulb at the tip. It is Touching To Sea You Through Our Extremities by Laure Prouvost, the first of more than fifty Beaufort works along the coast, part of a triennial for contemporary art, now in its twenty third year. Further on, towering over a dune hollow, The Three Wiseacres of De Panne stare indifferently out over the coastline. I follow the Kustroute signs, also Eurovelo 4 and 12, past an Atlantic Wall bunker, along a ribbon of gravel through the Doornpanne dune reserve, to the Navigo Fisheries Museum. Inside hangs Valentijn: a seventeen metre sperm whale, stranded in 1989, buried, and dug up again in 2019. The skeleton now hangs in the entrance hall.
Next to the museum sits Estaminet de Peerdevisscher: black and white photographs of shrimp fishers on horseback in the surf, taken by Stephan Vanfleteren, a poster from Oostduinkerke, tankards lined up on a shelf above the bar. Corinne brings shrimp croquettes and a dark beer. Her family has run the cafe since 1977, descended from a line of horse fishers. ‘Can horse fishers live off the catch? Not really. It never really worked that way.’ The coal merchants went to sea as soon as their draft horses stood idle in April; nobody buys coal in May to heat their house. In autumn, with the first cold, horse and merchant returned to the coal. Does she fish herself? Not any more. She used to, with her grandfather or mother, though women were not officially allowed to by the town council. ‘My mother had long hair. So as not to be recognised out on the water, she hid it under a sou’wester.’ Her son in law Ian walks in. He passed his diploma two weeks ago, after two years of training, most of it learned from his father in law. The condition for working here: your own horse. ‘No racehorses. Working horses. From Limburg, the Ardennes.’ Tonight there are demonstration rides on the beach at Koksijde. Ian stays behind. He is the chef.
Still, I head to the beach myself, curious whether I can spot them; Chiel’s parting words, right at the start of this trip, finally fall into place. Knee deep among swimmers who only came for a dip and now find themselves, to their own surprise, surrounded by horse fishers: two sturdy horses wading into the surf, woven baskets on their flanks, two men in yellow oilskins on top, their laughter carried off by the sea. The net disappears beneath the foam. Somewhere behind me, I suspect, Ian is standing at the stove. I cycle out of Koksijde, over the cobbles of Nieuwpoort’s market square, the handlebars rattling in my hands, past the Stadshal with its belfry, over the IJzer at the Ganzepoot sluice complex, past the equestrian monument of Albert I, beneath which Westfront Nieuwpoort tells how a flooded polder held back an army in 1914.
In Westende stands The Navigator Monument: a ship’s wheel as large as a fisherman’s cottage, a family climbing onto it for a sunset photo. The sculpture is based on the logo of Netscape Navigator, the first popular internet browser, long before Chrome or Safari. Another Beaufort work, the third since the octopus in De Panne. At Middelkerke, in front of SILT, the futuristic casino and hotel building on the dyke, aunt Sidonia sits on a selfie bench. Not Beaufort, just Suske and Wiske, the beloved Belgian comic duo. Together we gaze contentedly at a shimmering horizon. Further on, at Mariakerke, stands Pillage of the Sea by Rosa Barba, in the tide: a tower of stacked sandbags, each bag a city the sea will one day claim. Beaufort again. By the time I reach Ostend it is nearly dark.
On Zeeheldenplein lie the Rock Strangers by Arne Quinze, bright orange boulders, folded like foil against the evening sky, the fifth work since the octopus in De Panne. By the Kursaal, a woman in parrot green pushes a rollator across the zebra crossing as if it were a catwalk. By the beach huts, a circle of women sit on folding chairs, shrimp pink rose swirling in their glasses. Further along, kissing couples drape their legs over the balustrade of the Koninklijke Gaanderijen, the colonnade King Leopold II built so he could walk to the racetrack without getting wet, paid for in part with money from Congo. Since 2016, Ostend has doubled as an open air museum: every spring, dozens of international and Belgian street artists paint the city’s facades for street art festival, The Crystal Ship, now over a hundred murals strong, one of the largest public art festivals in Europe. A backpack full of poppies floats on a painted sea across a hotel wall; a street away, a green and red embrace covers the side of a house near a church. A gilded nineteenth century house, ducking between two bare apartment blocks, stands in scaffolding; cargo bikes and scooters shoot past without slowing, and a waiter carrying a tray weaves smoothly between them, like Indiana Jones dodging spinning blades and clubs.
