I do feel a bit useless and sad
for my own recollection purposes because I haven’t written about wonderful
things like going to Glasgow and Ayr with my beautiful Scottish tour guide
Jenny where I walked on the very street where my great-grandfather John
Ross-Smith was born in 1886, nor my trip with Annalies to beautiful Budapest
(that joint, what a stunner) where we cruised the Danube and wandered for hours
and drank Hungarian champagne in an old bathtub at Szimpfla Kert, nor the
electronic tables at Inamo, nor the amazing time I had with my little brother Ben
and his girlfriend Sarah when they came to visit and we went to cool places
like Hampton Court Palace and Sushisamba (best views of London to date!) and
Sensational Butterflies at the Natural History Museum and then sometimes just
sat and drank beer and talked for hours, nor Kirsti’s hen’s night which
culminated in chicken-shop air guitar and a nap on the bus (Ani, not me), nor
Musical Bingo with Erica (it’s fun! Motown and 90s! You should go play! Does
that count as a review EJV? *cough), nor all of the beautiful weather in London
and Summer BBQs, nor the animatronic T-Rex I met at the Natural History Museum,
nor that time I went to see The Martin Harley Band with my new workmates and
got drunk and ended up… tarmacking the road with the road-workers, nor discovering
the best little blow dry bar on dirty old North End Road, nor that time I
secured another tattoo appointment with Dan Smith for October (feet, ouch!) You
know, all of the goodness and craziness and happiness that is my little life in
London.
I’m back now, for a second crack
at this thing. And guess what? I recently went to Belgium. You should go. It’s
all kinds of surprising and adorable (and emotional, what is wrong with me?)
you know.
My Gran’ma and Gran’pa are in the
Northern hemi at the moment, on a visit from New Zealand. In all of the years
they’ve travelled the world (and believe me, they’ve clocked up some miles)
(it’s basically the coolest story in the world) (but that’s for another place,
another time) they’d never made it to Belgium, nor had my Aunt Helen (also well-travelled
and worldly, that one). Annalies, who I took with me for moral support and
spooning purposes (not really, I have to build a pillow wall when I share a bed
so I don't wake up looking at anyone - being single for too long has made me
weird yo) had paid a fleeting trip to Bruges once upon a time, and I’d been to
Brussels and Bruges back in February 2011 to stay with my Aunt Debbie and Uncle
Terry who used to live there (my family, so jet-set). I remembered it was adorable,
but cold. So I was pretty excited to spend some more time and see it in the
sunshine. You know, ‘cause I’m old and I like to be warm.
First stop: Brussels. Annalies
had never seen the joint and wanted to be whelmed by the Mannekin Pis and have
her breath taken away (not my words, but dang) by the Grand Place and I was
happy enough to see it all again (and drink some beer, let's be honest).
Our quirky little B&B was
just a few minutes’ walk away from both of the aforementioned (who even uses
that word?) tourist hot spots - a pretty sweet little abode (I'm sahhh into white on white on white) run
by a guy called Xavier and his mum. We had the loft room so we roasted like
chickens in a roasting pan, but otherwise it was dandy. We caught the Eurostar
over (highlights: wine) after work so arrived pretty late and hit the hay. In
the morning we slothed about a bit and took photos with the fan - it was one of
those weird bladeless ones that Dyson are doing these days? Science: it's
confusing! Then we wandered down to the Grand Place, via Mannekin Pis who I was
pretty stoked to see in his natural, naked state as the last time I saw him he
was wearing some kind of hideous red and yellow track suit. Apparently he has
over 700 costumes now; the city has actually employed someone who sews for him.
"Yes, I sew clothes for a statute which wees in to a fountain and it is my
fulltime job and what do you do?"
