The Belfry of Bruges

The Belfry of Bruges: just say the words and you can almost hear the bells echoing through the cobbled streets, like a chorus of bronze ghosts rehearsing for eternity. It’s one of those towering medieval timepieces that looks like it might sprout wings and fly off into some Flemish fairytale, a stony phoenix rising above waffle stands and selfie sticks. And believe it or not, it’s not just a pretty stone spire for tourists to admire between bites of speculoos. This thing has stories. Layers. Secrets. Centuries of civic gossip built into every brick. So let’s have a long, leisurely wander through some of the most interesting facts and outright myths about the Belfry of Bruges, where history occasionally takes liberties, local folklore runs wild, and the truth is always better with a touch of theatrical flair.

First off, the Belfry isn’t just tall. It’s heroically, slightly arrogantly tall at 83 metres, which in the flatlands of Flanders is practically a skyscraper. And to make things even more fun, it leans ever so slightly to one side like a drunk nobleman trying to keep his dignity at the town fair. No, really – the tower leans about a metre to the east, which is probably why so many painters depicted it as tipsy long before we called that sort of thing expressionism.

Its origins go all the way back to the 13th century, when Bruges was flexing hard as a major trading power. The tower originally served as a combo platter of watchtower, treasury, bell tower, archive and medieval office block. All the important city documents lived here, alongside the bells and civic bigwigs. It was basically the Dropbox of the Middle Ages, except prone to fire, collapsing staircases, and rats with a suspicious interest in municipal records.

Speaking of fire – because apparently, no medieval story is complete without things catching fire – the Belfry has suffered three big, blaze-of-glory infernos in its lifetime. The first, in 1280, swallowed the original wooden spire like a matchstick in a furnace. The second, in 1493, arrived like a sequel nobody asked for, torching archives and hearts alike. The third, in 1741, was less dramatic but no less destructive. Since then, the tower’s upper crown has been replaced and redesigned more times than a celebrity’s hairstyle.

Now, let’s talk bells. There are 47 of them, and together they make up a carillon that would make Quasimodo pack up his Notre-Dame résumé and relocate. These bells have been serenading Bruges with everything from sacred hymns to medieval bangers since the 16th century. And here’s the kicker: they’re still played live. Yes, in this digital age of streaming and algorithmic playlists, a real human – a carillonneur – climbs the 366 steps each week to hammer out tunes by hand. No Bluetooth, no AI, just some Flemish muscle and musical finesse.

Not everyone in Bruges is equally fond of the bells. One old local legend tells of a monk who tried to silence them by stuffing his ears with beeswax and chanting psalms until he fainted. Obviously, it didn’t work. But you’ve got to admire the commitment to peace and quiet.

And speaking of those steps – 366 of them, spiralling up in increasingly narrow and claustrophobic coils – the view from the top is worth every single one. From up there, you can see the whole of Bruges spread out like a gingerbread diorama: gabled roofs, winding canals, lazy cyclists, and swans doing swan things. It’s all so picturesque it feels suspiciously like a movie set. Which, at times, it is.

Now here’s where the myths kick in. Supposedly, there’s treasure buried beneath the Belfry, locked away in a hidden vault that only opens when Bruges faces its greatest peril. The story goes that the city fathers hid a cache of gold there to keep it safe from invading armies. Which invading army? Take your pick. The French? Definitely. The Spanish? Probably. The Austrians? Wouldn’t put it past them. Basically, anyone who had a sword and a map.

Then there’s the obligatory headless ghost. The tale goes that the architect behind the Belfry’s final design was so mocked by rivals – or perhaps so disappointed by structural miscalculations – that he hurled himself from the tower’s peak in a final dramatic flourish. Or was he pushed? Depends who’s telling the tale and how much beer they’ve had. Either way, his ghost is said to still prowl the tower on foggy nights, muttering about arches and cursing whatever apprentice last mixed the mortar.

Pop culture fans will know the Belfry from the cult film In Bruges, in which Colin Farrell’s character famously rants about the climb like a man personally wronged by medieval architecture. The film gave the tower a fresh glow of international fame and drew in a new wave of visitors, many of whom arrived wildly underprepared for narrow stairwells, vertigo, or existential dread.

Back in its heyday, the bells weren’t just background noise. They were the city’s notification system: tweeting out alerts before Twitter was even a glint in a Silicon Valley garage. They signalled everything from curfews to market openings to approaching armies and – let’s not sugar-coat it – the occasional execution. Miss a bell, and you might miss your own hanging. Not ideal.

Here’s a rather maddening detail: for centuries, women weren’t allowed to be official bell ringers in Bruges. It wasn’t until the 20th century that women got to put their musical talents to civic use in the tower. Before that, even the most accomplished female musicians were left to noodle on harpsichords while their male counterparts sweated it out in the bell chamber. Equality took its sweet time up the tower steps.

Timekeeping was another one of the Belfry’s great services. Before smartwatches and phone alarms, Bruggelingen timed their lives by the chimes. A wrongly timed bell could throw the whole rhythm of the city into chaos. Imagine arriving at the fish market just in time to see the last herring packed up. That’s heartbreak Bruges-style.

The Belfry also sat at the heart of a sprawling market hall complex, the medieval version of a shopping centre. It had wings dedicated to wool, meat, and cloth – Bruges wasn’t playing around when it came to commerce. These days, only part of the original hall survives, but if you squint and use your imagination (or just deeply inhale), you can still sense the mingling smells of bread, livestock, and ambitious middle-class networking.

In a curious twist of wartime pragmatism, the Germans spared the Belfry during World War I. Not because they were feeling particularly generous, but because the tower made a perfect navigational landmark. When you’re plotting troop movement across flat terrain, it helps to have an enormous, slightly wonky tower sticking out of the skyline.

Architecturally speaking, the Belfry has some solid cousins across Belgium – Ghent, for example, has its own belfry and accompanying legends. But Bruges’ version remains the diva of the bunch: older, more photogenic, and considerably more storied. It’s the tower that gets the spotlight, the Instagram filters, the fridge magnets, and the historical drama.

It also continues to serve as a cultural hub. Concerts, festivals, and civic events often use the Belfry as a literal and symbolic high point. In Bruges, when something matters, you ring the bells. It’s the Flemish way of making an announcement without bothering with a press release.

And then there’s the lesser-known but delightful theory that the Belfry’s slightly askew stance is a result of the city’s emotional leanings. The legend – very unofficial and wonderfully poetic – says the tower leans because it’s always looking eastward, towards the morning sun and the promise of new trade routes. Or maybe it’s just old bricks and poor soil. But where’s the romance in that?

So next time you hear bells in Bruges, remember: they’re not just ringing for tourists. They’re echoes from a time when bells meant everything, from safety to commerce to sacred timekeeping. They’re part of a centuries-old soap opera, complete with ghosts, treasure, fires, forbidden music, and one very determined monk with beeswax in his ears. The Belfry is worth the climb – and maybe even worth a second one, just to make sure the ghost hasn’t moved the treasure while you were distracted by the view.