A Surgeon in Belgium | Page 3

We left Ostend by the
magnificent bridge, with its four tall columns, which opens the way
towards the north-east, and as we crossed it I met the first symbol of

war. A soldier stepped forward, and held his rifle across our path. My
companion leaned forward and murmured, "Namur," the soldier saluted,
and we passed on. It was all very simple, and, but for the one word,
silent; but it was the first time I had heard a password, and it made an
immense impression on my mind. We had crossed the threshold of War.
I very soon had other things to think about. The road from Ostend to
Blankenberghe is about the one good motor road in Belgium, and my
companion evidently intended to demonstrate the fact to me beyond all
possibility of doubt. We were driving into the teeth of a squall, but
there seemed to be no limits to the power of his engine. I watched the
hand of his speedometer rise till it touched sixty miles per hour. On the
splendid asphalt surface of the road there was no vibration, but a
north-east wind across the sand-dunes is no trifle, and I was grateful
when we turned south-eastwards at Blankenberghe, and I could breathe
again.
As I said, that road by the dunes is unique. The roads of Belgium, for
the most part, conform to one regular pattern. In the centre is a paved
causeway, set with small stone blocks, whilst on each side is a couple
of yards of loose sand, or in wet weather of deep mud. The causeway is
usually only just wide enough for the passing of two motors, and on the
smaller roads it is not sufficient even for this. As there is no speed limit,
and everyone drives at the top power of his engine, the skill required to
drive without mishap is considerable. After a little rain the stone is
covered with a layer of greasy mud, and to keep a car upon it at a high
speed is positively a gymnastic feat. In spite of every precaution, an
occasional descent into the mud at the roadside is inevitable, and from
that only a very powerful car can extricate itself with any ease. A small
car will often have to slowly push its way out backwards. In dry
weather the conditions are almost as bad, for often the roadside is
merely loose sand, which gives no hold for a wheel. For a country so
damp and low-lying as Belgium, there is probably nothing to equal a
paved road, but it is a pity that the paving was not made a little wider.
Every now and then we met one of the huge, unwieldy carts which
seem to be relics of a prehistoric age--rough plank affairs of enormous
strength and a design so primitive as to be a constant source of wonder.
They could only be pulled along at a slow walk and with vast effort by

a couple of huge horses, and the load the cart was carrying never
seemed to bear any proportion to the mechanism of its transport. The
roads are bad, but they will not account for those carts. The little front
wheels are a stroke of mechanical ineptitude positively amounting to
genius, and when they are replaced by a single wheel, and the whole
affair resembles a huge tricycle, one instinctively looks round for a
Dinosaur. Time after time we met them stuck in the mud or partially
overturned, but the drivers seemed in no way disconcerted; it was
evidently all part of the regular business of the day. When one thinks of
the Brussels coachwork which adorns our most expensive motors, and
of the great engineering works of Liege, those carts are a really
wonderful example of persistence of type.
We passed through Bruges at a pace positively disrespectful to that fine
old town. There is no town in Belgium so uniform in the magnificence
of its antiquity, and it is good to think that--so far, at any rate--it has
escaped destruction. As we crossed the square, the clock in the belfry
struck the hour, and began to play its chimes. It is a wonderful old
clock, and every quarter of an hour it plays a tune--a very attractive
performance, unless you happen to live opposite. I remember once
thinking very hard things about the maker of that clock, but perhaps it
was not his fault that one of the bells was a quarter of a tone flat. At the
gates our passports were examined, and we travelled on to Ghent by the
Ecloo Road, one of the main thoroughfares of Belgium. Beyond an
occasional sentry, there was nothing to indicate that we were passing
through a country at war, except that we rarely saw a