We chanced upon a free walking
tour (go Sandeman's!) in the Grand Place, so after we'd taken a few 9,000
photos we wandered around with the group and took in some street art (new
favourite: Invader!), beautiful buildings, 45 minutes of useless information
about chocolate and the tour guide's grandmother, and some local deros drinking
on the steps of the opera house before the tour made a pit stop at a bar. Now
we're talking: Belgian beer. We, being sahhh
in to culture and all that, decided to bail on the tour at this point so we
could drink more beer, and eat frites. When in Rome, you know.
Next stop: Bruges. My
grandparents had booked a couple of amazing apartments not far from The Markt
and it was so good to see their smiling faces when we arrived. Now I know it's
always good to see your whanau, but mine comes with the added bonus of being
amazing and therefore I win at life. Helen and her girls live in the 'Wolds so
I get to see them semi-regularly (but not often enough, *waves), but it had
been nearly two years since I last saw my grandparents. I think? I'm bad
with... calendars. The first evening we drank gin and ate good food and talked
a lot, before wandering for ice cream and... wait for it... more photos.
Annalies and I stayed out to take in the ambience of The Markt and were treated
to shots of "my milk" (you can vom now or save it for the next bit -
up to you) from the half-Belgian, half-Italian waiter. In case you were
wondering, which we weren't, he's top half Belgian, bottom half Italian and no
thank you, we won't be coming for a drink after the bar closes but we do
appreciate the roses. And the "milk". Except not the
"milk". Or the roses. Or the creep sauce.
The next day we slept late and
stuffed ourselves with croissants (best start), then hopped aboard a canal
cruise with yet another idiot (I swear they're taking over the world) at the
helm, who rather fancied himself as a bit of a James Bond. To be honest, I
wasn't really listening to his narrative but Bruges is cute and I got about a
million photos, including one of a Labrador napping on a window sill so I was
happy enough. Helen spotted a true work of art from the river so after we
docked (apparently I'm a sailor now) we went to the flea market to check it
out. Turns out the asking price for a Rampant Ferret on a Branch is circa 23
Euros in 2013. Good to know. Annalies bought yet another plate, and I bought
nothing because other people's second hand crap makes me feel dirty and
uncomfortable. Then we went for food and beer, glorious beer. I think there was
napping involved shortly thereafter. And chocolate. Before more gin and food
and talking and avoiding of creepy waiters by staying in and spending quality
time and being reminded how cool my grandparents are.
The next morning, post-croissant
(stop it) Helen set the girls off on a bike ride to the beach, and us old folk
crossed the street to check out Choco Story. If you're ever in Bruges: don’t! In
my opinion at least, it's not that interesting, and although the mascot
Chocolala is rather adorable, chocolate sculptures are the opposite of
adorable, especially when they're slightly dusty and / or broken. And I still
don't know why those hessian-draped mannequins were nailed to the wall? If you
do get sucked in, for whatever reason, you may wish to also get a ticket to
Lumina Domestica which is in the same building. Yes. The LAMP Museum. Go on, treat
yourself. And report back for my entertainment. We did watch a short movie
about chocolate which was kind of interesting, like on a scale of 1 to
wanttopokemyeyesout, it was maybe only a 5 so like... bearable. And there was a
free chocolate (or two) at the end so that's nice and definitely what my fat
ass needed.
A quick visit, needless to say
before we headed to the Burg - another gorgeous square which houses some
amazing buildings like the City Hall, and the Basilica of the Holy Blood. 12th
century, absolutely stunning and yes, home to a vial of actual Jesus blood you
guys. I remain unconvinced but it's there for the viewing if you're partial.
Then we enjoyed some more beer (natch, rude not too, etcetera) and cheese and
salami and weird waiters.
On account of being well-read and
clever and organised, Helen had done some research and discovered that there is
a Michelangelo Madonna and Child at the Church of Our Lady, dated around 1504. I'm
not overly spiritual or religious or any of those things, but I am quite
partial to churches (I may or may not be inclined to touch them). In addition
to the Michelangelo, the Church of Our Lady houses the tombs of Charles the
Bold who was the last Valois Duke of Burgundy and his daughter Mary. Gilded
bronze figures of both lie on huge polished slabs of shiny black stone.
