ghent

  

When we stepped off the train in Ghent we didn't know what we were looking for. I'd heard there was a castle there.

There's a rule you can follow in these old towns, especially the small ones. Scan the skyline for the tallest, oldest looking spire, then follow it to the centre of town. Using this method, you're almost guaranteed to find interesting things.

The train station in Ghent is a fair walk from the centre. Finding a distinct lack of spires, steeples, or tall structures of any sort, we followed some tram tracks for a while. We came to a canal and followed that. Usually, turning the right corner reveals suddenly the great spire lurching above the houses, a monolithic keeper of the town peace. Here, the corner turret of the castle rises hesitantly and stays just ahead of you, mostly out of sight. I thought I might be imagining it.

The centre of Ghent flowers in the summer. Blooms follow each bank of the characteristically European-green canals. The narrow houses rise from the water as though they have grown there for centuries, which I suppose they kind of have. Half a meter or so of old drowned bicycles pad the bottom of the canal.

We had a picnic lunch opposite the old house of pleasure, close to the smallest house in town, which is about the width of a doorway, if you were wondering. Oh, and here's the traditional sweet. Sticky and sickly sweet purple noses, for some reason, are appealing to the population here.

The Castle of the Count (yes, there is a castle there, and yes, we found it) stands on the edge of the canal and casts an impressively medieval shadow over the town centre.

The inside is cold stone and smells authentically damp. Horrific instruments of slaughter and torture are arranged in lit glass cases for the visitors' viewing pleasure (and you know how much I like the medieval torture business, yes). Here's a real deal knight's armour and some gruesome manacles and such.

There's also a shamefully inauthentic replica throne for dorks like me to sit in and take photos.

Despite being set up for tourists, the castle retains a lovely shivery feeling of cold immovability, like it's immune to both the passage of time and the multitude of tourists that swarms over it's walls. It's still very much a castle. A really old really great grumpy castle. You can tell by the flag they fly, if you're in doubt.