Brugse Zot

First time on le Shuttle with Maisy, easipeasy -the way to go.....

 

First rule of Turpie travel...all continental trips begin and end in a Calais hyper-market....

Today was no exception, Auchan, Coquelles being the chosen retail interlude, and of course now owning a motorhome with a spacious rear garage adds a whole new dimension to any ensuing .'booze-cruise'. I have no doubt that the cost of travelling from Derbyshire to Calais does not stack-up in terms of economics; maybe you save £2.50 on a simple bottle of wine - say around £200 on the 13 cases we bought. Using the car - petrol, two hotel stops, a ferry crossing and meals out - that would probably set you back perhaps nearer £250 pounds at least. In a motorhome, then the costs could be even more; what you save in hotels bills goes straight into the gas tank.

However, the issue is not about economics, but quality of life and value for money. I don't make a habit of shopping in Asda, however a couple of weeks ago I found myself in central Stockport and needed a few items for lunch. After admiring approvingly the competitively priced cucumbers (its an exciting life I lead these days), I moved on to the wine department. There was simply nothing I could bring myself to buy. The 'New World' wines were the cheapest, but everything seemed branded, super-blended single grape varieties. French and Italian wines were all seriously over-priced at £7.50 upwards and again tended to be own brand labelled, or blended wines labelled from famous  areas like Chianti and Cotes de Rhone, or single grape types such as 'Primitivo'.

That's not to say that France has been entirely immune from the same process. Most hypermarket chains try to push own brand wines, usually produced by large Cave Cooperatives on an industrial scale. We call them 'petrol-pump wines' due to the fact that if you visit the supplier directly you can often buy the wine in bulk if you bring your own plastic 'vrac', then fill it up by the litre using a fuel-style pump. In the Calais area discounted branded wines aimed at the British market - J P Chenet and the like- also abound. All that being said, you can still buy very pleasant Southern French wines for less than 5 Euros - sometimes for even half that amount on BOGOF deals - where you can tell, just by reading the label, that the bottle has been made by an individual grower and produced within a particular terroir with love, pride and care. It's 'the south' bottled, an essential pre-requisite for surviving  long, dark winters high in the Pennines.

Having speed-shopped in Coquelles we headed for Dunkirk and the Belgian border. Our stop-off at an aire for a snack was, as is often case,  a good antidote against becoming too dewy eyed with incipient Francophilia.  The TV cultural commentator, Jonathan Meades, talks about the twin French obsessions with weird gigantic structures and la moderne, often expressed in grey, loveless concrete. Both were much in evidence at the Aire d'Offerkerque.

A simple lunch stop at l' Aire d'Offerkerque

I wonder who thought it was a good idea to place a look-out tower on top of the insanitary block?

There are few sights as grim as an empty, concreted car park ..it could have been drizzling I suppose!

Auden reckoned that "concrete will unsex any space which it encloses". French architects have attempted more than most to disprove his assertion, but even here, in the world centre of unashamed Brutalism it must be said that dreary concrete car parks far outnumber le Corbusier styled villas. No musing on modernism for us though - in less than an hour we'd arrived on the outskirts of a fourteenth century boom town, and for once Muriel seemed as keen to get there as quickly as ourselves, depositing us without having a 'a moment' straight into the 'Aire de Camping Cars' situated on the southern edge of the ancient centre of Bruges.


It's about a 15 minute stroll from here into the town square and without further ado we set off. We happened on the moment when tour parties were heading coach-wards, so picked our way through the hoards coming towards us. Each group was led by a courier touting a number on a stick. I have to say most of the tourists trailing along behind looked pretty miserable; it did seem to resemble being back in school. I suspect that Gill and I, having both been teachers and managers in education, would undoubtedly need to have been holding the number at the front. However I did consciously resist the urge to blow a whistle and yell things like "no dawdling at the back" or "Jenkins! leave Melissa alone, you don't know where she's been".

Swans at Minnewater Park

The path to the city centre crossed Minnewater Park reaching the built-up area at Beginjhof. Here, just across an ancient waterway, where flocks of swans float among the willow trees, is Bruges' Beguinage. These medieval convents were unusual in so much as the women who took holy orders, rather than retreating from the world, worked within the city expressing their faith through charitable work.

The gate to the Beguinage

The Sister's simple whitewashed houses glimpsed through the gates.

Within is a haven of tranquility remote from the bustle of the city beyond its high walls.

