I was a third year undergraduate when my parents decided to take me to Belgium. I took the coach to London and the tube to Waterloo Station. I was in good time for Eurostar. I found a weighing scales that asked me to enter my build and height. It adjudged me to be overweight. I had been on a strict died for 3 months – no beer, no junk food. Still I was overweight. I later told my mum about this nasty weighing scales saying I was overweight. She said I ought to have called myself broad and not medium build, maybe then it would not have classified me as being a bit porky.
I walked down the escalator to the underground Eurostar section. It was like airport check-in but a quick and calm one. I passed on from the baggage X ray and felt a certain lightness in my pocket. I reached down and felt my left pocket. No phone. I hurried back and the smiling customs officer handed it to me.
In a trice I was aboard the gleaming silver train. I was a drizzly March afternoon but I was in high spirits. Waterloo is my station. I have used it a lot since the age of 14. In certain periods in my life I have passed through it an awful lot. Walking out towards the Thames I would look out on London and feel a deep contentment. It was London and freedom. There really was a big world outside boarding school. There would a be a couple of ne’er do wells seated on cardboard in the underpass so the adult world was not all wealth and ease.
That day I settled into smartest and most modern train I have ever seen. It was air conditioned and brand new it seemed. Thanfully it was only half full. I sat beside a gorgeous Dutch blonde of about my age. She was of normal height and perfectly proportioned. She was studying fashion in London. Her pale skin, sensuous curves and tight clothes were winning. Her flawless English purred out of her full lips with that slight Dutch accent that is so sexy. Her tousled hair was semi-tied back – she had on a white blouse and dark close fitting blue jeans. Somehow I got the idea that she did not like me as much as I liked her. Maybe it was the fact that she said she was going to sit somewhere else and moved to the next coach.
We glided into Brussels a couple of hours later. It was all ultra-modern. The railway terminal was grey but somehow not dispiriting. The placed was not too crowded. At the foot of the escalators an electric barrier opened and I was through. So Belgium for the first time. It is one of the nearest countries to Ireland and yet I had never been there. I was glad to finally make it. I walked out through the bland concourse. Some have said that Belgium is the last word in urban banality and in places that is true.
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BRUSSELS
As I exited the building I was approached by a young black man who said something in French, I did not catch what. A moment’s hesitation made him immediately tell me in English. He had a clipboard and was asking me to sign a petition against landmines and make a donation to his charity. I declined. I was to see many black people around. Many are Belgian citizens. Black Belgians generally come from the French-speaking countries of Africa – especially the Democratic Republic of Congo. The D R Congo was a Belgian colony until 1960.
Outside the rain was tumbling freely. I saw some tall dull coloured buildings – it was an accurate first impression of Brussels. What should one think of a city that has lent its name to a universally reviled vegetable.
I was heading to Brugge to meet my parents. I made my way to the metro station. I asked a question in French of a bloke who seemed young in outlook but almost middle-aged in appearance. This chap was tallish and had blond-brown hair, a couple of days stubble, a denim jacket and a brown shirt. His ruddy complexion seemed to mark him out as a horny handed son of toil. I shall call him Luitpold. Lutipold answered my question and we fell into a conversation. We sat together on the metro. I remakred that there were many Congolese there, ”Il y a n’trop” – there are too many. He seemed to take and impish pleasure in making this controversial remark. I know the feeling. Although we conversed in French he was a Fleming. Belgium has two major indigenous ethnicties. The Flemings in the north speak the Flemish language. Flemish is almost identitical to Dutch. The Walloons in the south speak a dialect of French that is almost the same as standard French. The Flemish are in a small minority. Along the German border towns such as Eupen and Malmedy have a population of Belgian citizens of German blood. Brussels, the capital, is netural beteen Flanders (the Flemish-speaking region) and Wallonia (the French-speaking region). Brussels has both languages with equal status.
Aboard the metro train we got speaking to an older bloke. He was spare of build and had light grey hair. His wizened features and hoarse voice marked him out as a nicotine addict. I shall call him Eustace. Eustace spoke French with us and told me that he too was a Fleming. He corrected a point of my French grammar and told me that a certain word was the ”substantif” – the noun.
Ere long I was in the station I needed to be to catch the iron horse to Brugge. I think it was Centraal. I boarded the limpid Belgian train as night fell. I was engrossed in a good tome. I heard some south of England accents. I notice three women some way beyond menopause seated in the next row. Mischievously I asked them in French, ”Mes dames est-ce que vous etes angalises?” – My ladies are you Englishwomen? I knew damn well they were English. ”Pardon?” said a slim on – a look of nervous discomfort was plain on her face. She was not confident about understanding French. I then spoke to them in English.
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BRUGGE
It was not long before I arrived at Brugge. I got out of the station via the underpass. I noticed an ad for a pub named Celtic Ireland ”in the hart of the city”. I felt I should coorrect them about the spelling of hart.
The city was storied and distinctive. It was made of red and brown brick. It was all tidy, compact and very clean. An unmoving canal bifurcated it. I saw some looming towers. I walked by the canal and saw a bearded older man togged out in a navy blue overcoat and a black fedora house. If I had not known better I might have assumed that this grizzled Belgian was doing a spot of cottaging. I asked him for directions in French and he assisted me. Despite this being the Flemish speaking area where they prefer English to French I was determined to use French.
I found my way through the deserted foggy streets to the hotel. The teenaged receptionist smiled at me from behind his geek glasses. He spoke good English. The place was undistinguished but homely. It had an odd Belgian smell to it – not unpleasant. I find it hard to describe. My room was commodious. I awaited the arrival of my parents.
