On horseback to fish for shrimp: Preserving one of Belgium’s oldest traditions

The image of the fisherman Stefaan Hancke on the back of his mare Dina as the latter dodges the first waves with her legs raised, strained by the effort of dragging fishing nets along the sand with a chain that vibrates so that the shrimp jump and get caught, pulling a total weight of around 3,000 kilos (6,600 lb), advancing parallel to the coastline with water up to the animal’s chest, is one that is fixed in memory, as with some of the flavors of childhood.

In 2013, UNESCO recognized shrimp fishing on horseback in Oostduinkerke as part of the world’s intangible cultural heritage. It is a tradition that is still maintained by a community of 12 families in this Belgian village on the North Sea coast. Also called grey shrimp (grijze garnalen), this species is no more than three centimeters long and, when peeled, has a pure and salty flavour that, among other things, is the basis of one of the most common dishes in the area: garnaalkroketten, shrimp croquettes, an absolutely irresistible local delicacy. On restaurant menus, the price of two croquettes ranges from €22 to €27. If we add up the hours it takes to obtain an authentic shrimp croquette, the price is understandable. Let us examine the process of producing a product that is the pride of the Belgian coast, from the sea to the table, thanks to efforts to ensure that this tradition survives in an era governed by the automation of machines and profit margins.

The fisherman's house

It is not yet 6 a.m. when we park up next to the wooden fence of Stefaan Hancke’s house, which is situated in the middle of a field with hardly any other properties nearby. A strong wind blows, forcing us to zip up our raincoats. Following the barking of a black Labrador, Stefaan’s energetic footsteps burst through the garden. Delighted to get up early and work, he raises his arm and says in Flemish: “Hoi!” Then, in English, he announces: “I don’t care if it rains, but let’s see if the wind eases up.”

He has taken Dina out for breakfast an hour ago. We turn our gaze to the pasture to see the mare, who is eating good fodder to our left. She is an example of the ancestral Brabant Draught breed, a Belgian draft horse. She is 14 years old. Her robust, feathered legs are strong as oaks and seem to have been moulded by a sea salt that suits her as well as anyone else. Hancke invites us into a room next to the house where friends usually meet to celebrate fishing and life by eating shrimp soup, tomatoes stuffed with shrimp, and shrimp croquettes on special days. It is a room that many towns would like to have as a bar. There are draft beer dispensers, long tables like in a txoko in the Basque Country, and a jukebox where Hancke only allows Tina Turner songs to be played.

Stefaan brings coffee and talks without taking his eyes off his horse. He wants to be on top of everything and he is on top of everything. He is a man in a hurry who takes his time for others. He has eyes of a blue that would make the sea itself jealous. But what characterizes him even more is the ease of his laughter and his unstoppable tendency to crack jokes. He has been fishing on horseback since 1998, when the former mayor, amid a struggle to preserve the tradition, suggested that, since he had an animal, he should take the plunge and help prevent horseback fishing from being forgotten. Separated from Dina is another horse that is eating at its own pace. It has spent two years trying to get along with the fisherman and the sea. It is not easy to build a solid relationship between horse and owner overnight. You have to teach the animal to pull the cart and, above all, to walk in the surf. Only when it has become accustomed to the water can you put the net on and teach it to fish. After this period, the horse must undergo an examination assessed by the expert voices of the Oostduinkerke fishing community. This came last year after an unexpected injury to Dina. Her replacement has turned out to be rebellious and, for the moment, lazy. Patience is required.

In the nearby Navigo Museum, dedicated to fishermen, there are documents proving that fishing has been carried out here since the 6th century. There are also memories of the many inhabitants of the village who, in the 18th century, out of necessity, spent six months fishing for cod in Iceland. In a book that Hancke has deliberately left on the table, we see paintings by the Belgian painter and watercolourist Edgard Farasyn (1858-1938), who had a soft spot for fishermen, scenes from the 19th century that could have been painted today. After the First World War, the number of fishermen increased when the armies retreated, selling their horses and mules cheaply. Mules were good because they ate little and pulled a lot. From the 1970s onwards, this custom was lost. It was increasingly expensive to maintain horses and the farmers needed their strength for the fields. With the arrival of the tractor, the animals gradually disappeared from the land and the sea and this ancient technique of fishing became a minority tradition unique in the world. Community spirit is fundamental in the guild. Each family has a role. There are two female fishermen, Nele and Kathryn. There is also Cris, a boy who makes very good croquettes because he once had a restaurant and, even more importantly, is an infallible maker and repairer of nets. And there is someone who organizes the activities of the Grey Shrimp Festival, which takes place in June, with a parade included, through the few streets of Oostduinkerke and which attracts 10,000 people.

By 7.15 a.m., Dina has already had breakfast. It’s time to get her ready: Stefaan brushes her hair like mothers used to comb our hair before school. When she turns to us, she moans and tilts her head like some animals in heat do. Stefaan doesn’t even flinch: Dina persists and moves more and more, whinnying and rubbing herself against the corner of a door. I ask him why and he replies: “She’s seen you, you make her nervous, she can’t resist your beauty.” And he just laughs.

He then covers the animal’s back with a folded blanket and places the wooden saddle on it, which he calls a pulpit. “Because the fisherman climbs up like a priest to speak to the world,” he says, and then he loads the wicker baskets into which he will place the shellfish. Now he dresses himself, protecting his body and neck from the humidity, and gives us some rain boots.

