16 April. I’m up at seven, or just after. I eat another grapefruit, pinch a German’s coffee, put on the same clothes, borrow a squeeze of toothpaste. My tram is at 7.50am. I should leave the flat at 7.40am. Clara was quite clear about it. I leave the flat at 7.45am. I miss the tram. The service is irregular and infrequent because Jesus was crucified today. If I wait for the next tram I’ll miss my train. I have to walk, and quickly. The streets are quiet: barely breathing, still stirring, putting the kettle on. I’m the only thing moving. My footsteps wake up the birds. How rare to walk through the middle of a city and hear birds singing. I arrive at the station with just a few minutes to spare. People are running for the Brussels train. A tall official says to buy a ticket on board.

The guard wants €70 for the 90-minute journey. It was advertised at half the price online. The guard is Belgian but sounds like someone from Birmingham. His grandfather was English, he says. My grandfather was Irish, I say, but I don’t sound like someone from Galway. Then maybe you didn’t listen to your grandfather as I did, he says. I say: ‘Look, seeing as we’re getting on so well, how about we take a look at that price you quoted. It’s a bit steep, isn’t it?’ He agrees that it is, but insists I cough up.

The landscape is nice as we approach Liege. I’m at an advantage: the railway is raised here, expanding the scene, pushing back the horizon. The city is done in brick around a river, set among low hills. If it had a cricket pitch it could pass for Durham. Continental goods go by in freight containers – croissants, sprouts, bratwurst, vodka, fresh copies of Le Monde. The green and yellow fields bring the trams of Poznań to mind – that wouldn’t have happened a year ago. A young man gets on with a cheeseburger. He doesn’t want to buy a ticket, and I don’t blame him. He tells the guard he hasn’t got money or identification, says in French that he lives in Rome, near the Colosseum. Fair play to him.

Brussels. I have four hours before I need to move on towards the coast. I want to visit the European Union. I want to meet a bureaucrat. I’ve heard so much about them. I’m anticipating somebody broad-shouldered – you’d have to be to get in the way of so much. I want to tell them they’re famous, that their tape is legend. I want to see the infamous law-making machine in action, fat on stolen power, swollen with ill-gotten sovereignty. I want to see where the undemocratic EU Council meets (the Council is the 28 elected Heads of State). I want to see where the undemocratic EU Commission meets (the Commission is the 28 representatives appointed by the elected Heads of State). I want to see where the undemocratic EU Parliament meets (the Parliament is the elected MEPs). I want to see where Tusk and Juncker and all the other members of the EU brass band lounge on beds stolen from NHS hospitals, where they rejoice on thrones made of pure regulation, wiping their ever closer bottoms with sheets of unearned cash, and laughing, laughing that they get away with it, get away with pumping out the thick bureaucratic fog that has settled over the continent of Europe, from Stettin on the Baltic to Trieste on the Adriatic, the better to obscure its institutional evil. If I reach the EU and see a thousand humble souls pretending to toil so Europe might tick over smoothly, fairly, peacefully, boringly, I will call them out. I will tell them what they really are, which is mean, spendthrift, socialist, capitalist, fat-cat, paper-pushing, bone-idle jobsworths bent on ever closer union, when what we all really want is ever more distant disunity, to be a continent of lone rangers, lone strangers, because there is safety in isolation (everyone knows that), and joy in solitude. I want to go up there and have a chat with a low-ranking Europhile so I can put a face – just one – to the headlines. And then I want to stamp on that face, like Big Brother, forever, because I want Britain to be great again, and the only way that will happen is if it trades with New Zealand.

I study a map outside the station. I can’t find the EU: maybe it’s in hiding. Across the street is The Museum of Absence. Britain will be in there soon, a headline exhibit, the great absent nation of Britain, last seen getting its knickers in a twist circa 2016. I enter Twin’s Bar for advice.

‘Parlez-vous l’anglais?’ I say.

‘Oui! I mean yes.’

‘Where is the European Union?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh.’

‘But wait. Wait here. Okay? Somebody must know.’

I am on the metro, because somebody did know. We pull into a station; the doors open; a person pops their head in and asks in Dutch where the train is going. I panic and just point, which isn’t especially useful, but they get on anyway. Detail doesn’t seem to matter to this traveller: I like his style.

