When I first arrived in Brussels, I had planned to walk around the city itself that Sunday morning before heading to the airport for my flight to Barcelona. Each of the next three days, however, I rode on a tour bus through the majority of the city, two tours to the north and one to the south, with guides who gave fantastic information about the sites we saw along the way, far more than I had access to in a simple self-guided walking tour. I decided on the evening of day 15, only a day prior, to mix things up and head to Waterloo. I had considered visiting the historically important city when planning the trip but had decided against it when I could not find a decent guided tour on viator. When the guide on Friday’s tour mentioned the massive independence day-type celebrations that would fill the capital city on Sunday, that confirmed my decision. I would much rather stand where history happened than struggle to find it while squashed between thousands of celebrating Belgians.
So, Sunday morning I packed up and headed to the closest train station, just a few blocks beyond the tour office. As I walked through Grand Place one last time, I lingered to soak in the historical significance before continuing towards the train station. I passed another small square, trapezoid shape really, with a fascinating old man statue anchoring the center.
As I glimpsed him, I smiled at the memory of the prior evening when a band of four extremely talented similarly aged gentlemen captivated my attention and the attention of quite a few others with their masterful performance. I last passed an old church, the Church of St Mary Magdalene built in the 13th century on the foundations of an earlier church likely built by the Knights Templar. Since I did not have a strict timetable in the morning, I slowed down to circle the church and take in the history, my heart breaking a little when I saw the makeshift tents set up in the grass beside the church, marginally protected from the elements by a high wall forming the road I walked on.
Once at the train station, just across the block from the church, I headed down to the luggage storage area to store my bag only to have to trek back up to the first level to find a cash point. Thus began a short series of bumbling attempts to get my bag stored and ticket purchased. I could find no cash point in the station so I trekked back all the way past the tour office to find a cash point. Then, the self-serve ticket machine did not want to work for me so after trying a couple different machines, I ended up at the ticket window to purchase my round trip fare. Lastly, I got mildly turned around trying to find the correct platform but I made it.
The ride itself took little time although I felt a bit nervous when it came time to get off the train and I did so alone; no one else joined me at the stop which surprised me. I expected to see at least a few other tourists head into the city itself but chalked up the lack of other visitors to the day of the week, Sunday, and the fact that most tourists likely went to the memorial sit by the Lion’s Butte, the Memorial Waterloo 1815.
I had some of the directions on a screenshot but when I made my way out of the small station, I doubted these directions and walked down the wrong street for about a block before realizing that I should have gone the other way. Once on the correct road, I enjoyed my Sunday stroll seeing few other people. I think I saw two on the whole of this 1km walk. Of course, the enjoyment eventually wore off and caused me to wonder if I had chosen the wrong road after all. I kept walking while searching for free wifi to double check. Turns out, by the time I connected to wifi I had only a block more to go. I had worried for nothing, something I have an annoying tendency to do.
Once in the “center” of the “city,” I had to find the Wellington Museum, purportedly located in the boarding house Wellington made his headquarters prior to the pivotal battle. Since I could not find it, I waited a few minutes for the tourist office to open. I did it again. The museum I desired? All I had to do was walk across the street.
When I entered the museum through a small gift shop, the only other person in the building, the museum attendant and shop clerk, appeared surprised. I wonder how many people actually visit. After I purchased an 1815 pass which provided entry to the Wellington Museum, the official Memorial sit, as well as the site of Napoleon’s headquarters (which I did not have time to travel to and visit), I headed into the museum itself as the only visitor the entire time.
This particular museum had eight fairly spartan rooms, most of them holding battle maps from various stages of the battle. I soon found myself bored with those and moved quickly into the two rooms that held interest.
One room held the bed where Alexander Gordon, a high ranking officer under Wellington, died from a mortal battlefield wound. The other held the furnishings, bed and desk, of the Admiral himself. (It also held a rather creepy life-sized doll/figurine of Wellington sitting at the desk but I chose to ignore that.)
Small signs asked the visitor to refrain from touching the pieces but I could not help myself. I had to reach out my hand and touch the desk where Admiral Lord Wellington crafted the plans that delivered a final defeat to Napoleon. I loved this room, this room where history surrounded and enveloped me. That simple hand on the desk helped connect me in a way I struggle to put into words.
