Category: OWHC 2024

Geneva/Montreux/Nyon:

1.“Boogie Woogie Stomp” – Albert Ammons
To echo the wine-red-faced man’s performance of boogie-woogie in Nyon, my friend Archie (a talented pianist) played this song to me amongst the jazz nightlife. Not my usual cup of tea, I enjoyed it to start off the trip!

2. “Lou’s Tune” – Dargz

Bizarrely at the festival, the actual amount of jazz played is limited. Moreso there is a huge plethora of pop artists available free-to-watch on the stages. Dargz, an artist I was unfamiliar with, played one of the main stages. This soulful, contemporary number was a good soundtrack to our evening in Montreux before we left amid a storm. 

3. “Stars (Live in Montreux)” – Nina Simone

This is a classic, I suppose, reflecting the history of the festival. As we say in Scotland this is a “tune”. Not much to be said about Simone that hasn’t been said before, a classic for a classic festival. Switzerland is odd for music, not a huge folk-music tradition but lying within it one of the greatest stages for artists (jazz and other) in the world. A bizarre dichotomy, rounding off the great few days in Montreux and Nyon. 

Nice:

4. “Ode to Rahsaan” – Berlioz
   While not specifically french, this new jazz dance music reflects the romantic and artistic ambiance of the Côte d’Azur. I was maybe slightly reeling off of the jazz festival, but this song reflects the small winding streets and nightlife of Nice more appropriately. Nice felt more jazzy? Hopefully that makes sense. Modern and eclectic, whilst appropriately captivating and romantic.
   5. “Nissa la Bella” – Traditional
   A hymn to the beauty of Nice, this Niçois folk song is a celebration of the region’s identity. Nice was a favourite of the trip, a region of France and Europe I had not visited before. Beautiful folk tradition, and some of the best in “Nissa la Bella” of which I heard in my research of the region.
   6. “Sous le Soleil Exactement” – Serge Gainsbourg
   A sultry and jazzy track that embodies the Mediterranean elegance and relaxed vibe of Nice. Again, this was playing in my ears as we wandered down the coast. Gainsbourg is the best!
   7. “Have a nice day” – Stereophonics
   This is a bit silly. But simple English play on words reminded me of this band from Wales whilst we were in Nice. I think on hindsight it is particularly appropriate as the song is about being a tourist abroad and the local view on this. This, coupled with the mire of English tourists sun-soaking in Nice, I thought the song most appropriate. Also just a fun soft-rock choice

Barcelona/Tarragona:

8. “Sun is Gone” – New Candys
   I heard this in a coffee shop in the gothica and couldn’t get it out of my head! Accidentally became my Catalan anthem. I was wary of my Scottishness in Barcelona, simply through the guilt of visiting a city so renowned for its denouncing of tourists in the modern-day. The coffee shop was full of Brits, Americans and Aussies failing in their Catalonian pronunciations. Good song this, bit psychedelic.
   9. “El Cant dels Ocells” – Traditional
   A Catalan song, famously played by cellist Pablo Casals I am led to believe, heard near “Bar Zim” in the gothica. A musician in Edinburgh told me to visit this bar, an overall enjoyable experience.
   10. “La Rumba de Barcelona” – Gato Perez
   A lively rumba. The town was bustling when we arrived in the height and heat of July. I can certainly see the issues tourism brings to Barcelona, there wasn’t space to move!
   11. “Mediterráneo” – Joan Manuel Serrat
   Serrat’s tribute to the Mediterranean evokes Tarragona’s coastal beauty. We stopped in Stitges on the way back, nursing a heat-hangover and listening to buskers in the sun amidst a horrible smell of fish.
   12. “Chinese Translation” – M Ward
   A folky track. Included due to my staring out the window on the train on the way back. The train-beat drums echoing the train ride back.
   13. “King of Spain” – The Tallest Man on Earth
   Again, word association plays its part here. This Swedish folk singer is all about, and after hearing what I believe to be his song “Wind and Walls” in a bar in La Gracia on our final night in Barcelona, “King of Spain” was appropriately stuck in my head. It’s good to note that these songs transcend countries. Especially a song about the romance of fleeing to Barcelona for a woman. 