After a couple of hours I grew a little anxious. I went and had a nosh in a local eating house.
They were flying into Charleroi airport. I feared they had had a car crash. They are always damn slow at everything especially my incompetent mother. Finally they pitched up – cheerful and brimming with energy. We had a good chinwag. I hit the hay.
The next morning we had a good mozy around the town. I founde Flemish was deciphrable. One inscription on a house read, ”Hier lieft und werkt …” then the person’s name. It meant ”here lived and worked …” It was c cloudy day but I was happy to be exploring a new city. I had a spring in my step.
We looked at the soaring cathedral and some other buildings that I cannot remember. There were quite a few tourists around considering the time of year. I enjoyed the town but it was not memorable. It seemed to be prosperous in a way that eschewed ostentation.
We dined in a pub and I saw the place mat had a long spiel about Charles V. In French the call him Charles Quint using the Latin word for ‘fifth; which is quint. I translated it for my aged parents.
That evening in the lobby of the hotel we spoke to a 60 something couple of British tourists. I shall call the chap Peter and the chapess Beverly. I have chosen Peter to represent his bog standard deceny. I have chosen Beverly to reflect her snooty pretentiousness and bad taste. Both were northern English. Peter was an amiable person and had short tidy grey hair. He had worked in shipping or something and recommended I consider working in Antartica. I courteously shot down the idea. I later felt bad about that. The poor old guy was trying to be helpful. His lady friend was haughty and distant – laughing in what she assumed was a sophisticated manner. It turned out they were both divorced and in a twilight years liaison. Peter told us that Beverly had been the Liberal candidate for a parliamentary seat. I cannot remember which – some place in northern England. She was good looking for her age.
I later spoke to my mother about Beverly’s Liberal views. My mum was surprised and said that she thought Beverly would be a Conservative, ”she would want to be one of the ladies in the hats.”
It was a rainy day the next morning. We toom Peter’s umbrella. Peter ran out after us and told us with a smile. I was sent back to fetch our one.
I asked my dad if he had ever been to Belgium before. He had – 39 years before. I was amazed. Even being 39 years old seemed being like a dionsaur. He had worked in London as a barman at the age of 19. He and another Irish boy had taken a ferry to Belgium for the weekend just for an adventure. He told me his mate’s name. How did they cope? They had not had a word of French between them. My father looked very stylish in his dark green Aquascutum overcoat but he was beginning to look old. His skin was jaded and had lost his shine. The annular rings surrounded his eyes that were losing their sparkle. The grey hair crowded out the black ones.
We caught the train to Ypres which was not far away. This is another Flemish town but in the English speaking world it is known by the French version of the name. Ypres is pronounced ”EE-pruh”. The Flemish name for it is Ieper. British soldiers used to see Ypres and pronounced it ”Why-perz.”
It was a pleasant journey over as the rain lifted. From the railway station to the town centre was a walk of a mile over a flat surface. Many of the roads are cobblestoned. One sees neat little brown brick houses all about. Belgium is such a tidy country and everything functions so well.
We got to the main square. There stood the cloth hall. It looked about a mile high. This region grew rich on the cloth trade and the cloth hall was the centre of that trade. Although it is gargantuan it is not beautiful. We had a look inside. I studied the exhibition on the First World War carefully. Ypres is mainly known for the fact that from 1914 to 1918 the British Army battled against the German Army just north of the town. Ypres was horrendously bombarded. The town was terribly scarred and many buildings were destroyed. I have seen photos of the city when it was mutiltaed. It is amazing that it was built back in such a fine state.
We met a trio of British tourists and chatted to them. I shall christen them all. Cedric was a tall man of about 60. He had grey hair, very trim like his figure. He had a public school accent. He had been to St Catherine’s College, Oxford to read Geography. He had taught at Starehe School in Nairobi before setting up his own gardening business near Oxford. He played gold with Lord Butler. He told me about the cobble stones in Radcliffe Square in Oxford. I thought it a crime that gaps were filled in with concrete. He told me this council penny pinching was very short sighted. Cobblestone is more expensive but will last for centuries whereas concrete will not even last decades.
Ethelred was an Englishman of about 60 too. He was just below average height and walked with a slight limp. His face sloped down to one side. It was not as though he had had a stroke but was just a tiny bit disabled. He had an odd penguin like gait. He had blood shot eyes, pubic eyebrows and hair that was messy in a posh way. His wife was there and I shall dub her Penelope. Penelope had a plummy voice and was a dumpy woman of 55 or so with dark bushy hair. She was chirpy. All were good company.
They were there to do a battlefield tour like us. Ethelred told us his uncle had been killed there but he was not going to try and find the grave. Ethelred also mentioned that he had lived in County Kerry in the late 1960s. People were decent to him but the only ones he really made friends with were other foreigners. He had dropped out of university. Now his sons were going to university he said he had to – so he enroled on a course with the Open University. He was reading history. He said there had been no conscription of Britons in the Great War. I hated to correct him – there was from January 1916. He did not seem to be bothered.
We found a minibus that would take us on the tour. Two oldish chainsmoking Belgians sat in the front – a woman and a man. They spoke no English and this couple kept themselves to themselves – they were driving the minbus. Fleur was our guide. She was an obese Belgian girl in her 20s – one of those happy fat people. Besides being obese she was still unattractive. Fat girls can still have pretty features and have their fat well distributed. She had a pasty complexion and lank dirty blonde hair poor thing but she did not let it get her down. She told us she had had an Egyptian boyfriend. My mum remarked that it was unsurprising that an Arab should go for a a fat chick. Fleur told us that the couple in front were her parents. Fleur spoke good English. She was eager to tell us about English soldiers who fought at the three battles of Ypres. Then she remembered that three of us were Irish and added Irish soldiers too as an afterthought. She spoke quietly and with poise.