 

I know a bit about the European Union. It wasn’t easy to acquire the knowledge, and nor was it a terrific amount of fun. I bought A Very Short Introduction to the EU, hoping for a page-turner. The book begins with a four-page glossary of acronyms – EDC, CJHA, BRIC, EAGGF, QMV, ERM, TSCG – which the reader is encouraged to learn before going any further. After the glossary there’s a few pages of charts, then some maps, and then a list of numbers to call in an emergency, if you suddenly feel suicidal for example. Only then do we get to the first chapter, ‘What the EU is for.’ The authors might have done well to put that at the front. In any case, I got through it. Here are my top eight things about the EU.

I emerge from the underground. It’s oddly quiet, given that I’m in the thick of the EU Quarter. I try the information point but it’s closed. Through the window I can see a pile of souvenir tea-towels patterned with the heads of 50 key bureaucrats, a sort of Who’s Who of the EU’s top brass that you can wipe your hands with. I wander over to the entrance of the Commission building. It’s as dead as a doornail. Sod’s law that the one day I choose to visit the EU the damn thing is shut. There’s a beggar sat outside the building, probably thinking the same thing. He’s bearing a cardboard plea in four languages. He could appeal in ten for all the good it would do him. ‘Fuck TTIP’ has been scrawled on a lamppost. That’s the sort of graffiti you get around here: attacks on acronyms.

I go to a pub across the road called Kitty O’Shea’s. The pub is empty but for an old man having a quiet pint. I take a seat at the bar and finger a newspaper. It appears Manchester United couldn’t get past Anderlecht last night in the European Cup: not the only British outfit struggling to break a deadlock in Brussels. Also on the front page is a security warning in light of the Dortmund bus bombing, and a discount voucher for a jar of bolognese sauce. The barman is Hungarian. He supports Viktor Orban, the Hungarian Prime Minister. ‘Orban is very hard. He will call a spade a spade to its face. He is like this. He has delivered economic growth and social improvement, but the media only shows what he says to the spade, you know?’ Reading between the lines, I’d say the spade the barman’s referring to is the number of migrants and asylum seekers entering Hungary. I point to the solitary suit in the corner. ‘He used to work at the Commission,’ says the barman. ‘He resigned years ago. Now he just hangs around.’

 

I’m on the train to Blankenberge, a small coastal town close to the ferry port at Zeebrugge. When I look out the window the land reminds me increasingly of England. I suppose they were of a piece once, before water came between them. The bright sky adds life to the ongoing scene: it burnishes, enlivens, adds lustre to what is lugubrious. Can a landscape be lugubrious?

Seaside air smells of the gas given off by ocean-dwelling bacteria feeding on dead seaweed. Unrelatedly, the first thing I hear in Blankenberge is: ‘Her bucket list is so damn long I think it might kill me.’ There’s philosophy in that complaint, I’m sure. I call at tourist information. I ask about the local mood regarding Britain’s departure.

‘We all know the EU’s not perfect but you carry on. Like in a marriage. Countries are less intelligent on their own and more dramatic. Britain has always been less committed. It is naturally detached. That might explain its decision, but it doesn’t excuse it. If a country is naturally detached, it has more use for bridges.’ I can’t argue with that.

The main street is a pedestrianised affair, which is fine if you like pedestrians. It runs from the railway station to the sea. It hosts an odd demographic: tourists on the one hand, fumbling about as per the terms of their bucket list, and beggars on the other, wishing they had a list, or a bucket even. The beach is nice and sandy. There are some bars and a bank of naval-gazing hotels, stretched out in uniform, a mile either side of the pier. This is the end of continental Europe. I should probably get on a knee and contemplate – about end points, thresholds, and their relation to my story and so on – but am keen to eat something, so do that instead. I eat a waffle and it reminds me of the Paris metro, where you can get waffles from the platform vending machines for a euro a piece. The server is Italian. I ask him a question, for the heck of it.

‘Why did you move here?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How long will you stay?’

‘A long time.’

Although unlikely to win any literary awards, the exchange pleases me. I recognise the casual mixture of ignorance and certainty in the face of a large existential question, but I can’t say where from.

I hop on the tram that runs along the front to the ferry port. I speak to a pair of Canadians. They’re on a cruise, like most folks in town. The boat sailed out of Florida, heads for Porto this evening, before rounding the corner and entering the Mediterranean, where it will call at Malta and Nice and Naples. Telling me this, they don’t seem too enthused about it all. I suggest as much. She yawns, then shrugs. ‘I just wish Europe were closer.’ I know the feeling.

