The Sound of Drums Before Dawn
You hear it before you see anything. Somewhere past the shuttered shopfronts of Binche’s main street, a bass drum starts up — slow, deliberate, like a heartbeat that belongs to the town itself. It’s not even 5 AM on Shrove Tuesday, February 17, 2026, and you’re standing in the cold with maybe forty other people who also couldn’t sleep. Someone hands you a paper cup of coffee from a kitchen window. You didn’t ask for it.
The Carnival of Binche runs February 15 to 17 in 2026, but everyone knows that Tuesday is the day. UNESCO designated the whole thing a Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity back in 2003, which sounds very official. What it means in practice is that a small Belgian town of about 33,000 people puts on a three-day celebration that hasn’t fundamentally changed in centuries — and the world agreed it was worth protecting.
What a Gille Actually Is
The word gets thrown around a lot in travel guides, so here’s the short version: a Gille is a man from Binche — born there or resident for long enough to be considered local — who dresses in a specific costume and performs in the Shrove Tuesday procession. There are roughly a thousand of them each year. You can’t volunteer from out of town. You can’t buy your way in. The families that participate have been doing it for generations, and the right to become a Gille is treated with genuine seriousness.
The costume itself has three stages throughout Tuesday. Early morning, the Gilles wear wax masks with green lenses and a painted expression that’s half-smile, half-something-else. The masks come off around midday. Then, in the afternoon, out come the enormous ostrich-feather headdresses — each one weighing a few kilograms and standing about a metre tall. They look absurd and magnificent at the same time.
And then there are the oranges. Blood oranges, specifically. The Gilles throw them into the crowd by the crate-load during the afternoon procession. It’s supposed to be good luck to catch one. It’s less lucky to get hit in the face, which happens more than the tourism brochures suggest. If you’re anywhere near the Grand Place after 2 PM, you will get hit by an orange. Accept this.
Sunday and Monday: The Warm-Up
Shrove Tuesday gets all the attention, but the carnival officially opens on Sunday, February 15. Costumed groups — called sociétés — parade through the streets with brass bands and floats. The costumes range from elaborate period pieces to things that are clearly just friends who agreed on a theme three days ago. It’s loose, cheerful, and a lot less crowded than Tuesday.
Monday is traditionally the day for youth groups. Teenagers and younger kids take over, and the processions have a different energy — more chaotic, more improvisational. There are fireworks over the Grand Place in the evening, which are decent but not the main attraction. Monday evening is probably the best time to wander the town without fighting for space.
Honestly, if you can only come for one day, make it Tuesday. But if you have the luxury of two days, Sunday gives you a version of the carnival that feels more relaxed and approachable.
Getting There (and Getting Back)
Binche is about 60 km south of Brussels. Direct trains run from Brussels-Midi (Bruxelles-Midi) to Binche station, taking roughly an hour. On a normal day, the service is fine. On Shrove Tuesday, the trains are packed — standing room only by the time you leave Brussels, and the return journey is worse.
A few logistics notes that aren’t in the official guides:
- If you’re coming on Tuesday, catch a train before 8 AM. Seriously. The 9 AM train is already unpleasant.
- There’s no direct motorway to Binche. If you’re driving, expect the last 10 km to take longer than the first 50 because of road closures and parking chaos.
- The train station is a 10-minute walk from the Grand Place. Follow the sound of drums. You literally cannot get lost.
- Coming back Tuesday evening, the last trains fill up fast. Check the SNCB schedule and aim for a departure before the final fireworks, or you’ll be waiting on the platform for a long time.
If you’d rather not deal with Belgian rail logistics, GetYourGuide sometimes lists guided day trips from Brussels that include transport. I haven’t done one personally, but it solves the train problem.
Where to Stand (and Where Not To)
The Grand Place is ground zero. The main processions converge here, and this is where the Gilles do their most concentrated orange-throwing. It’s also where you’ll be squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder with several thousand people by early afternoon.
If you want the iconic photos — Gilles in full feathered regalia against the backdrop of the town hall — the Grand Place is the only option. Get there before noon on Tuesday. By 1 PM, good positions are gone.
But there’s a case for skipping the main square entirely. The Gilles assemble at their individual homes in the morning and walk to the gathering points through residential streets. These smaller processions — maybe ten or fifteen Gilles with a single drum corps — are arguably more atmospheric than the main event. You’re standing two metres from them. You can hear the bells on their costumes. Nobody’s elbowing you.
The side streets between Rue de Mons and the Grand Place are where I’d go if I were doing this a second time. Less spectacle, more texture.
Eating, Drinking, Surviving February
Binche in February is cold. Not Scandinavian cold, but a damp Belgian cold that gets into your bones if you’re standing still for hours. Dress in layers. Waterproof jacket. Warm shoes — the cobblestones are unforgiving.
Food during carnival is straightforward Belgian fare. Frites from street vendors — proper twice-fried Belgian frites, not French fries — are the default snack. Waffles everywhere, obviously. Most cafés along the main streets serve hot chocolate, beer, and simple meals. Nothing is going to win a Michelin star, but everything is warm and filling, which is what you need.
One thing worth seeking out: gaufres de Binche, which are a local waffle variation that’s denser and sweeter than the Brussels or Liège styles. Not every vendor has them, but ask around.
Bars stay open late all three nights. Belgian beer selection is predictably good. Pace yourself — the carnival runs long and the trains stop eventually.
Sleeping Somewhere (Book Early)
Binche itself has maybe a handful of hotels and B&Bs. They book out months in advance for carnival week, and prices spike accordingly. Most visitors stay in Mons (20 minutes by train) or Charleroi (30 minutes by train) and day-trip in.
Mons is the better option if you have a choice — it’s a pleasant university town with restaurants and its own UNESCO-listed belfry. Charleroi is functional but not particularly charming.
For booking, Trip.com usually has good coverage of Belgian hotels outside the major cities. Worth checking Mons availability early — the carnival isn’t a secret, and the closer hotels go fast.
The Part Nobody Romanticises
A few honest warnings. The orange-throwing is fun in theory and occasionally painful in practice. Blood oranges are not soft. If you have small children, keep them back from the front lines during the afternoon procession — or at least position them behind adults.
The crowd density on Tuesday afternoon around the Grand Place is genuinely intense. If you’re not comfortable in very tight crowds, consider watching from a side street instead.
Phone signal gets patchy when the whole town is in one square. Download offline maps. Tell whoever you’re travelling with where to meet if you get separated.
And the trains — I keep coming back to this because it’s the thing most people underestimate. The return trains on Tuesday evening are a mess. If you’re not staying overnight, plan your departure carefully.
A Town That Hasn’t Changed Its Mind
There’s something stubborn about Binche. The carnival hasn’t been modernised or turned into a ticketed experience or packaged for Instagram. The Gilles still dress the way their grandfathers dressed. The drums still play the same rhythms. The oranges still fly.
On the train back to Brussels, my coat smelled like orange peel and cold air. The photos on my phone were mostly blurry — it’s hard to hold a camera steady when someone’s throwing fruit at you. But somewhere between Binche and Mons, still hearing the drums in my head, I thought: that’s what a tradition looks like when nobody’s tried to fix it.
