Fretalop, the Dragon of Temse

It began on a morning in the year 1346, so grey and still that even the gulls fell silent. Vinck, the bell-ringer of Temse, was standing watch when he saw something move in the river — not the usual lapping of water but a rolling mass that rose as though the very bed of the Scheldt were breathing. At first he took it for an overturned boat, a stray piece of timber. But then the surface broke open and a head appeared, large as an ox cart, with eyes that glowed like smouldering charcoal and a maw full of teeth that gleamed like wet knives.

The creature reared up and hurled itself at a passing boat. With a single sweep of its tail it split the hull in two. The three men aboard had no time to scream. The water turned red, and when the silence returned there was nothing left but wreckage and stillness.

Vinck ran down, stumbling over his own feet, and raised the alarm. But no one in Temse knew what to believe. A dragon? Here? In the Scheldt?

Within weeks all doubt had vanished. Fretalop — they called the beast that because it ate everything — appeared more and more often. By day it lay hidden in the dark water, invisible unless you looked closely and could spot the faint ripple beneath the surface. By night it came ashore, dragging cattle from the banks, tearing nets and boats apart, leaving a trail of destruction that made the fishermen weep anew each morning.

The harbour that had made Temse prosperous lay deserted. No boatman dared sail. Merchants stayed away, and with them the bread vanished from the town. The priests held processions, mothers kept their children indoors, and the mayor summoned every knight and servant who could hold a sword. But who fights a beast larger than a house and faster than a horse?

Despair grew with every passing day. Temse had become a town living in the shadow of its own river.

Among the men who came forward was one who did not hesitate. Gaspard, a young knight from the region, with more courage than caution and a look in his eyes that said he would rather die than live another day in fear. He did not beg for help, did not ask for reward. He took his sword, his lance, and walked to the bank of the Scheldt as though he had an appointment he could not miss.

The battle that followed was later told so often that every telling differed a little, but the core always remained the same. Fretalop rose from the water like a storm of scales and fire. Its wings beat up waves that swamped the quay, its breath reeked of rotting flesh and scorched earth. Gaspard dodged the first sweep of the tail, rolled across the ground and drove his lance into the creature’s flank. The dragon roared — a sound that set the bells in the church tower trembling — and struck back with its claws. But Gaspard held his ground. He fought the way only someone fights who has nothing left to lose, and when he drove his sword to the hilt into Fretalop’s heart, the beast collapsed like a mountain of flesh and scales into the river.

The Scheldt churned, the water foamed, and then it fell quiet.

The next morning the banks were packed. Men, women, children — all of Temse had come to see what they scarcely dared believe: the beast was dead, the river was free. Gaspard stood quietly, his armour dented and his hands scraped raw, but alive. They carried him on their shoulders through the streets, and his name was that day carved into the memory of the town.

The ships returned. Trade revived. And slowly, like a wound closing, Temse found its rhythm again. But the story of Fretalop remained — not as a nightmare but as a reminder of the day one man took on the impossible and won.

Centuries later Maurice Pauwaert wrote the saga down in a booklet published in 1944. It was forgotten until historian Frank De Cuyper rediscovered it in 2005. And anyone walking through Temse today can order a glass of Fretalop at a local pub — a blonde ale by Brouwerij De Graal, brewed in honour of the dragon that once terrorised the Scheldt, and the knight who slew it.