When we get into the car, a hazy light, thirsty for shapes, fills things and the day. The wind seems to respect us. Dina moves forward at a slow trot. A neighbor out for a run greets her by calling her name. Cars give way to her and, when the traffic light calls for it, she stops at the pedestrian crossing. Stefaan handles the hazel stick and the rope and addresses her in Flemish; apparently, it is the language she understands best. On the journey, which is not short, Stefaan explains the three reasons why the shrimp caught on horseback is of a superior level: “Firstly, the plankton they feed on in this sea is ideal for them. Secondly, once we have collected the catch, we select it 100% by hand. And third, we cook them in salted water (like sea water) and let them cool in the open air, not in water like they do on boats, and this way the flavour is preserved intact.”

The dunes come into sight. The beach is already in the air, like a new truth of salt and sand. The clouds mourn the absence of sun and, rather than watering the morning, they splash it with a delicate drizzle. The sky is now the least of it; the treasure the sea holds is the most important thing. “Do you know that here, when you go to the supermarket and buy 100 frozen croquettes, they give you a bicycle?” asks Stefaan. When I look doubtful, he explains: “The bike is so you can go and look for shrimp, to see if you can find any.” And he starts laughing again.

Dina sees the water, feels it close, and once on the sand, she speeds up her trot like a child waiting for the dividing line that marks low tide. Trained for the cold waters of the North Sea currents, Dina lets Stefaan carry the nets (attached to the harness with two boards on the sides) that she drags through the water and that, as she advances, form a funnel. Stefaan and Dina work for more than two hours, returning to the shore from time to time to empty the catch. The seagulls celebrate each pause with cries, satisfied with taking the remains of this first selection that the fisherman, with his knees stuck in the sand, throws back into their mouths.

High daily wage

Back home, anyone would think that Dina would be exhausted, but knowing that the reward of food awaits her, she trots as if she were competing in a final at the racetrack. Stefaan, freed from the weight of his raincoat, continues to smile. He also knows that he hopes for the best. Here the only one who will finish the job is Dina. Stefaan does not make a living from this; it is pure love for an art in danger of extinction. He goes out a couple of days a week. “It is like a sport. I am in contact with the sea and nature. It is not profitable, that is why I do it,” he says so that we understand. This is an emotional and collective activity that takes up two or three days a week for the fishermen, from March to September.

Under the roof of a small hut, the catch is laid out on a board and we begin to select it by hand and in earnest. We have help from Roger Ansew, a friend of Stefaan’s who once owned a restaurant. Kris, who speaks Spanish and sells Peerdevisscher beers, from the fishing community’s brewery, also joins in. The local artist Heer Selle designed their logo, which they proudly display on bottles and clothing. It is not a mechanical or quick job. Each person fills his bucket with shrimp, one by one, at his own pace, placing the trash in another. Next to us, a pot full of water heated by wood promises to boil at any moment. The photographer asks for a chair and climbs up to look for a better perspective. At that moment, Stefaan grabs a crab from among the leftovers and slips it unnoticed into the large pocket of Caterina’s jeans. The shock of discovering three seconds later the advance of what is climbing up her waist still resonates in Flanders, as does the laughter of the rest. Watching how, once selected, Stefaan passes the shrimp quickly through water to remove the sand, one thinks that he is dealing with something more than just food.

This shrimp has five pigments. When freshly caught, it is grey like the sky this morning. Sometimes, if the sand where it lives is darker, this is reflected in its color. It is when it is placed in boiling salted water that the red appears, and now, five minutes later, when Stefaan takes it off the heat and spreads it out on a rack to dry, it shines like orange diamonds, a sign of quality. Then, on the table, dried and peeled, it will be white with a few black spots. This fragile delicacy can be kept for two days at most. If it is frozen, it loses all structure and flavor.

The sun has come out. Here we are, five adults, peeling shrimp like children. The task is ecologically insurmountable: a man, a horse, a cart, firewood, and shellfish. Roger is making a soup from the shrimp heads, adding cognac and white wine, simmering on a camping gas stove. Stefaan is turning up the volume on We Don’t Need Another Hero. Someone has mixed peeled shrimp with hard-boiled egg and mayonnaise on some potatoes, and by now it’s a top-notch tapa. Roger is humorously ceremonious, serving the soup on a bed of peeled shrimp. Then, with the product still fresh (that’s the key), the croquettes are made. There’s no time to rest. Stefaan is taking a call on his cell phone. He nods, still laughing. After hanging up, he says that it was the owner of a restaurant next door, asking if he could come over for the water in which they had boiled the prawns, a highly prized commodity in the kitchens in the area.

Several chefs have emerged from the Koksijde culinary school who are now stars in the industry. Jeremy Levecke, owner of the Ostend restaurant Belle de Jour, studied here but does not have any Michelin stars, and does not want one. He is a very friendly chef who teaches us his own recipe for garnaalkroketten. His mother sells fresh fish at The Vistrap, the Ostend fish market, so he knows the product well. His recipe is unbeatable: Shrimply the best, as it says on the T-shirts worn by hungry fans who come to the annual Ostend Shrimp Croquette Festival every October, where restaurants such as Café Botteltje or The North (whose croquette is something sublime, the ultimate in refinement) compete. With Jeremy we once again see the importance of peeling. A technical shrimp peeler can charge up to €30 an hour. We peeled half a kilo for an hour and a half, earning in laughter the stories he relates about his trips to Ibiza in its wild days. Heads to one plate, prawns to another. With the heads (without oil), Jeremy starts the sofrito to which he later adds some carrot and onion, cayenne, paprika, thyme and milk. A little later he strains and reserves the creamy, concentrated blend with which he will mix a béchamel with a touch of lemon. The paste is now made and, once cooled, will be melted with the prawns and with which he will shape some croquettes. These, battered and fried, will arrive at the table to the delight of the diners. When you try them, you understand why festivals are organized around them and why they remain a family meal whose flavor remains in people’s memories from childhood. Because children see them being made from birth and, as they grow older, they accompany their parents to fish on foot, by boat, or on horseback, and then together they celebrate a huge product measuring just three centimeters.

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