Tales of a British Bedouin

As I wake up in my hotel room I can feel the familiar dull thud of a night intoxicated. That's the thing about Bruges, the beer. It's not the euro-a-pint yellow puddlewater you'd find on a city break stag weekend - Bruges beer is a different proposition altogether. It's an expensive, refined liquid gold that tastes unlike any beer you've ever had in your life. And it's stronger, much stronger, than anything you get back home. This isn't the kind of beer you drink ten pints of, garnish with a kebab and regurgitate on the taxi home. Bruges beer demands your respect. It grabs hold of your tongue and holds it to ransom. Failure to appendage Bruges beer the correct amount of deference will find you in a very precarious position indeed. I should know.

I get out of bed and take a look out of my window. I don't feel ready to go outside yet. Bruges is a city of unspeakable beauty, and I wouldn't feel right throwing up all over it. I don't use the term “unspeakable beauty” lightly, either. I mean exactly that – Bruges is such a beautiful place that I can't physically put pen to paper without feeling like I'm underselling it in some way. Being sick on Bruges' magnificent streets would be like pouring wet cement on a kitten. My brain flickers into 'Hangover Survival Mode' and, after a glass of water, I go on the hunt for something to eat.

In the hotel reception I speak to an unfathomably nice man who either has anosmia or completely ignores the fact I stink of alcohol and misery. He tells me that the hotel doesn't serve food, but circles places to eat on a map he magically produces from thin air. He makes a point of telling me “French fries” were actually made in Belgium. I have no idea how he manages to crowbar this into our conversation, but I think it's wonderful that he seems to have made it his duty to tell the world. A one man crusade against an improperly named chip.

Stepping outside and the fresh Flemish morning air caresses my face. I can smell waffles. I look to my right and there's a small cafe with hundreds of them in the window. And they're enormous – you can get one the size of a child's head for less than five Euros. I order a Belgian waffle and a coffee, feeling ratified in my decision as soon as I bite down through the sweet, crispy, honeycomb outer layer and into a waffle unlike anything I've ever tasted. I take a sip of my coffee. Black one sugar, in case you were wondering. I try to remember what happened last night, how did I end up here?