Porto:

14. ““Barco Negro” – Amália Rodrigues
    A classic Fado song that epitomizes the melancholic beauty of Portuguese music. Albeit we didn’t hear much Portuguese music upon our arrival, I stumbled across this folk tune when poking around the small bars on top of the hill and learning about “Fado”
    15. “Porto Sentido” – Rui Veloso
    Often referred to as the “father of Portuguese rock,” Veloso’s homage to Porto captures the city’s soul in a modern yet nostalgic way.
    16. “Where it’s easy to be Beautiful” – Micah Preite
    A lovely little ditty from someone I believe to be of Portuguese descent. This song played out of my phone speaker as I sheltered from the sun in my bunk-bed within the hostel.
    17 “Fazer Falta” Mc Livinho
    Not really my favourite type of music, but would be remiss of me to omit as I think I heard it 4 or 5 times out of bars in late-night Porto. 

Luxembourg:

18. “De Feierwon” – Tonnar Urwald
    A traditional Luxembourgish folk song, often regarded as Luxembourg’s unofficial anthem. It captures the pride and history of this small, multicultural country. Luxembourg was hard to find a great deal of music within it, it was definitely the quietest country we visited along our journey. This song however, is harsh, brutal and abrasive, which reflected our friends views on his home country as he guided us around. 
19. “Rua das Flores” – Primeira Dana
    Reflecting the large Portuguese community in Luxembourg, this indie song embodies the rich emotional and melodic style of Portuguese music in its modern form. Lots of small Portuguese restaurants and bars in Luxembourg city would seemingly play this sort of music, so I thought it appropriate. 

Bruxelles:

20. “Ik wil je” – De Kreuners
    Brussels felt the most like home, being Scotland. It’s much more industrial, with the typical north-european charm of small, semi-abandoned record shops dotted around the city centre. Poking my head in, this small 7” record popped out to me, mainly due to the ludicrous nature of the band on the cover. The song is fun though! Reminiscent of A Flock Of Seagulls I thought. An enjoyable find in a less romantic, more brutalist setting.
    
    21. “Laat Ons Een Bloem” – Louis Neefs
    This Eurovision song contest contestant and Belgian charts frequenter adds a great addition to the list as we get to the end. I saw some of his records with his big hair within the record shops near “free” postcards and books. A discarded pop-singer from a forgotten era (with silly hair). Great wee tune. 
21. “Als ze Lacht” – Yevgueni
    A lovely Belgian record from the pop group from the 2000’s, a forlorn sounding tune, which played as I left on my flight home, not far from where the band were formed. 

Included below is a spotify link to the soundtrack of our trip:

The bus pulled into Brussels just after 4 p.m., the kind of arrival where the city reveals itself in glimpses. The first thing we saw was the north of the city – towers of glass and steel buildings; where the European Union flexes itself. It was sleek; suits and briefcases, electric shiny black cars driving men in expensive ties and a stark lack of personality on first impression, but this glimpse of the city was such a contrast to the version of Brussels we’d come to explore later.

Our hostel provided us with a good laugh at the strange set-up of the room and the awkward interactions with our roommates for the next couple days, as we stashed our bags and grabbed a minute to breathe. The air was warm, humid in that way cities can be in the summer, and without the coastal breeze that we had quickly gotten used to, the pavement seemed to hold onto the heat long after the sun started its descent. We headed out, following the slow pull of curiosity toward the old city.