We drove out of town – Ypres is very small. She pointed out many places associated with the Great War. There were cemetries aplenty and trench emplacements. At the top of a hill we stopped and got out. There was a small musesum. It was pleasingly shambolic. In three small rooms they had a treasure trove of memorobilia. I suppose after the war they were awash in this junk – shell cases, bayonets, old guns, helmets and swords. They had it from all sides. I saw the ulhans’ hats. An ulhan was a German cavalryman. Their black felt hats had a human skull on them – not a real one, that should have been obvious. It was a silver coloured image of a skull. A little macabre but I suppose they were being straight about what war involves – none of this ”neutralising assets” bullshit. Who is fooled by such sophistry.
We went out the back of the museum past some artillery pieces which must have been oiled recently as they were not rusting. The damp grown was a little muddy and the trees had only a few leaves in them. We walked through some trenches. Were they left over from the war or replicas? I am not sure. Every time it rained the water washed some mud into trenches gradually filling them up. The war had ended 90 years before.
We turned around and looked back into the town a couple of miles away. We were well above it. This clearly was a vital position. If the Germans had captured this line of trenches they could have shelled Ypres with a direct line of view. In fact they had to shell it from further away and had little idea what they were hitting. The managed to do a lot of damage anyway. However, if they had have held this position then they could have inflicated that harm a lot sooner.
I did not find the place dispirting or exhilirating only interesting.
Later we went to Tyne Cot cemetery. It is called this because many British soldiers from the Tyneside area are buried there. Cot is another word for cottage in the lingo of northern England. For those of you who do not know the Tyne is a river in the north of England – it flows through a city called Newcastle-upon-Tyne. People from around there are called Tynsiders.
The cemetery is on a grassy slope. The main cross and inscriptions are towards the top of the slope with the entrance at the bottom. In a space of a couple of acres 10 000 men are buried. I say men but many were boys. It was a pretty and a poignant site. It is odd to think that somewhere so sad can be beautiful. The cream yellow sandstone headstones are perfectly kept as is the grass. The headstones tell the name and age and unit of the dead – often the date of death too. Some hold the remains of a soldier who was so blown to kingdom come that his dead body could not be identified. ”A soldier for the Great War – known unto God.” Rudyard Kipling came up with that expression.
It was deeply affecting. I tried to ponder their sacrifice. It was impossible to fathom. A school group was there. These British teenagers strode around. They were nonchalant and playful. It was galling that none seemed to appreciate what they were seeing. There was no sense of gratitude.
I read the legend that I have read countless times. ”Their name liveth forevermore.” The saddest thing is how false this claim is. There name does NOT live forevermore. It grieves me but most people are utterly unmindful of these sacrifices. There is no appreciation. One my my schoolmates remarked that he did not wake in the morning and say ‘ -oh thanks guys for the dying in the war.
My mum remarked that it was moving to see the youngsters there. These prancing girls and boys were little younger than some of the soldiers who sleep their last long sleep beneath the trainers of these disrespectful descendants. I do not wish to come across as a young fogey. Who else should they act you may ask. When I was there age – and I wa snot long out of my teens when I visited this place – I was well aware of people dying for their country. I was enormously impressed by such courage – even fixated by it. I acted with decorum in cemeteries.
Later we went back to town and had luncheon. I noticed a Church of Scotland church near the centre and had a look-see in that. It was opened by Field Marshall Douglas Haig. He was a north Briton and presumably a communicant of that church.
We walked back to the station. On the journey home Penelope but her feet on the seat. The bearded little ticket inspector came along and chided her. ”A smacked bottom” she quipped. He turned and in perfect English explained that it was unpleasant for other passengers to have dirty seats. Once the English trio had gone my fatehr told me that he had been displeased to see her feet up like that but had said nothing. We bade farewell to this threesome when they got off at their stop.
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AFTER YPRES
I wonder why Belgium chose French as the language to use in the Congo when one considers that most Belgians have Flemish as their first language. I suppose they recognised that French was much more of a world language that Flemish-Dutch-Afrikaans. The Flemish upper class were fluent in French even in the 19th century and much of the Flemish bourgeoisie spoke good French too.
We went on an outing to another nearby Belgian city the next. I cannot remember which city we visited. Suffice it to say it was a short train journey away and had a soaring cathedral, brown brick buildings and was spotless. My parents and I went out separate ways for an hour or so. I needed to take a dump. I wandered into a cfe with a view to unburdending my bowel – I was nearly touching cloth. I ordered the only thing I could say in Flemish, ”warum melk” – ”warm milk.” The tall, muscular skinhead waiter was very handsome. He seemed like a gay wank fantasy. He gave me a mildly quizzical look and repeated my order, ”warum melk?” I nodded. By the way the w is pronounced v so it came out as varum melk.
I had two housemates – a Chinese Malaysian and a black Zimbabwean. The Zimbabwean had said to me that she trusted that I would be brining them back a present from Belgium. I obliged. I bought dakr chocolate and white chocolate. Dark chocolate is literally black in colour. White chocolate is actually light yellow. When I got back to the United Kingodm I gave the black chocolate to the black girl and the yellow chocolate to the yellow girl. I did not explain my reasoning for dishing out the gifts like this. They did not seem to twig. The Zim girl made hers into a scrumptious pudding of which I partook!