Visitors are asked to be silent as the Beguinage is still home to practicing Benedictines

Whitewashed small cottages similar to those found within the grounds of the Beguinage are scattered throughout the city as they were built as almshouses for widows and the poor. Whole streets of them can be found in the vicinity of Katelijinstraat, many our now house craftshops and artisan chocolatiers.

Whitewashed houses and quaint cobbles - cute, but murder on the feet!

The racks of brightly coloured scarves looked very jolly in the afternoon sun.

Spire of The Church of Our Lady

As we wandered towards the heart of the city the late afternoon light slowly faded towards evening and the setting sun lit the steep rooftops and stepped gables in a pale golden light. The red tiled roof of the Sint-Jan Hospital faded to a burnt umber colour.  We arrived in the main square, seeking out somewhere to have a beer as the clear sky deepened to a translucent royal blue, it was truly memorable moment. We found a place with a great view of the Markt and Belfry.

Evening sunlight on the Sint-Jan Hospital

Orange roofs

The Belfry

Viva Europa!

Choosing a beer is really tricky, the variety is mind-blowing. In the end I opted for a local brew from Bruges' Halve Maan brewery. Brugse Zot means Bruges Fool. Apparently due to some highly unlikely tale involving the citizens of Bruges and Emperor Maximillian, everybody from Bruges are known as 'fools'- hence the beer's name. Gill opted for a Weiss Bier called Brugs, all very civilised.

Too much choice....

Does anyone choose Bass Pale Ale, I wonder.....

Pete's Brugse Zot

I like the Cheshire Cat grin...

Gill's Brugs 

After we'd had a bier we wandered over from the Markt to the adjacent Burg Square. The town hall and nearby restaurants were all floodlit in a warm yellow light which contrasted spectacularly with the deep blue, twilight sky. It had been a long day, was it just this morning that we had woken up to clearing skies in Oxford?

Bruges Town Hall

Restaurants on Burg Square,

Time to wander back through the half empty streets and hit the sack...Goodnight!

Vaulted Halls and Bauhaus Tattoos

We've just returned from a brief trip to Bruges, via Oxford (to see Matthew) and the great Wen ( to see Sarah).  Luckily we chose a moment of respite from the recent period of Autumn monsoon, and given that the clocks changed last night, the last few days have been unexpectedly bright and unseasonably mild, though dire warnings of impending hurricane strength winds winds accompanied our drive up the M1 yesterday. Given that Maisy seems to get  become a trifle unsteady in anything stronger than a breeze, I don't fancy her chances in a full-on gale.

The Oxford city campsite is right next to the Park and Ride, so it was easy to get into the centre of the city and mooch about until Matthew finished work. Between staring at 'jeggings' in M&S (not designed for a middle aged bum!) and staring at greeting cards in Waterstones, we managed to wile away quite a chunk of the afternoon.

Matthew took us to a really interesting coffee shop right next to the Radcliffe Camera. The room was the original University Council chamber and dated from the mid- fourteenth century. Great coffee, yummy cakes, awesome quadripartite vaulting, hardly your average Starbucks.

The Radcliffe Camera in the evening sunlight.

An inevitable dreaming spire

Coffee and cake in the Congregation House

Byron Burger, where we ate later that evening, was one of those high end chains where anything from a humble burger to a self effacing lettuce is prone to adjectival beatification by having the term 'artisan' or 'signature' stuck in front of it. However the food was pretty good, and the hardworking young waitresses from Poland served up our meals with a friendly smile and a bit of panache despite being rushed off their feet.

Gill, looking slightly startled in Byron Burger!

Glancing around the restaurant I reflected on a comment Gill had made while wandering around central Oxford earlier. She observed, 'why do I feel older in England than I do when I'm abroad?' It's true, I thought, I feel that too. Maybe it's because youth culture is so highly developed here. Certainly, just glancing around the buzzing restaurant we appeared to be among the oldest customers; most of the clientele were super-sociable twenty-somethings alternating chatting to each other with texting and tweeting more remote 'friends'. Amongst the young men, 'geek chic' seemed to be the preferred look, with many sporting black- framed , Buddy Holly styled specs, though the odd Mumford and Son memorial beard was also in evidence.

