I don’t know where we’ve ended up, but it seems to be a fascinating place. Yesterday evening I was alone on a small stroll through Bergues – little more than a concentrated cluster of mostly old brick buildings that form the historic core. Lined up like firmly glued dominoes; if you were to pull one of them out, I could bet that all the others would collapse. I am impressed and moved by not few of these venerable buildings.

I am alone and enjoying the last rays of sunshine of the ending day after all the rain we had in Brittany this past week. By chance, I stumble right into a bicycle race in the town center, where a large group of cyclists races past me at breakneck speed. This is something that has always fascinated me here in France: this great passion people have for cycling, which is shared by a broad cross-section of the population throughout the country. It’s no coincidence that this is the country where the Tour de France originates.

An enthusiastic voice echoes from a microphone through the narrow alleys. I follow it until I arrive at the wide square in the town center, where a crowd has gathered, awaiting the cyclists with great atmosphere. I watch the spectacle for a while and then continue wandering through the streets with their deep history, which I can only sense and which is frozen in time through fascinating architecture. But what takes my breath away is the imposing architecture of the Église catholique Saint-Martin à Bergues. Unfortunately, I can no longer enter it today, but a visit is now at the top of my list.

Something about this place reminds me of cities in Belgium, although I’ve never been there and have only ever driven through. One has such notions about certain countries, cobbled together from a TV show, a film, or elsewhere. This is surely also because Belgium is only a stone’s throw away from here and because this part belongs to Flanders, which France shares with Belgium. Green patches of forest keep appearing, radiating a wonderful tranquility.

At the periphery, where the streets become wider, there are more modern buildings. Most without any charm, especially when the facades have already been marked by the first rain with black streaks. My eye cannot bear it. On the other side, however, in the small patch of forest – which has remained as the last remnant of true nature in this area and has thus been placed under protection with all state power and supervision – there the old walls, or rather their remains, are covered with densely overgrown bushes and branches. It is a beautiful sight that triggers something peaceful within me. Perhaps it’s the certainty that nature reclaims all that we have taken from it. I somehow like that.