We strolled around town together to another wide open square. We saw a gaggle of youngish men walk by in Flemish folk dress. They wore loose white trousers, open loose jackets (mostly white) and multicoloured shirts. They had wooden clogs on and floppy hats. It made me think of unemployed Flemings from the 1930s. Maybe this was the last time it had been normal to dress like this. Their folk dress is a bit like the way British sailors dressed 200 years ago. I suppose that many Belgians were sailors. Theirs is a small country and one can never be far from the sea. Antwerp, the second largest city, is on the river Scheldt. From Antwerp one can sail to the open sea.
We had tea in an India tea house. It was charmingly furnished in a very Indian style. The place was fragrant and the music added to the ambience. I told my parents about India. They say looking profoundly satisfied and calm..
That evening at the railway station they asked me about my Master’s degree application. I decided that this was the moment to break it to them that my top choice had rejected me. My father tutted in momentary disappointment. He was not upset with me but obviously it was not good news.
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BACK TO BRUSSELS
The next day it was time to split. My parents traveled back to Charleroi to fly back to Eire. I took the choo choo into Brussels. I got myself to Graf van Vlaanderen – a seedy area – to book into the youth hostel at Rue de l’elephant. I spoke in French to the receptionist while making my reservation from the station. I got there and met a receptionist who was a couple of years older than me. He had short hair but a tall stature – he was athletic and gregarious. He responded to my French in English – with a francophone accnet. I booked into my dormitory. Having dumped my junk I headed into town.
On the metro I saw a small ad ”en ceinte? Nerveuse?” – ”pregnant? Nervous?”. It was a pro-Life charity offering support to pregnant women trying to persuade them not to terminate their foetuses. I was pro-Life at that time. It is odd what one remembers. Of all the dozens of ads I saw in the metro that is the only one that I can recall.
I got out somehwere central. The city had many mid grey stone buildings. It was rather like an Irish city. I asked direction of a shortish woman in 30s with glasses and brown hair. She heard my French and responded with a smile, in good English. So many Eurocrats around – they all speak English. I do not know if she was one of these.
Belgium is rather flat – especiallY the northern part of it. I got myself to Le Cour de Cassation. The Court of Cassation is like the suprem court, the court beyind which there is no appeal. This court was on a hill – so Belgium does have hills – even in the middle of it. It was an evening with a blue sky. I looked out over much of the city. The city was tranquil and not ugly. The court was a memorabel edifice. Its grandeur was detracted from by weeds growing out from between the slabs of granite. I saw some war memorials in front of it. Poor Belgians I thought – they had had a ghastly time in both world wars. Would it not have been better for them to have thrown oin the towel as soon as they were invaded in 1914 and spare themselves an awful lot of grief? Of course they did not know the war would last so long. If they had allowed te German Army saffe passage across their territory maybe German would have beaten the French immediately and the war would have been over. Belgium probably would have been annexed despite German promises to the contrary. German rule would not have been THAT bad. It would have been better than 16 000 000 people getting killed.
It was a blithe evening. I did not have a guidebook and so could not hit the main tourist attractions. I enjoyed my leisurely exploration of that noble city. I felt a deep inner sense of calm and happiness. I sometimes get like that.
I went into a porn shop near a railway station. Porn shops often seem to be bear railway stations – dodgy people generally hang out in such places. There was a delightful display of degradation. I probably purchased some filth. The Belgians have a wonderfully broad-minded attitude to such things as obscene material – just like their cousins the Dutch. People talk about Catholic Belgium. What does that mean? Most people call themselves Christians there and Catholic Christians at that. They hardly ever go to church. They practically all use contraception. Catholic Belgium is a bullshit concept.
I headed back to my youth hostel. Nearby I saw a burger takeway joint. I ate something there. I spoke in French to the Moroccan who ran it. He was about 30 – average height and burly. He was kindly and soft-spoken. I used him as a French dictionary and found out the words for ring and handle. He was married. I asked him about getting to the airport the next day. He offered to take me! Too kind.
I went to an internet cafe. On that street I noted that many Muslims live there. There were signs in Arabic, hallal butchers and signs for shops selling produce from Algeria and Tunisia. There was also a Pakistani shop. The people from those former French colonies in North Africa – Algeria, Tunisia and Morocco – are Muslim to a man. They all speak French. When they move to Belgium they join the French-speaking community. Some of the indigenous Walloons keep an arm’s length from the North African immigrants. Admittedly the immigrants are sometimes insular especially the very relgious ones. Some of these immigrants become Belgian citizens. The arrival of French-speaking people means that French speakers are coming close to parity of numbers with the Flemish speakers. Many of the Flemings do not like this – seeing their dominance challenged. Belgium has a political party called the Vlaams Belang – it used to be called Vlaams Blok. The Vlaams Belang campaigns for independence for Flanders. It is against immigration especially from Muslim countries for several reasons. It says immigration is bad in itself – adding to unemployment, social costs, crime and social division. It does not like the French-speaking community growing and they regard Islam as illiberal and dangerous.
In my hostel I spoke to my room mates. One was a middle age Oriental man. I greeted him in Chinese, Japanese, English and French. He nodded his head and held out his hands to signal incomprehension. How the hell did he get around? Was he a mute?
There was a black British guy a few years older than me. He was tall, lean and quiesecent. He had a mild West Midlands accent. He did not seem the sharpest knife in the drawer. He was a little mysterious and made veiled references to having lived abroad for a several years and beinf relgious. In the loo I found an abandoned porn mag. I used it for a tug. Later the black bloke found it and told me with mirth.
There were two Israelis of my age there. Both these boys had just finished their compulsory military service. I shall dub them Willard and Julio. Willard was shortish and had black curly hair down to his chin. He was also American as well as Israeli. He had a sharp nose on him and seemed sardonic and mean-spirited. I remarked about speaking French to people and them replying in English. ”Maybe they don;t like your French” he sneered. We talked about the immigrants from North Africa coming here. ”Why do they let them in?”, he asked rancorously. I felt there was a touch of Islamophobia to that question.