The Beaufort Sculpture Park holds more than fifty permanent works spread across the ten coastal towns, the survivors of every triennial since 2003, free to visit day or night. The site has a map filterable by resort, four ready-made cycling routes, and a visitor guide with a tram map.
In 2027, a new edition of Triennial Beaufort will take place from March 22 to November 7, bringing new art to the Flemish coast under the theme ‘A Shared Horizon’.
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Our mission is simple: to inspire you to explore the world with curiosity, optimism, enthusiasm, and respect. To connect with cultures, to marvel at breathtaking landscapes, and to embrace the beauty of untamed nature.
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Since 2016, Ostend has doubled as an open air museum. Every spring, dozens of international and Belgian street artists paint the city’s facades, now more than a hundred works across the historic centre, one of the largest public art festivals in Europe. Two stand out: a backpack of poppies floating on a painted sea, and a green and red embrace beside a church nearby.
We know where to go. We know the best places to stay. And we know the local partners who turn a trip into something unforgettable. That’s why when we design your journey, it isn’t just a holiday. It’s a story you’ll carry for life.
Our mission is simple: to inspire you to explore the world with curiosity, optimism, enthusiasm, and respect. To connect with cultures, to marvel at breathtaking landscapes, and to embrace the beauty of untamed nature.
So, tell us — what once-in-a-lifetime adventure may we design for you?
The next morning, on an empty stomach, the smell of fish is exactly what I need. At the Vistrap the Aran sails in, gulls already circling the mast before it has even docked. The crew hoists crates of shrimp up on a crane, the nets still wet on the railing. One of the men, in a red and yellow overall, is Jill’s husband; their son watches from the quay in a Red Devils shirt, De Bruyne on his back, a chihuahua under his arm. Does he want to become a fisherman too? ‘Not allowed, says mama.’ Jill says it without hesitation: ‘I want him to have a life with a bit more free time, and money to earn.’ Her husband is sometimes away for a week; the weekend after, he is mostly tired. But if he really wants it, she adds anyway, she cannot stop him. Up on the quay another fisherman stacks a row of smurf blue crates. The gulls wait, but do not dive for the grey gold. ‘They know they’re getting something tasty,’ he says, tipping two crates of fish waste over the edge into the Montgomery dock. ‘A feast, for the gulls at least.’
Here, I suspect, is where Chiel bought his shrimp. Dini stands behind the counter of the covered fish hall: sixth generation, she says, took over the business four years ago, born in Ostend, twenty years in the trade. From June to November they catch most of their shrimp, with a peak in September and October, when demand also comes from beyond the coast. Ninety percent of what comes in here goes to Spain, because people here are not used to eating it. What was once sole and cod now more often comes in as cuttlefish and squid; the sea is warming, and the species are shifting. ‘People could get used to what is actually available, instead of always wanting the old familiar thing. Eat what the fisherman catches. The calamari they eat in Spain, we catch right here these days.’ From the Vistrap I take a free bike ferry across, no bridge, no detour, the pontoon crosses in a few minutes, bike still between my legs, on toward Bredene, De Haan, Blankenberge and Zeebrugge. Just after Zeebrugge, as the coast gives way to the port, cranes and wind turbines replace the villas. On the beach by the surf club near Zeebrugge, a canoe full of people rests on stilts ten metres up: The Man Who Saw the Boat, in the Sky by Jean Bilquin, sailing over the surf since 2006 without ever arriving, the sixth and last Beaufort work before the Zwin Nature Park. Past Knokke, where the apartments finally disappear, a bronze hare rears above its pyramid plinth: Hospitality by Barry Flanagan. In the Zwin, only wind over the marram grass, and I think of Chiel again, homesick for the Flemish coast before it even lies behind me.
The Kustroute is one of Flanders’ iconic cycle routes, following the entire Belgian coastline from De Panne to the Zwin. Sources put it at 85 to 95 kilometres depending on the variant, call it a shade under a hundred. Signposted both ways and shared with Eurovelo 4 and Eurovelo 12, flat, with a separated cycle path almost throughout. Doable in one long day, or spread over two or three to actually stop and look around. You can can find the route with gpx file and all details here. More information about the Belgian coast can be found on www.belgiancoast.co.uk
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