1936 On the Continent

live content in a peaceful world.”
    “I’ve always liked olive branches,” said Muriel.
Zeebrugge
    “Let’s forget about serious things for the moment. I promised to see to it that you enjoyed your holiday. If, however, you wish to visit the battlefields, which are quite close, you will find many charabanc services that will take you round them in half a day. Almost everywhere new buildings have sprung up to hide the old skeletons of wall and gaping windows. In some places, however, they have kept reminders of those old miseries. Here on the coast is Zeebrugge, which was the German submarine base during the War. It was here, on the Mole, that the British fleet blocked the channel by sinking two ships weighted with cement. Not only with cement, since the crews perished too, meeting death with open eyes and willingly. It was perhaps the most heroic action of that grim period, since it was done deliberately and of set purpose. An imposing monument and a war museum keep fresh the memory of this deed.
    “Nieuport, Dixmude and Ypres, which were entirely burnt down during the War, are rebuilt now, but keep here and there some ruin in testimony of their destruction. At Ypres you will see the impressive British monumenterected to commemorate the 54,000 British soldiers who fell defending the town, and whose bodies have not been recovered. It is there that every night silver bugles sound the ‘Last Post’—in honour of the dead heroes.”
    Muriel was silent for a moment.
    “You’re very hard on wars, and you are right. This is the spot where the futility of this slaughter is most acutely felt. During the great War the dead numbered ten millions and the expenses amounted to ten billions of francs. When you see to what purpose all this has been spent, you are more than ever convinced, of the futility of it all and realise that it is your duty to oppose in every Way those who think we should go through it all again. And I’ve not mentioned the twenty-nine millions of wounded and disabled, the nine million orphans, the five million widows, and the great moral distress that weighs down so many whose lives have been bereft of love and countless splendid reasons, for living.”
    “Let’s leave this place, my dear, and let’s go to Dixmude, where stands the mightiest war monument raised in Belgium, the famous ‘Tower of the Yser,’ fifty metres high, put up by the Flemish to commemorate all the war heroes—those that fell on both sides. Graven into the stone in four languages are the words: ‘N O M ORE W AR. ’”
    “No more war! That is the oath taken every year at the Dixmude Pilgrimage (on the first Sunday after August 15th) by more than 100,000 Flemings gathered at the foot of this tower and hailing from all parts of the country. It is the greatest and most moving manifestation in favour of peace that we have in Belgium.”
The “Penitents”
    On our way back from this pious pilgrimage to the War sites we passed through Furnes, a picturesque little medieval town, where on the last Sunday in July the “Penitents’ Procession” goes forth. The Penitents of Furnes walk in their long robes, their faces veiled in cowled hoods, and bearing heavy wooden crosses. It is a sight not to be missed if one is in the neighbourhood.
    Then, back at our hotel once more, we set out for a last walk along the beach. We had a glimpse of theever-changing and moving North Sea, gleaming like burnished copper under the sun’s last rays. A host of fishing sails and sea-gulls’ wings swayed across the horizon, vying with one another in gracefulness.
Bruges and Flanders
    “I’d not miss seeing Bruges for anything,” said Muriel.
    “And I certainly wouldn’t miss the pleasure of showing it to you for anything, either,” I replied.
    Bruges is quite close to the coast. Trains and buses take you there in twenty minutes. Here we are. Hotel first: there are many first-class hotels here (we’ll choose the Memlinc, on the Market Place, or the Cornet d’Or, facing a delightful old-world square, or the Hotel de Londres or the Hôtel Verriest).
    Bruges is the most beautiful town in Belgium; not the largest, nor the most brilliant; nor yet the gayest, but the most wonderful by reason of its splendid buildings. It is a very small town, one of the oldest in Belgium, and in several places it has kept unchanged its medieval atmosphere. A seven-hundred-year-old tune floats from the belfry tower, where the ancient carillon rings out across