Julio was taller and had a beard that made him look rather older. Julio was originally from Venezuela but spoke good English with only a slight accent. He came across as calm and wiser than Willard. I liked Julio but not Willard.
The next day I went into town and dumped my rucksack in left luggage. It was a grey day but I was not letting this get my spirits down. I boarded a train to Waterloo. Waterloo was a battle fought on 18 June 1815. One the one side were the British, the Dutch and many German states (Germany was not an independent and untied country at the time). One the other side was a French army led by Napoleon. There were some Frenchmen who opposed Napoleon as a jumped-up self-appointed emperor and war monger. Belgium did not exist. Even the word Belgium had been forgotten for centuries. What we now called Belgium was then part of the Netherlands. So some of the troops whom we say were Dutch at the battle would not be regarded as Belgians.
The train slided through the mundane suburbs. I got off at the town of Waterloo not half and hour later. I wandered around it. The houses were substantial and coloured beige, dun and yellow. The broad streets were empty. I saw a spectacled black teenage girl and asked her directions. It turned out that the battlefield was not nearest the town of Waterloo nut nearer the next station. I got a bus on. The town at the battlefield was frightfull small.
There was a large old building there – two storeys which may have dated back to the battle. It was adorned with the flags of the countries that had participated in the battle. Perhaps incongruously the German flag fluttered there. Germany as such did not exist at the time. It was a pleasant gesture to have the French Tricolore there. I wondered whether one could even say that France fought at that battle. Napoleon Bonaparte commanded French troops there but Napoleon was not the rightful ruler of France – he was a usurper. The rightful ruler of France at the time was the corpulent King Louis XVIII.
I turned off the road to the right. I saw a huge mound rising suddenly from the grassy plain. The mound was steep – almost pyramid shape. I toiled up the acute incline. The wind was lashing down. I reached the top of the mound. A stone lion crowned the hillock. I tried to film as the wind whipped into my voice and carried my voice away. Almost none of my words were audible on the video I made. I surveyed the battlefield where perhaps 40 000 men had met their doom in a matter of hours. It called to mind the words of the Duke of Wellington, ”the only thing worse than a battle won is a battle lost.” Why did he say this? His message was that even a victory is noisome because of the deaths. I was peurile once and still am a little – looking on war as a sport. A dead enemy is a point scored. That is a horrendous way to look on it. Enemy soldiers are humans too. In total wars most men are conscripts – they never wanted to be soldiers. They all have family and friends who love them. It is hard not to be affected by grieving relatives.
There was nothing to see on the rolling plain. To y right I saw a motorway. I climbed down as the rain tumbled. I pottered about the uninspiring museum at the foot of the hill. I discovered that the hill on which the Duke of Wellington positioned his men was dug out after the battle. The earth was spread out over the land to make it even. What a pointless task. The hillock was to mark the spot where Prince William of the Netherlands was wounded in the battle.
I caught a bus back. A white bearded smiling driver was at the wheel. We listened to French language radio as we bumped along the country lanes of Wallonia.
The next morning I was off to the airport. At the main station a lot of renovation was in progress. It was surprisingly messy and sawdust strewn for just-so little Belgium. I asked for a ticket to the airport. The Walloon chick at the ticket counter smiled and snorted benignly at my French and answered me in English. I say she was a Walloon judging from her accent in English.
Down at the platform I inquired of a youth, ”Excusez-moi monsieur, est-ce que c’est le train pour l’aeroport?” The youth stammered, ”Uh…sorry.. I speak English.”
”Oh me too!” It was the train to the airport. The chap I had asked was an American tourist. We had a good chinwag on the way to the airport.
I got to the large and shiny airport. I boarded my kite of an airline that I cannot recall. I jetted to Dublin without incident. I spent a couple of days with mates there before venturing to the dark and cursed country hamlet where my parents lurked. They were always evil in their house – much more benificent when away from it.
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SCHOOLTRIP.
It was three years later that I went on a school trip back to the land of the Belgians. I had got the job and one of the things in the interview was would I be prepared to go to Belgium in February. I happily signed up for that. We got up about 5 in the am to meet at the school car park. We were missing a couple of days of school. I chided the small number of my pupils who were not going. ”Why are you not going?” I scorned them. I taunted them that I would set them an especially long and tedious homework for not going.
All aboard the coach! There must have been 30 boys aboard. They are too numerous to name nor can I remember them all. Let me tell you about the staff.
Rosie was an Irish bird whom I took for 25 but hadin fact hit the big three-O. She was blonde but not that blonde, she touched it up every month. She was desirable. She was gregarious and I wished I could have gone out with her. I did in fact ask her out some time later and she diplomatically lied about having a boyfriend. How thoughtful – spare my feelings and that. She was from Kerry but was spared that dopey accent by much time spent in Dublin.
Charlie Chuckles was an irascible leftist – bristling with opinions. He suffered from violent migraines and a violent hatred of George W Bush and all his evil works and all his empty promises. Charlie had a pate as bald as my anus and Mr Magoo glasses. I mean to say that my anus is bald – not that Mr Magoo glasses are bald altough they are actually bald. Phew – that cleared that up. Back to Charlie Chuckles. He was gunning for the worst dressed man of all time prize. He was your stereotypical bad taste teacher – nasal voice, caffein breath, shorts and sandals in winter. To cap it all he wore a bum belt with his suit to work. He combined his socialist opinions with a quite legendary miserliness. I should know – I was his housemate.