The streets tightened as we went, their stone edges softened with age. When we settled into some comfy seats on a side street somewhere, ordered a drink and began to people-watch, we realised that we had accidentally sat across from Manneken Pis, that tiny, odd little statue with a reputation bigger than it has any right to be, but a comical people watching spot all the same. Tourists crowded around him, snapping photos and pointing, as if they’d found a hidden treasure instead of a fountain with a boy peeing in it. Watching the scene unfold, it was one of those funny moments where either by coincidence or probability, I was reminded of just how much there is to see within heritage cities like this, and just how many people do go out of their way to see all they can. It was a lovely reminder that heritage, culture, and things that spring from these can manifest in such seemingly silly ways and integrate themselves into the memories of so many tourists to the place.

We passed shops spilling over with tourist bait—tapestries, chocolates, and the kind of trinkets destined to collect dust on a shelf, but ultimately each commodity reflected the history of the city in one way or another. I quickly learned that textiles and tapestries have long been integral to Brussels’ cultural heritage, with the city emerging as a hub for fine weaving during the Renaissance. Renowned for its intricate designs and vibrant colours, Brussels’ tapestries adorned royal courts and cathedrals across Europe, symbolising its wealth and artistry. Today, these masterpieces remain a testament to the city’s craftsmanship and its enduring influence on European decorative arts and here they were, like jewels in the windows of tourist shops after hours as something anyone could own, with any design they could think of. Further on, the vibe shifted. Groups of men on stag dos weaved their way from bar to bar, their voices rising and falling with every sip. It was loud, messy, and oddly endearing. Beer, drinking and enjoyment seems equally important in the cultural “making”  and identity of the place and its modern draw — even if the rowdy tourists must cause havoc for the locals.

Then came the Grand Place, and everything quieted down, even if just for a moment. The tight street opened up to the large square,  lit up like it was putting on a show, the golden facades gleaming under the dark night sky. It was spectacular, sure, but also approachable—people laughing, leaning into conversations, or simply standing still, taking it all in. We stayed a while, letting the sounds and lights soak in. This was Brussels at night, a mix of the grand and the everyday, and a place well deserving as the last destination on our trip.

Day two began the way good days often do—over coffee. Just two doors down from the hostel, we found a café that was still figuring itself out. Shelves half-built, a faint smell of sawdust lingering in the air –and on the tables if I recall correctly — but the coffee was already excellent, the music hummed out of trendy Marshall speakers, and the staff greeted us as if we were friends ordering two oat milk flat whites, rather than touristing strangers translating their at-home order to this new city.

With caffeine doing its job, we made our way to the metro. The plan was to start in the east and work our way back, ticking off some of Brussels’ cultural highlights along the way. First up: Ixelles. Rob, our friend from Luxembourg, had sung its praises, and it didn’t disappoint. The neighbourhood carried an easy charm, the kind of place where the past doesn’t demand attention but quietly holds its ground.

We meandered through Marolles, where the flea markets seemed to spill out onto every available surface; we’d heard Brussels was a good spot for vintage finds and Ben’s sister Martha’s birthday was coming up, so we kept our eyes peeled for any suitable treasures to return home with. After eavesdropping on fast-paced haggling amongst our own browsing, our route back was lined with Tintin murals, their bold colours and mischievous energy a reminder of Belgium’s love affair with comics and our own personal affinity for the childhood characters.

Next came the Palais de Justice, a beast of a building perched against a sky that had turned grey – very different from our two weeks of Mediterranean blues. Its imposing stone facade was a clear reminder of Brussels’ place at the crossroads of history.

By the time we looped back to familiar streets from the night before, the city felt more intimate, easier to navigate. I ducked into the MIMA gallery across from our hostel—a fantastic space buzzing with energy. The highlight was an exhibition by a Portuguese street artist whose massive works hover between decay and reinvention; this exhibition was a good chance to catch something contemporary mixed into our heritage trip. Ben joined me briefly before stepping back into the streets ready for the evening.

We hunted for record stores and live music, threading our way through beer halls and winding alleys. It struck us how often Brussels felt like a cousin of home—the ornate stained glass, the textured details on facades, and the easy rhythm of its pubs felt comfortably familiar. I couldn’t stop taking photos, drawn again and again to the way the city caught the evening light and further even in the dim glow of street lamps. I (Laura) think I took the most photos on this stop of our trip than anywhere else.