It’s not easy to walk to a ferry. There’s no apparent footpath, and I don’t want to get squashed by lorries, so I drop into a wine bar for instruction. The bar is empty but for its tall handsome barman and a glamorous woman perched beneath his hungry eyes on the other side of the counter. The conversation I have just interrupted did not, I fancy, have to do with what a nice guy the woman’s husband is. It more likely had to do with what flavour ice-cream they most want to lick off each other. I ask the barman in Dutch if he speaks English. He replies in French that he doesn’t but she does. She looks at me, removes an olive stone from her mouth, hands it to the barman, and says, ‘What’s up?’ I tell her that I want to get on the boat. She says, drily, ‘That’s interesting, because you don’t look like a refugee?’ She enjoys her joke – which is quite a good one, seeing as it was off the cuff – then says there’s nothing for it but to follow the traffic.

Before making my way to the ferry, I take a quick walk on the seawall. Back in the good old days, when the countries of Europe had a gorgeous amount of sovereignty and borders were delightfully stiff, thousands died hereabouts during the Zeebrugge Raid. The First World War operation was meant to block the canal that led inland to the German U-boat facility at Bruges, and thereby hinder the German war effort. The idea was to sink a couple of obsolete Royal Navy warships in the entrance to the canal so they got in the way. I don’t think the operation went entirely to plan. I’d love to elaborate on the detail but I can’t, because I don’t know it, so we’ll have to assume that it was six of one and half-a-dozen of the other and that if either side claimed a victory, it was almost certainly a pyrrhic one: nobody wins in war, it’s just a matter of how much you lose.89

From the seawall there’s no obvious way of joining the dual-carriageway that leads to the ferry. In the end, I have to hop over a fence then scramble down a dusty hill, before proceeding in the cycle lane. I come to a sign that says: ‘HULL THIS WAY’. Normally such a sign would deter me, but not today. I continue for five minutes until I reach the terminal. I approach a counter to check in. I say bonjour. She says, ‘No need for that, pet.’

All the crew speak with Yorkshire accents, which is to their advantage. It’s a disarming accent. It’s the sound of Alan Bennett and Geoffrey Boycott. I can’t imagine anyone with a Yorkshire accent doing something unkind or criminal, though I’m sure plenty do, including Bennett and Boycott. It’s an unmistakable feeling, boarding a big passenger ferry. So different to boarding a train or plane. There’s just so much space. Apart from in my cabin, that is. In short, it’s small – the size of a big cupboard. No sea view, which is a bit of a shock. You don’t mind if you don’t get one at a hotel but you do rather expect to get one on a boat.

I buy a coffee then take it onto the viewing deck, where a Mancunian bloke is explaining the history of Dunkirk to his hungover mates. They’ve been to the football, to the Anderlecht match that finished in a draw. Calais is further along the coast, I suppose. Is that ‘jungle’ still there? (How did they ever get away with calling it a jungle, by the way?) The last I heard it had been destroyed, and its inhabitants transported to start new lives somewhere else. The existence of the camp on the North French coast suggests that England was the migrants’ destination of choice. Having made it that far – to Europe, to France, to North France – you’d think they’d be exhausted and unwilling to go further, and would just claim asylum there, as is their right. And yet they are willing to push on. I wonder why? What have they been told? Why go after the island off the coast of continental Europe, when it’s no more amenable to unexpected arrivals than anywhere else, if not less so? Is there a sort of British Dream doing the rounds? A set of notions and fantasies that Britain is soft and warm and doughy? That dream – if it exists – is a lie. Britain just voted to leave the EU because it wants to control its borders. The British government wants to cut legal immigration numbers by over 200 per cent, to say nothing of what it wants to do to ‘illegal’ immigration. I suppose the migrants might have family and friends already in the UK, with whom they desire to be reunited. At all events, their desperation is plain, no matter its motivation. To be so desperate that you will sleep rough and risk your life is categorically a pitiable situation, deserving of remedy, not that I’ve done anything about it.

I go to one of the lounges, take a seat near the window. A man with thick, grey, shoulder-length hair makes rough notes in his broadsheet as he gulps prosecco, circling cabinet ministers he’d like to hit, shares he might dabble in. There’s a small stage at the end of the lounge. A man gets on it to announce there’ll be bingo later followed by a disco. Blow me, I think. Bingo and a disco. I wasn’t counting on that. I quite like the idea of bingo. It’s a decent amusement. Plus I could do with a windfall, given that I’m just about skint. I look out the window. The water is brown. Seagulls tail the boat – for fun, I fancy – doing loops and dives. A singer with a guitar takes to the stage. He’s in his forties, has a soft, high voice. You might get him in for a funeral, or a wake, or both if his rates are reasonable. When he sings ‘To Love Somebody’ by The Bee Gees my eyes warm up, get heavy. That song is emotive for me. Something about the strain in their voices, the sincerity, the way the song rises and falls is reliably upsetting, but not in an unpleasant way.