Steve was the next chap. Steve was the head of department. He was 42 but could pass for 62. His aged look was frightening. The front half of his head was bald but the back was thick with hair. He was hard to read – he seemed phlegmatic but could anger quickly. He was so understated that it was hard to tell when he was urinated off. He had a bucked tooth – tooth mind, not teeth. This was even more comical than having two bucked teeth. He had a paunch and a weary manner. His twin brother had died some months before so I suppose this had knocked the stuffing out of him. The was one of four sons born to an enlisted man in the RAF. He had the pleasure of growing up in Felixstowe which boasts that it is the UK’s largest container port. He worked his way to Oxford. Steve was a man devoid of airs anf graces. He never wore a proper siuot jacket to work – only his puffa.
Then there was me.
There was the short-arsed bus driver Terry. He was a likable sort and had been in the RAF.
I drifted in and out of sleep. The motorway was fairly empty at that time in the morning – that was the whole point of hitting the road at such an hour. We were making good headway – under the Dartford Tunnel, sorry not under the tunnel, through it. Under the tunnel – now that would be difficult.
I debated with Charlie. He treated me to his left wing bile. He was scathing of the Labour Government, of Bush and so on. He admired the Scandiavian countries. I defended many of the things he disliked. He said, ”I don’t want to be a slave do you?” He was said he believed in regulated capitalism but what we have is unregulated capitalism. In my view the economy is far too regulated already. I told him of my parents pushing me towards the bar – not as in a pub as in becoming a barrister. They thought because I had a costly edcuation I ought to do something handsomely remunarted. I wanted to tell them to shove off and Charlie heartily accorded with this. I now realise that my parentals were right. We discussed gay icons. I cannot remember which one he came up with maybe Kylie. He said that gay icons were women who were really beautiful but bereft of sex appeal. A boy named Freeman overheard our conversation and smiled wrily.
We got to Dover in good time. We got to Dover in good time. I have seen the town before. It is a cramped place – walled in by those legendary white chalk cliffs. On a clear day – as it was then – one can see the grey outline of the continent on the horizon.
Our bus crept onto the ferry amid hundreds of other vehicles. We walked up onto the entertainment decks. I wandered about over the swirly black and red carpets such as one finds in working class pubs. I went out onto the open deck and enjoyed the sea gale tossing my hair. I thought about why the wind was so strong on the sea – there are no hills, trees of buildings. It must have been horrendous to be a sailor long ago when they were on small wooden ships and they had to be up on deck even in storms.
One of the boys Daniel, of Italian origin, ribbed Charlie Chuckles asking why he was not wearing sandals and shorts. They knew that Charlie walked aorund like this on winters mornings. He did not feel the cold much. He was a miser though.
After an hour or so we piled onto the bus again and rolled off the roll on roll off ferry. There was quite a jam getting out of the ferry port. Calais is the ugliest town in France and we saw only the warehouse section of it. The land around there is flat and boring.
We stopped at a hypermarket by the motorway. This was the real purpose of the trip – to allow the boss man to stock up on cut price booze. He had been doing this trip every year for 25 years. I wandered around the wide corridors – they were brimming with booze buyers. It did not cross my mind that the boys would take advantage of this but I would be surprised if none did. They were aged 14 and 15. I tried to get some money out the ATM – no joy. The ATM had not given me a penny on the ferry. I was beginning to suspect that something was up. I got letters of drivel from the bank weekly. They were so tedious that I used to bin them unread. I was later to discover that one had been binned by me that I ought to have read – my card had to be changed before the expiry date. Because they sent me so much junk mail I junked the important letter along with the worthless ones.
Charlie Chuckles treated himself to a coffee in a cafe belonging to the sort of multinational that he saw as downright even. It was always Manichean with him. He would always overstate. Things were always ”massive” one way or the other.
We carried on on the coach. The sun went down on the plain plains of Picardy – although is may have been Belgium. Belgium and France areall part of the Schengen Agreeent so border controls ahd been abolished. There must have been a Welkom in Belgie sign but I missed it.
We were headed for the Belgian Riviera. I know it sounds like a pisstake and it sort of is. I say it to take the mick but people do in fact go on beach holidays in Belgium. I suppose only a Belgian would do so and a very poor Belgian at that. There Belgian coast almost faces the English Channel. That stretch of sea gets decent beach whether for – ooh – a good fortnight a year. Saying the Riviera of Belgium is a bit like saying the gay rights commission of Iran or the political dialogue council of North Korea. But there you have it.
The boss kept referring to our destination as New Port. The proper name is Nieuwpoort an de zee. I will translate that for you – new port on the sea.
Nieuwpoort is a mundane town with building a couple of storeys high. Everything functions smoothly. I wish it didn;t, that at least would be something a tad exciting. The place is limip apart from the sand from the beach that is blasted around by the gales off the North Sea.
We got off the bus while it was dark and filed into our hotel. It was not quite as impersonal travel lodge. I like travel lodge by the way. However, characterful is not an adjective I can apply to this place.I was staying in a building behind away from everybody else. I was ushered there to dump my junk.
My top floor room was very welcoming but faced away from the sea. It was not quite a wrist slitting disappointment.
I went back to the main hotel immediately for dinner. I made the boys go in two by two – I feared them overwhelming the place. I need not have. We had tables set aside for us. There was hardly anybody else there. I do not suppose that a beach resort is much of a draw in February. Saul made some smart arse remark about whether they should hold hands so I made him go in last.