The girl's fashions were more eclectic. I particularly liked the style of the tall young lady sitting on the table just opposite. Her look was based on a variant of 'the little black dress', but the garment has been given a goth make-over with the addition of silver studs around the scoop neckline and a flared black mesh outer skirt. All of this had clearly been designed to showcase her interesting collection of tattoos. Along the length of her left forearm, in a large wispy font redolent of fin de siècle Vienna, was the word 'Bau'- in a matching font on her right, the word 'haus'.  The back of her hand and the nape of her neck were  inscribed with other phrases in Gothic script too small to read with a mere casual glance. This, coupled with a spiky punk hairdo and dark purple eye-shadow made her appearance striking to say the least. Many of the bright young things around us looked well read, but nobody else had taken this quite so literally as Ms. Manuscript.

After we'd eaten we dashed for the bus as a sudden thunderstorm crackled around the spires and sheets of rain swept across the swiftly emptying streets. Exactly the same thing happened to us the last time we went out with Matthew for a meal in Oxford back in August. Maybe the place is going to take on the same reputation as Rome has in family lore; we've never managed to see the Eternal City without getting soaked to the skin. Is Oxford going to become the same? 

Matthew came back with us and we sat in the van talking about this and that - late Nineteenth Century French politics (Gill's reading the latest Robert Harris novel about the Dreyfus Affair), and the Belgian football team. According to Matthew, who does know about these things, the Belgian national team are the dark horses of next Summer's shenanigans in Rio. It would be quite funny if they beat Brazil in a penalty shoot-out. Would they get out of the country alive?

Matthew looking shadowy in the cab

Next morning, sunshine after the rain...

Next day we trundled down the M40 around M25 and down to Folkestone to catch le Shuttle. I was a bit apprehensive about maneuvering  Maisy into the carriage, but in the end it was a breeze. During the 35 minutes it took to cross  to France we sat at our table and had a very civilised lunch of bread, cheese and salad. Much nicer than queuing for chips in a ferry cafeteria. We decided that all future Tesco points would go into Channel Tunnel tickets;  it's the way to go, we agreed.

In 'le Shuttle'

Lloyd George knew my father....

Sometimes, even in a marriage of 35 years vintage, a veritable Grande Cru of a relationship, there can be times when your nearest and dearest simply stares at you nonplussed, just as if you'd sprouted Mr Spock ears or taken on a vaguely viridian tint reminiscent of Yoda. Relaxing last Saturday outside a cafe in Caerarfon's market place in the shadow of the town's magnificent castle and the statue of  its most celebrated former residents - Lloyd George, Gill and I had  such a moment. 'Lloyd George knew my father,' I quipped. 'Really!' Gill replied guardedly, quite clearly unsure how a small unassuming chap from Dunblane who veiwed a trip to York as 'going South' could ever have been acquainted with one of the towering figures of early Twentieth Century politics. 'No,' I added hastily, 'I mean the song, Lloyd George knew my father, father knew Lloyd George.....' trailing off as I realised she had absolutely no idea what I was going on about.

Lloyd George knew my father.....

In truth the entire cafe visit was not going terribly well. We'd just agreed that the last time we had traveled this way had been during a cycle-camping trip to Snowdonia in May 1980. Furthermore, we also had just asserted that although our 25 year old selves had been slimmer, fitter, and far more energetic, nevertheless in certain respects, namely in a quest for acceptable barista standards, our late fifty-something selves were more discerning. 'I suppose I should have known that simply having an Illy sign was no guarantee whatsoever that people actually know how to make a cappuccino. Its not just hot milk with chocolate sprinkled on it,' Gill whispered darkly.

Cafe life, Caernafon style....

It's Cappuccino Pete.....

....but not as we know it!

The problem with my tendency to bathe in the golden light of nostalgia and reminisce romantically about how this or that part of Gwyndd seemed just as empty, undeveloped and 'unspoiled' as thirty years ago, is what I'm hankering after is not the past, but a version of the past with all the advantages of the present. So, if Caernarfon seemed just as I remembered it - that it had barely changed - why then did I expect it to serve up Italian coffee to a standard honed in the caffe's of Portifino, Gargagno or Vinci? Not even I, at my insufferable best, would be willing to assert that we've changed, but Wales hasn't. In truth both the area and ourselves have changed in unexpected ways over the past thirty-odd years.

