Good news everyone! I’ve found the prettiest place on Earth. It’s in Belgium – who’d a thunk it? It’s a splendid little city called Bruges, and there are three reasons it is great: culture, beer and chocolate.

First, the culture: there isn’t any! Well, that’s a bit unfair. But I checked it out, dear reader, so that you may be spared. There is an art gallery with some paintings in it, and an old nunnery that is historically interesting, but really, if you’ve made it as far as Bruges, you’ve seen better of both, so you can rest assured you are not missing much if you just focus on the beer and chocolate.

Bruges has been called the Venice of the north, but stay a while, and you’ll think of that Italian city as the Bruges of the south. Bruges has canals, bridges and such pretty buildings that you’ll want to become a painter. It doesn’t stink or have that mildewy feel that permeates Venice, and it isn’t plugged up with wide-load American tourists trundling along its narrow streets.

It is just along the road from the impressively ugly port of Zeebrugge on the North Sea, which is why I went – I was living in Edinburgh at the time, and thought a passage aboard the Superfast Ferry from Scotland to Belgium would be a lot of fun. About the ferry, I was wrong. Super fast?

Compared to what, crawling there? A 17-hour journey on a dark sea is not fun, and sleeping on the “airline-style” chairs makes you think you have angered George Bush and are being treated to an “extraordinary rendition.” I confessed to being an Al-Qaida member around three in the morning, when I was failing to fall asleep with my legs folded lotus-like over my head and my head buried in the back of the seat.

A word of advice for poor backpackers travelling overnight on ferries: find the children’s playroom. Sleep there. The floors are soft, it is quiet, and no one will go there after 9 p.m.

So, you can see why I was so keen for the beer when I unfolded myself and staggered into Bruges. Sitting in a splendid courtyard, the first one I ordered (there are more than 400 varieties in Belgium) was the manly sounding kriek beer. The waiter produced a big red drink in a glass, with a little umbrella. Turns out “kriek” means “cherry.” I was alarmed, and feared for my safety. I was living in Britain at the time, where many a man’s last words are, “I’ll just have a half pint.” A deathly silence follows, and then, terrible screaming.

But apparently, on the Continent, it’s OK for guys to drink pretty drinks – and my heavens, it was good. When I tired of its sweet loveliness, I moved along to the blonde beers which, apparently, gentlemen prefer. I got stuck on the cloudy joy of Leffe Blonde. After that, well, after that, everything’s a bit cloudy.

The next day, I wandered back into town to resume my sampling, when I went weak at the knees. When I swoon, it’s usually for a lady, but in this case, it was … well, OK, it was a woman, but it was the chocolatier she was operating that had me drooling. Think Juliette Binoche in Chocolate. I bought as much as I could carry and headed to my favourite café, which sits gorgeously in a grassy area next to a canal. I ordered one of the Trappist beers, and let the monks taje my taste buds to paradise.

First published in the Halifax Daily News September 1 2007