We adults all sat together and dined on some traditional Belgian tucker. I cannot remember what the meat dish was. I am sure chips accompanied it – it always does in Flanders, doused generously in mayonnsaie. I like chips a la Flandres. I said to the boss wasn’t there a chance that the boys would sneak into town to piss it up the wall. He said no, ”around about 9 o clock some programmes will come on Dutch television that they will find very interesting indeed.” We all laughed – particularly Rosie. As the only lady amongst 45 males she might have felt uncomfortable on the trip but she did not seem to.
I spoke to the boss about my plan to apply for a permanent job – I might apply to a day school. ”I think you would be better in a boarding school actually” he said. I did not know it at the time but my colleague Eddie was already applying for jobs in Africa. The boss must have know this. He realised that if Eddie went I would apply to stay on. The boss must already have come to the conclusion that he did not want me so was trying to get me to go elsehwere. I had only been there for 6 weeks. Charlie later said to me that this must have been the boss’ way of sensitively discouraging me. Charlie only said this some weeks later when I applied to stay on in that school and was rejected.
We discussed recent happenings. In Iraq a camera crew had filmed some US troops entering a building they had fired on. One American noticed a terrorist wounded ”he is playing dead” – the American shot the man, ”he dead now!” Terry was an ex serviceman and said the condemnation of the American for doing this was wrong – the American soldier was just trying to stay alive. I agreed with Terry. It is a good job that Charlie Chuckles did not hear this or he would have given poor Terry and earful of abuse.
The boss made some announcements. It was about the next day. We would not be going into town that night but we might the next night. He mentioned how it was uncertain how fast we would be able to get to places. ”If we get lucky…” he began one comment. I caught Rosie’s eye and said, ”we might get lucky”. She laughed. She had a fantastic sense of humour. I was slowly trying to build up to making a move on her. I eventually asked her out a few weeks later and was politely declined but I alreADY mentioned that.
That evening I walked around in the building where the boys had their rooms. We were meant to patrol a little to make sure they were quiet. I left soon enough. Why was I wastingmy time? Why did I care? I did not wish to deal with boisterousness anyway.
I went back to my room. It was on the news that Arthur Miller had just died. I saw footage of his coming off a plane with Marilyn Monroe decades ago – they were briefly married. She converted to Judaism for him. The commentary said, ”de links intellectual en de blondes sex bombe” – ” the left wing intellecutal and the blonde sex bomb”.
I managed to detect a difference between Flemish and Dutch. I could tell them apart because Flemish had a French tinge to it and Dutch had a German tinge to it.
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BATTLEFIELDS AGAIN.
Next morning it was off by coach – after breakfast of course. Good old Terry was at the wheel. As the boss had grown up on RAF bases and Terry had been in the Royal Air Force they had much to talk about. It was sunny day especially for February. Belgium’s excellent roads were fairly free of traffic. Before long we arrive in Ypres. I had been there 3 years earlier. I remembered the centre very clearly.
We were allowed to go around on our own for a time. Rosie lent me some Euros because I could not access my cash. She urged me to phone my bank. My previous experiences of phoning banks resulted in half an hour listening to muzak that induced a homicidal rage in me. I took the money that Roosie so generously proferred. I wisely invested most of it in a magazine of hard core porn. Belgian does a fine line in chocolate and in anal fisting.
We sauntered over to Menin Gate. I looked at the many thousands of names carved there. These are the names of men whose bodies could not be recovered or if they were reocvered could not be identified. I climbed up the stairs and stood on the gate house. The gate is shut every evening and a ceremony takes place when the last post is played. I recalled reading Brendan Behan writing of attending this ceremony. Behan was an IRA man with strong anti-English prejudices in his youth. In his 30s he mollified. His uncle served George V here at the battle of Ypres. Brendan Behan’s uncle was one of those killed. From the gate house I could see the canal beyond. Northern Belgium being very flat is criss crossed with hundreds of well maintained canals. They exist more for drainage than they ever did for transport. I chatted to Roise there. The mound by the canal is very wide and covered in grass. It was part of the fortifications from the Earl Modern Era. What we now called Belgium has seen more pan European battles than any other country – so it is said. It was the fulcrum of western Europe. Whoever controleld it dominated the region.
We went to the museum and line of trenches I had visited three years earlier. I did not see Fleur around. There was a plump boy with a big nose and an olive skinned complexion on the trip. I do not call his name so I shall call him BiG Nose. Big Nose’ teacher did not like the boy becaue Big Nose knew a lot and was always asking show off questions. I told that teacher that at least Big Nose knew something and wanted to learn. I did not mind him at all. There were many worse kids than Big Nose. Big Nose asked me some questions about artillery that I could not answer. We wandered around the trench system. The boys enjoyed it somewhat but not in a scholastic sense. Rosie remarked that they were not getting educational value and they should have been given work sheets so they took in information. She said this to me not to the boss.
We went to Tyne cot. The boys seemed unmoved. We went to the island of Ireland peace tower. I hate that phrase – the island of Ireland. What as opposed to the conteient of Ireland? Of course it is a fucking island. But nationalists often misuse the word to mean the Republic of Ireland.
It was one of the prettier sigths I saw on the tour. It is a remidner than nationalists and unionists fought side by side in a common cause in the Great War. There was great unity in Ireland and much scope for reconciliation until republicans came and betrayed Ireland with their terrorism. They had no democratic mandate or mandate of any other kind. They conspired with a government that was an enemy of Ireland. They killed hundreds of people illegally. But they are held up as the good guys – the republicans. The Irishmen who joined the British Army – which was Ireland’s army – have all too often been overlooked or even denigrated.
We watched some videos about the Great War. Some read letters of young men who were about to go into action – expected to die and did. I found many to be depely moving. They were eloquent and cruelly poignant. These poor boys walking slowly towards their deaths. I cry only once every couple of years – I almost cried then. Sadly few boys seeed to even watch.