After finishing the first part of my visit, I walked back across the street to the visitor’s center to get their help figuring out how to get out to the Memorial. The helpful attendant got me a bus schedule and pointed out which bus i needed. I got to wait half an hour for the bus with entertainment. The church next to the visitor center, a historic church built in the 18th centuries, had a full parking lot when I passed by earlier. The service must have ended while I waited for the bus as people began to exit the building yet in a way that drew the attention of passersby and the handful of people waiting at the bus stop, including myself. The people who exited the church carried themselves with regal bearing while wearing ceremonial sashes. On either side stood men in dress uniform. Remembering the historical significance of the day, I wondered if I had stumbled across a ceremony involving the King and Queen of Belgium. Alas, a Google search that evening disproved my theory of possible royal sightings and left me perpetually in wonder about the ceremony I witnessed.
This potentially royal distraction helped pass the time until the bus’ arrival. I rode the bus until the stop the visitor center employee indicated and disembarked with a few other tourists.
We still had a short walk to reach the museum entrance with the Lion’s Butte, an artificial hill created to memorialize the wounding of William II in the battle of Waterloo, a musket ball hit him in the shoulder and knocked him from his horse although he eventually recovered and ruled the Netherlands for quite a while after the death of his father, William I, the commissioner, viewable behind the museum building. As I gazed around at the surrounding memorialized history, I knew I had made the right decision.
Once inside the museum, I quickly realized that I could spend hours checking out every nook and cranny, listening to every number on the audioguide but that would take hours beyond the time I had left before I needed to get back to Brussels for my flight to Barcelona.
This well-crafted museum had what I will call a “condensed” version of their audio guide that would take the visitor on the most direct path. I followed this path, making my way through the exhibits at a much faster clip than many other visitors while still taking in everything I possibly could. My favorite part of the museum came at the end with the panorama.
Painted in 1912, the panorama depicts the tragedy of the battlefield with 14 canvas panels stitched together into a 360 degree painting viewed from a second story platform. In addition to the painting itself, the display includes three dimensional elements at the base between the viewing platform and the bottom of the painting obscuring the edge of the canvas and creating a fully immersive experience. Constant audio fo battle sounds such as gunshots, cannons, shouts, and horses whinnies enhance the sensory experience.
After purchasing souvenirs back at the shop entrance, I headed to the Lion’s Butte and climbed the 226 steps to the top. Once there I paused to regain my breath and then slowly circled the Lion statue placed on a pedestal lifting it even higher and holding my breath after I passed a few people who decided to pollute their air and their lungs with cigarettes.
Once back on level ground, I circled the base of the Butte before turning towards the bus stop and the return journey back to Brussels.
From this point, things start to get interesting and by interesting I mean stressful. First, I discovered that the next bus would not come for half an hour if it arrived on time; I could walk back faster. So I did. Then I had to wait for the train back to Brussels. When the station attendant closed up the station and left at 2pm on the dot, I sincerely hoped he had told me the proper platform since no one else remained to ask. The presence of about 30 other people waiting with me did provide some comfort. The train finally arrived. I had enough time to board, use the restroom, and check the display of upcoming stops before seeing to my horror that this train headed in the opposite direction as Brussels. I got quite a few funny looks when I dashed off at the next stop with the intention of sprinting up the stairs, crossing the bridge and reaching the other side of the platform so I could catch the train headed in the supposedly correct direction. I paused to double check the printed timetable at the top of the stairs. I really panicked then. I had gotten on the right train after all. No wonder all those people stared at the crazy tourist getting off the train at a stop for a parochial small town in the Belgian countryside. A glitch in the display system fooled me and now I had to wait an hour until the next train, an hour in rural Belgium with no way of confirming anything or figuring out for sure whether or not I would miss my plane.
Thankfully, that day’s travel woes ended once the next train arrived. I made it safely back to Brussels, retrieved my bag, arrived at the airport with a comfortable margin (although not quite as comfortable as I had originally planned) and onto my Barcelona destined plane. Phew! I hadn’t planned for all those adventures but I made it through and finally, after twelve years of dreaming, finally made it to Spain.