Later, after more walking than I’d like to admit (likely in circles, may I add) , we found ourselves in a Korean spot before heading onwards to the next stop, savouring bold flavours in contrast to the chips, waffles and other salty-carby foods that both Brussels and home serve very well. We accidentally had drink in what I can only assume was a puppet theatre, clearly after the hours of showtime with the marionettes safely away for the night in their closed-off stage but still lit up as the bartenders swept up and stacked the chairs. Finishing the night at the infamous Delirium village, the beer house(es) were chaos in the best way, a swell of voices and clinking glasses as people leaned into the shared joy of their drunken night.

It was our last night together, the tail end of a trip that had already become something to remember. And as we watched the ebb and flow of strangers around us,  Brussels carried us along one last time.

The last day in Brussels began as most final days do—groggy and slightly rushed, packing up in a half-awake state and leaving the hostel as early as two travellers in our condition could manage. We made our way back to the same café, a now-familiar spot, where the coffee worked its quiet magic, setting us up for one last push through the city.

We hopped on the metro, returning to the Grand Place. I wanted to see it in the morning light. The square had a different energy during the day—less theatrical, more lived-in but still with the unavoidable hoards of excited tourists with their audio guides and craned necks toward the heights of the spires high above. We wandered into an old bookshop nearby, the kind of place that even smelled of history in that slightly damp but pleasant manner that old paper gives off. Archive boxes brimming with old postcards, museum flyers, and city relics tempted us, each piece a little echo of Brussels’ past. We picked up souvenirs—some for friends, some for ourselves—and lingered until lunchtime.

By early afternoon, it was time to part ways. Ben had a flight back to Scotland and the realities of work, while I was headed to Barcelona for a few more days with family. Pushed for time and a having friendship that didn’t need such things, any long goodbyes were avoided and we parted ways, I (Laura) set my sights on Mont des Arts, determined to spend my remaining hours in the museums of the royal quarter. The air shifted as I approached—the buildings grew taller, older, grander. A brief detour brought me past the Music Museum, its Art Nouveau design as stunning as the treasures inside. But I had a single destination in mind: the Musée Magritte. I arrived and paid my entry, which was wonderfully cheap, clinging onto my status as an EU “youth” for one last year.

For years, I’d thought of visiting this place. Magritte was the artist who first sparked my obsession with art—a love affair that had carried me through six years of study and culminated in my Fine Art MA. I can conclusively say that my interest in Magritte was a catalyst for where I am now: His art played a key inspirational role for me, after which, through a long chain-reaction of events, attempts and coincidences, have led me to the position I’m in today. Having received this OWHC award which funded this very trip alongside Ben, I was now standing in front of Magritte’s artworks which I had fallen for all those years ago. I felt acutely aware of an odd full-circle-contentment; something that you rarely catch yourself in except in hindsight.

The museum was everything I’d hoped for. It was intimate, beautifully curated, and, for someone like me, profoundly moving. Turning a corner, I stopped in my tracks upon seeing “Le Retour”, my favourite Magritte painting, which I’d assumed was housed elsewhere. Quietly, without meaning to, I became a little teary — I think a mix of gratitude, contentment, and awe for the strange ways life weaves itself together and ultimately wondering of how 14-year-old me would have reacted to this moment.

With no time to waste though, I explored the neighbouring National Art Museum before walking to the Royal palace. Perched on a low wall, I ate a quick lunch and let the city soak in one last time. The ornate architecture, the hum of life moving through its streets—it was hard to pull myself away.

Finally, I wandered back into the part of Brussels I now knew well, taking in every detail as though to store it for later. By evening, I was on a flight back to sunny Spain, carrying with me the echoes of a city that felt like a meeting point—between history and modernity, art and life, and, perhaps most poignantly, between the past and what comes next.