gheluwe

Updated: May 10, 2025

One morning we halted at a small village called Gheluwe, where the train stopped beside a white-washed wall, and everyone got out, as the custom is. There seemed no reason for stopping here, for we were at some distance from the village, the spire of which could be seen above a belt of heavy trees ahead. The morning was somewhat chilly, and the only other occupant of the compartment was a young cleric with a soiled white necktie. He puffed away comfortably at a very thin, long, and evil-smelling "stogie" which he seemed to enjoy immensely, and which in the Flemish manner he seemed to eat as he smoked, eyeing us the while amicably though absent mindedly, as if we were far removed from his vicinity. As we neared the stopping place, two very jolly young farmer boys raced with the train in their quaint barrow-like wagon painted a bright green, and drawn by a pair of large dogs who foamed and panted past us "ventre

George Wharton Edwards - Vanished towers and chimes of Flanders