I go through to the cheaper restaurant and have a bowl of soup. The restaurant is managed by João, who is two weeks on, two weeks off. João is from Portugal, now lives in Hull. ‘It’s alright two weeks a month,’ he says, ‘but I don’t think I could do it full time.’ I don’t know if he’s talking about working on the boat or living in Hull. My waiter is Bruno, also Portuguese. Bruno looks like a young George Michael, which is good for him.

‘Mr Benjamin! Is the soup going well?’ I assure him it is. ‘And the tap water also?’ Equally, Bruno. It is announced over the public-address system that the ship’s balls are ready to drop. Interested parties are invited to the main lounge. I’ll be damned if I miss the bingo, so I hastily finish and settle the bill.

I go up to the guy selling the coupons.

‘Just the one?’ he says.

‘Five, please.’

‘Five? Does your mother know about this?’

I hand over the cash, he hands over the coupons.

‘How do you do it again?’ I say.

‘You are kidding?’

‘Well I’ve got an idea, but—’

‘Flippin’ ’eck, son. I’ve been doing this for reet ten year and you’re the first to ask how to play bingo. Where yer from, flower?’

‘Portsmouth.’

‘Pompey? That’ll explain it. That’ll be why there’s nowt in that ’ead of yours. Look, I call the number and if you see it on your ticket you cross it off. Nowt to it. First to cross out all the numbers in a box shouts bingo. Naw then, go and sit down yonder, and see if you get jammy. Okay, flower? Off you go.’

I play anxiously, intently, alone. When someone wins the line, which offers a smaller cash prize, I’m nowhere near. All of my crosses are evenly spread over the lines and boxes, when what you want, I sense, is for a concentration of the buggers. Several balls in a row land in the top of my five boxes, and I’m back in the running. Then the bingo caller says that he really must visit the bathroom. There are a few tuts and moans but mostly people are sympathetic. When the caller returns he reels off half-a-dozen balls without fuss or decoration. 56, 72, 74, 25, 6, 8, 88. One of the Manchester lads feeds pound coins into an unhealthy fruit machine. The sound of his bad luck is the only noise in the room save the caller. 24, 26, 13. I need 1 and that’s it. What if I win? Make yourself known, the caller had said. But how? 12, 2, 1. When I jump to my feet I knock my knee on the table and upset my drink. ‘Mam to!’ I shriek instinctively in Polish, I have it!

‘We have a claim!’ says the caller. ‘Or at least I think we do.’

The caller checks my ticket. The other players hope I’ve made a mistake. But I haven’t. The numbers add up. I’ve won. The caller gives me 50 quid in a little brown envelope. I’m ready to give a small speech. Returning to my seat, I say to the Dutch couple next to me, ‘That’s the first time I’ve won a bloody thing in my whole life,’ but they merely nod indulgently. The caller withdraws backstage and then returns moments later as DJ Yorkie. I love the man. He starts with Paul Young’s ‘Wherever I Lay My Hat’ – which I love – then moves on to Bob Marley, Jerry Rafferty, Blondie. I enjoy it all, softly basking in my hard-earned victory. I know bingo is far from a meritocratic competition, and that I shouldn’t read too much into my success, but still, I can’t help but experience a significant self-esteem boost. Reflecting on my departure from Belgium and my immediate windfall, I decide that maybe leaving Europe isn’t such a bad idea after all.

89 For your information, the British plan was to wait until the wind was right and then set up a smokescreen. The next job was to park HMS Vindictive – a massive warship – next to the heavily-armed seawall that protected the harbour (the mole), not easy to do discreetly and without incident. Once parked, some Royal Marines would get on the wall and fight the Germans and hopefully take the position. During the fighting on the mole, three old cruisers (blockships) would stealthily tiptoe around the back, get themselves into the mouth of the canal, and then sink themselves, but not before their crews had sodded off on smaller accompanying vessels. That was the plan. In the event, a few things went wrong. First, Vindictive struggled to park close to the mole, which made it difficult for her men to get onto the mole and encounter the Germans. Second, there was a fully-loaded German ship on the other side of the mole that wasn’t supposed to be there. Third, the wind changed and the smokescreen lifted, meaning the old cruisers trying to sneak round the back got a lot more attention than was ideal, with the result that they weren’t scuttled in the perfect spots and therefore didn’t do a great job of blocking the canal. All in all, 600 people lost their lives.