The majority of the interior of the church is currently being refurbished, I
guess that detracts from the beauty of it? I've got a bit of a crush on
grand buildings (or cities) which are in a state of semi-disrepair so it kind of added to
the ambience for me. And despite not being especially spiritual or religious
like I said, there’s something about being inside those joints that gets under
my skin for whatever reason. Like if I stayed for long enough I might start to
believe? Maybe I already do kind of believe in something but I've always been too stubborn to admit it because it doesn't make sense. Or maybe I’m just going crazy in my old age? It's probably the latter.
In Flanders fields the poppies
blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the
sky
The larks, still bravely singing,
fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset
glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we
lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we
throw
The torch; be yours to hold it
high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though
poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.
After Essex Farm, at The Menin Gate we watched the
Last Post ceremony which is performed by buglers from the local fire brigade
every night at 8pm, with support from various war veterans and cadets and the
like. It’s been that way since 1927, except for a short stint during the German
occupation in World War II when the ceremony was conducted in Surrey instead.
On the very day that Polish forces liberated Ypres in WWII the Last Post was
resumed at the gate despite the fact that fighting carried on in the
surrounding areas. I started choking up before the ceremony had even started;
the names of nearly 55,000 (fifty five THOUSAND!) Commonwealth soldiers who
died in Ypres Salient but whose bodies have never been identified nor found are
inscribed on the walls – the sheer volume of lives lost is just too much
to get one’s head around. There’s an inscription on the gate which reads “Here
are recorded the names of officers and men who fell in Ypres Salient but to
whom the fortune of war denied the known and honoured burial given to their
comrades in death.” That set me off again. As did the Ode of Remembrance. I
mean, I’m hardly made of stone but it’d be hard to imagine even the iciest of
ice maidens not getting slightly misty in Ypres…
After the Last Post we took a
quick wander through The Grote Markt which was truly, truly striking. More beautiful bulidings, especially the Cloth Hall which dates back to the 13th century.
Then, before we lost the sun we drove out to Tyne Cot Cemetery. That was the most emotional bit for me; those Kiwi boys so far from home, and
so many of them Known Unto God. No names on the grave stones, no known graves
for thousands of them. We were lucky to be the last three people there that
day; maybe lucky is the wrong word but for a couple of moments I couldn’t even see Helen or Annalies and there
was something kind of special about that for me. It’s a truly beautiful space,
the Commonwealth War Graves Commission has done a superb job. Those Kiwi
kids so far from home got a pretty sweet final resting place, that’s for sure.
I have these moments where I’m
struck by how extraordinary life is, as I'm sure everyone does. That night was one of those moments for
me. I feel pretty lucky that my life is what it is, and that time has brought me where it
has. And that I was able to pay my respects to those who fell for the greater
good, and for the safe and happy life I’ve been so privileged to lead. Moved, grateful, humbled for sure.
Back to: Bruges. On our last
morning, post-pastry, the lot of us headed for the Beguinage where the Beguines, who
are kind of like 'half-nuns' live. The Beguines don’t take a formal religious
vow, but they do live in small communities and devote themselves to prayer and
good works and nice things like that. Unfortunately it wasn’t yet open so we
couldn’t explore inside, but the domed exterior of the building was quite
beautiful – I do love me a good dome.
Instead we strolled up the road a short
way to check out the windmills, do roly polys (big slopes = genuine motion
sickness), and lay about in the sunshine beside the water. As it was our last
day, we absolutely had to buy chocolate and drink more beer and shop for lace
and eat waffles, so Annalies and I spent a few hours back in the town doing
priority things like that with Georgia and Alex, before we tragically had to
say our goodbyes and get our taxi back to the train station and make tracks back to London...
Hey Belgium, you're a bit of alright.
No it doesn't count. And also; wah.
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