Day Three, 200 Miles: Poperinge to Westmalle
The auto race I thought I'd escaped in Ypres has spilled over into Poperinge, as I learn while seeking the Abbey of St-Sixtus, home of the Westvleteren Trappists. A couple of orange-vested rally volunteers helpfully try to describe how I can get to the brewery while avoiding the cordoned-off path that's about to be used by racing cars. It is no small trick for them to describe—in a second language and with no maps—a very circuitous route to a point that, as the crow flies, is not really that far away. On a piece of paper, they trace the roads I can't use (or even cross), then whip out a yellow highlighter to indicate a possible alternate (if extremely serpentine) route—so far as they know.

The excursion is fraught with false starts and switchbacks in which I find that I'm driving between fields of something I'd never seen before: hops. Simple trellises tease the green plants ever upward to suck energy out of the heavens, energy that will later manifest itself as flavor in somebody's beer. I've learned why the Trappists always serve their nectar in a chalice. Beer has the same ingredients as bread, the staff of life, so a grail-shaped goblet is only fitting. Moreover, the wide mouth aerates the liquid, releasing both flavor and carbon dioxide.

The monks of St-Sixtus have quelled the temptation to brew mass quantities, because they fear the enterprise would overtake the normal activities of the monastery, namely quiet contemplation. Indeed, one of their beers recently made a big splash when it was declared the best in the world by serious barley-and-hops enthusiasts—no mean feat in these days of prestige beer drinking. The monks do, however, run a pub-restaurant on the abbey grounds, where I pick up a bottle of each of their three brews to take home.

But this afternoon I'm fueled by only coffee, as I need to give the E40—the superhighway headed east—my complete attention. I get the Mégane up to about 100 miles per hour—40 over the posted speed limit—yet I'm still passed frequently and easily by those in a real hurry. The E40 heads right through Brussels, where I want to stop to break up the monotony of monk-breweries with a visit to the secular Cantillon Brewery in Anderlecht.

Much calumny has been heaped upon Brussels for its bland—and in some cases decrepit—architecture. It is true that the city manages to look world-weary without the usual attendant sophistication, but I find it endearing that a land which has been at the vortex of centuries of institutionalized violence now finds itself the de facto capital of Europe. I raise a glass to her at the Cantillon, otherwise known as the Musée Bruxellois de la Gueuze.

North of Brussels, I bypass Antwerp on the N14, a lesser road dotted with small towns all the way to Westmalle. I'm not far from where I started, as Achel is just east of here. The drive traces the perimeter of the country, with very brief appearances in Holland and France along the way.

In the late afternoon, I am the only visitor at Westmalle Abbey. I drive around back, and at my approach a row of cows poke their heads between the bars of their pen. The countrified setting notwithstanding, I know that inside is the newest of the Trappist breweries, a state-of-the-art beer machine churning out 45,000 bottles a day. It occurs to me—not for the first time—that the monks, who treasure simplicity and peace above all, must feel a certain ambivalence about their enterprise. They jealously guard the Trappist Product label, but they are not in it for the money, much of which goes to local charities. Their craft is to beer making what Mozart was to music—a conduit connecting mere mortals to the divine.

I drive to nearby Oostmalle to take my sacrament—the dark Westmalle Tripel—and to contemplate the infinite. At trip's end, I am wistful in the knowledge that my beer drinking will never be the same.