The fishermen who ride horses into the North Sea to fish for shrimp

Oostduinkerke (Belgium)It's a Saturday, the sky is clear, and it's already 9 a.m. On the seafront in the town of Oostduinkerke (Flanders, Belgium), fishermen Bruno Mertens and Marius Dugardein hitch their carts to their horses—a powerful, high harness that will take them out into the North Sea. From September to December, they start early because that's when the tide is low, and the horses wade in until the water covers half their bodies; only their heads and rumps stay dry. Two hours later, at 11 a.m., the tide will begin to rise, and the fishermen will pack up their gear and catch and head home. "Always on a Saturday, because that's when people can come and watch us. We put on public demonstrations for everyone, and the little ones have a great time watching," explains Bruno.

Bruno and Marius fish recreationally, using traditional methods, which UNESCO recognized in 2013 as an intangible cultural heritage of humanity. Because it's recreational, and they use traditional methods, just as they did hundreds of years ago, they don't have to go to the designated viewing area: they can sell the prawns to friends or share them with whomever they want. However, the boats that sail the sea on the same day as Bruno and Martins are at the gatherings do have to go to port after fishing. The former are professional fishermen, while for Bruno and Martins it's a weekend hobby. One is retired and taught the other, a builder by trade. And they aren't the only ones; there are up to fifteen other enthusiasts. They are accompanied by the fisherwoman Christa Defour.

On this autumn Saturday, as I accompany the fishermen, they assure me we've been lucky. "Last Saturday we caught too many jellyfish, which aren't stinging, but there were more of them than shrimp," the fishermen lament in English sprinkled with Flemish words. Today, however, the fishing is good; there are plenty of shrimp. "We've been lucky," they insist. How did they catch them?

When the fisherman reaches the seashore, after having walked a good stretch of fine sandy beach, he unloads his cart, which carries baskets, ropes, hiking boots, and some clothing. Then he changes his hiking boots, the kind used in traditional Chilean hiking boots, into tall, yellow, waterproof boots, matching the typical yellow fisherman's rain suit. Dressed in his fishing gear, he climbs to the top of the boat, first placing one foot in the stirrup and then pushing himself up. With his left hand, he takes the reins and begins to trot the horse lightly out to sea. As he moves forward, his image becomes somewhat blurred. A yellow dot and the horse's head distinguish him in the distance, but little else. Everywhere you look, small yellow specks move. The horses walk slowly; they are well-trained, and they know that, when they are at sea, there must be calm.

Up and down the sea, the horses drag a long net, unearthing the prized grey shrimp, smaller and thinner than a pinky finger, but highly sought after given the excitement it generates. The net is attached to the wooden chair the fisherman sits on. The chair is made of wood, the two fishermen point out. This is probably because it allows the net to be taut. "The shrimp are buried in the sand, but the vibrations of the net, which has chains and wooden planks, make them jump, and that's when they get caught in the net, which can be up to six meters long. In fact, the nets have a 'chicken,' a red guide point used to catch them. They use guides, red, yellow, and red 'chickens,' to mark the fishing grounds."

We're in the middle of grey shrimp season because it's cold, but not too cold. When the ice melts, the shrimp will head out to sea, and when it gets warmer in summer, they won't be around either. The changing sea temperature off the coast of Flanders is worrying the fishermen, who believe the shrimp are migrating to the Danish coast. But for now, they still have them. As soon as they leave the sea, the fishermen haul in their nets and throw the catch into a kind of large sieve, where they discard everything that isn't shrimp. Jellyfish, blue ones, out; crownfish (with a stinging crown that appears when you least expect it), out; small turbot, out. However, today there's a large sole, and they're keeping it.

Trace for peeling shrimp

Once the selection is made, they pour the catch into large baskets, and one is given to the neighbors and to the author of this report, because we tried the raw shrimp. "That's when it's best; freshly caught," they say. And it's certainly true: first, you need a good hand to peel it because the grey shrimp is very small. When peeling it, it's reminiscent of our white shrimp, which also requires patience, but the grey shrimp is even smaller. And in the mouth, the taste is intense, meaty, and salty. It's good. One isn't enough to truly savor it.

The fishermen come out of the sea when they see the tide coming in. Whether they have a big catch or a small one, they have to, because the weather conditions force them to. They carry their catch in baskets, and the baskets are loaded onto carts. They urge the horses on and retrace their steps along the fine sandy beach. Now they leave the sea behind them as the horse trots slowly along. "He knows the route well because the training to teach him to fish takes two years," says Bruno, who also begins to mention who he will share the day's catch with. "With my neighbor, who has a restaurant right here on the beach, and who will use the prawns to make the broth for the bouillabaisse," he explains. He will also keep some for himself and his family, who like to cook the prawns boiled, which gives them a pinkish hue. Boiled, glazed, and fried, in broth, and in croquettes are the most popular ways to prepare them.

At the market, a kilo of grey prawns costs between ten and twenty euros, especially now, at this time of year when they are most plentiful. The price will vary throughout the year. This affordable price could explain the locals' passion for prawns. The traditional, artisanal, and slow process, in a world where technology and haste dictate the pace, could also explain it. But it's clear that there's also a sense of pride linked to the land and sea of Flanders.

At Marmietje, the fisherman's neighbor's restaurant, the bouillabaisse, cooked with grey prawns, is already ready. It's hearty, substantial, and delicious. The menu has other dishes, of course, including the must-try mussels with fries, a classic Spanish surf and turf.

In the afternoon, in the same town, the Croquette Festival kicks off. Held over a single weekend in October, it takes place over three days when restaurants sell portions of grey prawn croquettes for four euros. Approximately six thousand croquettes are sold each day, and they estimate a total of twenty thousand will be produced. The festival showcases the restaurants and the recipe, and it's linked to a popular contest where each participant writes down their favorite croquette. It's a very well-organized contest that once again demonstrates the passion for the grey prawn, which is everywhere: drawn, crocheted, and even featured on the merchandise available at the festival: white socks with the prawn print, t-shirts, and sweatshirts. At the festival, you eat prawns and dress from head to toe.

Since humanity cannot live on prawns alone, in Flanders, meat restaurants have also won the hearts of their locals. Carcasse has risen to prominence as one of the most prized, boasting a Michelin star, and run by charcuterie chefs. It's a winning combination, because they make the sausages themselves that they then serve. They have passion. They cook meats from different animals and serve them with pickled vegetables. The restaurant is packed, and there isn't a single grey prawn on the entire menu. A few kilometers away, fishermen Bruno and Marius are keeping their horses in the stables at their home. They'll prepare them during the week for another day of fishing. Always on Saturday, at 9 a.m., when the tide is low. The horses will head back out to sea. Into the North Sea.