We had a packed luncheon from the hotel. There was one Jew aboard named Anthony. We could not have pork for him. The hotel said doing one non pork meal was too complicated so we must all be vegetarian. I foolishly told some boys in Anthiny’s presence. They ribbed him and he looked ill at ease.
There was a very short boy in our group called Todd. No one gave him a hard time. Anthony and he were mates.
Then we went to Langemarck. This is a German military cemetery north of Ypres. The German Army held a town called Passchaendaele just north of Ypres. The town’s name is pronounced ”passion dale”. The Germans called the first, second and third battles of Ypres the battles of Passchaendaele.
Langemarck is beside a country road. Trees 3 m tall are spaced out in a grid pattern in this cemetery. The gloom these trees casts adds to the sombre mood of the place. A stone wall surround the graveyard – it is perhaps 100m by 50m. One enters under a stone slab. It is very different from the Allied cemeteries. The Allied cemeteries speak of triumph – the Allies did win although triumph is too strong a word given that this war was a 4 year slogging match. The German cemetery seemed more honest. There is no statement there but grief.
I read some of the German inscriptions on the stonework. I translated as much as I could for the boys. Despite German being an option at the school none of our pupils seemed to speak a word. The German soldiers were buried ten to a grave. All the names would be on a metal plaque on the ground. It seemed impersonal and uncaring. The German military repatriated the corpses of as many of its war dead it could in the Great War and in the Second World War. These men are mostly interred in their parish graveyards. I am not sure why these individuals were buried where they fell. The German policy of sending cadavers back perahps undermined civilain morale. It literally and figuratively brought it home to people how many people were dying. Why did the British not send their dead home? From some battlefields such as in Africa it was impractical. The Germans in Africa could not send their dead home since they did not control the sea. Maybe the British idea was the same treatement for the dead whichever theatre they served in – buried where they died. Moreover, the British Government decided early in the war that the dead would all be buried together in unifrom graves to stress equality and unity of purpose. Some rich families had planned lavish tombs for their dead – they were to be disappointed.
I walked around this lugubrious lawn with Charlei Chuckles. He wore his green jacket and a green woolly hat over his bald head. He said it had been so melancholy to see countless graves of young men, ” who died in an utterly pointless war.” I took issue with this. It was not pointless for Belgium or for those who sought Polish independence – admittedly Polish independence had been the last thing on the minds of the leaders of all countries at the beginning. It saved Serbia. It was not pointless for France. I will admit that it was not worth it. From a British point of view Belgian independence might have been worth 10 000 British lives but it was not worth 800 000. I know there were wider issues. If Germany had won and the UK had stayed out then Germany would have so dominated the Continent that she could have built up her navy so much that she could have dismembered the British Empire. There is a small chance that Germany would not have won. Even if she had the UK could have built up her armed forces massively. Germany might not have attacked. If she had she might have been defeated. Maybe negotiation could have avoided war. I cannot help feeling that it would have been an awful lot better to have stayed out. I think of two Euripean countries with almost no natural resources and many natural disadvantages yet are very rich – Sweden and Switzerland. Why are they so rich? They have not been to war in 200 years. Other countries have beggared themselves with war and these countries have developed peacefully. I envy them. Sweden had iron ore. Apart from that these lands have ntihing going fof rthem. They have bad geographuca positions – mountains and cold. Peace is a large part of the explanation for their prosperity.
We drove back to the hotel.
At dinner the boss told us about his washing up job as a teenager. His colleague was an old man who had been in the Great War. The old soldier showed him a bullet wound in his forearm. It is amazing to think. All the war vetereans are dead now – all of them I mean – all of the, every last one. They were 10 a penny when I was young. I regret I never met one. I saw some at a Remembrance Day parade. I considered going up to them and I rue that I did not.
The boss lived in Cyprus. The Turks invaded and the UK stayed out. My Cypriot friend Iannis told me the deal was that the UK got the soveriegn base area in retrun for defending Cyrpus is she were attacked. Howevere, when Turkey attacked in 1974 the UK did not honour the promise. I felt that was shameful and the UK ought to have fended off the Turks. As the UK did not she sould withdraw. The UK did not honour her side of the bargain so the Cypritos should get their land back. The boss told me their was huge American pressure not to intervene. The US was best buds with the Turks and Turkye was very important to keeping US bases adjacent to the USSR. Greece was pro US but had a large communist party and the Greek colonels seemed doomed to fall – they did just after the invasion fo Cyprus partly due to their failure to save Cyrpus. Turkey was much bigger and more strategically important to the US than Greece. The UK felt that in the light of Suez she could not take military action without American approval.
The boss told the boys there had been abd behaviour. SOmeboud had had sometyhing clepped. sO they were not allowed into town. ”Good decision” said Charlie Chuckles.
Charlie and I walked around the dark streets later. The wind whipped intou our face. He said state secrecy was unnecessary and secrecy was self reinforcing. Bureaucracies kept secrets not for the public interest but in their own interest. I disagreed vigorously.
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THE SOMME
We went off for a day to the Somme. That is in France so does not belong in a chapter on Belgium.
That evening we came home from the Somme. The next day it was back to Calais by coach. We watched some Fast Show comedy videos. They went down pretty well. As befits his name Charlie Chuckles chuckled at some. He described the skits as ”very hit and miss.”
We took the ferry back. On the coach we listened in to some football commentary as we sped up the motorway. I noticed the RAF memorial beside the road. We got back to school that afternoon. The headmaster was there to greet us as well as the parents. I headed for the airport and a plane to Germany.
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