However, the medieval centre of the town did indeed appear much the same, a bit sad, dilapidated and unloved for all its World Heritage status. This is in marked contrast to the swanky 'waterside development' - Doc Fictoria' - situated a couple of hundred yards away. Very New Labour, a local, nano-sized variant of trickle-down economics. I imagine just as Messrs Balls and Brown believed that a supercharged de-regulated City would draw in sufficient investment and capital to fuel  a more general national revival, then I suspect the thinking behind Doc Fictoria was that the affluent boat owners using the marina and the middle class apartment dwellers would increase business in the town and make Caernarfon more prosperous generally. I have no idea if this has worked out in practise, but it does not look as if it has. Of course what we should have done is read the visual clues; patronised the trendy cafe-bars on the dockside where we probably would have been served a passable coffee, then just wandered around the central historical area gawping at the architectural heritage like good  tourists. That way we would have had a more satisfying 'visitor experience'. We also would have inadvertently reinforced the skewed effect of 'inward investment' economics where the invested-in new environment gets richer as the traditional declining area next to it gets busier, but not necessarily more affluent.

Doc Fictoria

Having left Maisie in the coach area of the large FREE car park next to the marina we returned and headed back a couple of miles along the Llanberris road to 'Riverside Camping'. It's a really pleasant small site next to a garden centre. The owners were busy having a big family 'do', so they promised to simply tape the pitch number and map onto a greenhouse window, and true to their word the instructions were there when we arrived. After all of the fuss of Camping and Caravan Club sites where a 'meet and greet' welcome committee of logo'ed, sweat-shirted wardens swarm about and dole out advice about parking, the required 6.m distance between neighbouring vans and rules concerning which side caravan doors are meant to open, it was a relief just to roll-up and sort ourselves out. Where does customer service end and harassment begin - I much prefer smaller more relaxed sites.

We had a quick walk down to the river, then wandered a few yards up an old railway track. Gill had fun popping the spring-loaded seed pods of Indian balsam plants, I joined in and generally became silly and puerile, which is one of the joys of camping - you can become a big kid again and nobody cares. There was just time to sit outside and have a beer before twilight fell. We amused ourselves by failing to get the TV to work then watched an episode of 'Luther' on DVD. By the time we'd polished off a bottle of Minevois between the pair of us it was time for an early night; fresh air is is definitely the best sleeping pill of the lot.

Yesterday, having peppered Caerarfon with my usual mix of ill-evidenced assertion and prejudice, next morning we drove south towards Criccieth. It is a lovely part of the world and even the main 'A' roads on this bright, late September Sunday were virtually empty. The road snakes along the coast skirting towering headlands scarred by slate quarries, then heads south across a broad muddy estuary. Criccieth itself, dominated by a ruined keep overlooking Tremadog Bay, is a pretty little coastal village.

Criccieth - looking towards Black Rock Sands

Too blustery for a pleasant stroll

 I have no doubt it gets overwhelmed with trippers in  July and August, but out of season it was peaceful. We had planned to walk along the beach towards Black Rock sands but a blustery, unpleasant easterly breeze sprung up, so we wandered towards the castle, then stopped of to see if Cadwaladers Ice Cream cafe could rescue Cambria's reputation on the coffee front. I'm glad to say it did, the resultant macchiata passed even Gills stringent standards - 'all good,' as she is wont to say.

The macchiato meets with approval

In Cadwallers Ice Cream cafe

Lunch with a view

Then after a quick lunch back at the van it was time to head home. The return journey, through Dolgellau and Bala was less spectacular than yesterday's drive over the Pass of Llanberris, nonetheless a pretty drive through a mix of wooded and moorland scenery. From time to time I pulled into a lay-by to let the line of frustrated car drivers behind get past. Every so often we'd meet another motorhome coming the other way; I'm still not quite fully at ease with the various masonic hand signals that other owners make as they pass. At some point I suppose I will simply accept that I've become enmeshed in a sub-culture and stop feeling self- conscious when I wave back. Let's face it, I never have been a person likely to indulge in a cheery wave, or a cheery anything for that matter. in fact, thinking about it, maybe I find cheeriness an unsettling concept altogether....

So, what did I reckon on my first one night stand with Maisy? It certainly does make you feel that you've had a break from mundane routine. Maybe the 300 mile round trip was just a bit too far and we'd be better to explore a little closer to home- Shropshrie or maybe Worcestershire next time, but we're only a few weeks away from the end of BST and soon the weather will break and the van will need to be prepared for the winter - a less than cheery thought....