A tale of two cities

The motor-home aire in Bruges is convenient and easy to find. At 15 Euros per night low season, rising to 22 Euros at peak times it is not a cheap option and the city's campsite is not much more, but we figured that as we'd have to pay for a bus to get into the city from the campsite and you can walk straight in from the aire, then the latter is better value. Irritatingly, although we'd parked-up right next to the service point, the facility had stripy tape wrapped around it. A fellow traveller told us that he'd been using the aire for ten years and this was the first time there had been a problem. In all fairness to the municipal authorities a white van drew up just as we were about to leave and two blokes in hi-res vests got out and stood and stared at the disfunctional machine; clearly the blokish hands on hips and sharp intake of breath ritual - a kind of  mechanical repair foreplay - cuts across cultural divides and the anthropological significance of the rite should probably have been 'unpacked'  in  reverential whisperings in the style of David Attenborough. Luckily there was fresh water and a grey water emptying point right next to the place in the adjacent coach park; you do have to compete for the facilties with fierce looking coach drivers from eastern Europe, but we did, and duly set-off homewards returning to the tunnel terminal via Cite Europe's Carrefour, just to make doubly sure we'd not missed any BOGOF offers on the vino.

As we trundled up the M20 towards the M25 and the Dartford Crossing we knew it was going to take forever as the BOEIF stampede had kicked-off early. The tailback for the Dartford tunnel was more than three miles long and the overhead signs warned of dire congestion along the length of the Essex section of the M25. Eventually we did get to the crossing and discovered one of the tunnels had been closed - hence even more chaos than normal. Looking at the map there seemed to be a shortcut to the Lea Valley Campsite,which is situated just south of Enfield, using the A12. Big mistake! Although it's a dual carriageway there are roundabouts every half mile or so which get jam-packed at the rush hour. We were the only motor-home in a sea of flashy BMWs. I was glad to have automatic gears as it made negotiating all the roundabouts and lane changing so much easier. The journey was not without its compensations, when else are you going to make a foray into deepest Hows-your-Fatherland and sweep magisterially past the crumbling northern outskirts of Romford, Dagenham and Ilford? In truth, everywhere is interesting....

It was late afternoon by the time we reached the campsite. It's pleasantly green given its proximity to the Great Wen. The immediate environs seemed to have been given a recent make-over due to the London Olympics. There's a massive indoor athletics facility right next to the site and a big multiplex. The area is in a bit of a no-mans-land between Enfield and Edmonton Green. You do wonder about the Olympic legacy, the cinema complex did not seem very busy and there are no chain restaurants, or indeed any restaurants in the immediate vicinity which might help attract customers to the cinema and sports complex.

Anyway, we were heading for Hackney to see Sarah's new apartment. This involves a bus from outside the cinema to Edmonton Green Station , then the overground to London Fields. Our first cardinal sin was not to have the right change for the bus. A poster on the bus shelter announced that Transport for London  was planning a pilot scheme to test out 'cash-free' buses. I don't know why they are going to bother to consult as it would seem that their staff have already taken that decision for them. Our exchange with the bus-driver was nothing less than bizarre. The stop was a kind of mini-terminus so the bus drew to a halt and waited for a few minutes before trundling back to Edmonton Green. Gill hopped onto the bus and waited for the driver to respond. He just sat there immobile staring forwards, clearly playing some astonishingly puerile 'you speak first, cos I can't be arsed' game. Gill duly apologised for only having a  note, eventually the driver with much begrudging muttering and raking through pockets found the change. In all fairness reading the London Transport web-site it does say: If you try to pay a bus fare using a £10, £20 or £50 note, it's unlikely that the bus driver will have enough change and you won't be allowed to travel. It was the driver's passive-aggressive stance that I took umbrage with, not the fare issue. OK, you might say, but that's just urban life and you are not used to it. But we have used public transport in New York, Tokyo, Sydney, Hongkong, Paris, Amsterdam, Rome, Naples... nowhere did you get the same issues as in London. It is the low level aggression and harassment that you get here that I find tiresome, which is why every time I drive-off a ferry into Europe my spirit lifts a little and I think to myself, yes! freedom!

We managed the interchange at Edmonton Green and Sarah met us at London Fields station which is only a couple of minutes walk from her flat. It's her first unfurnished place, modern and pleasant with a small balcony overlooking some posher loft conversions across the street and a view of the road which is good for that most satisfying of urban past-times, people watching. After we'd admired the flat we headed off to eat at Hackney City Farm cafe It's fun and informal with an odd collection of   furniture that our kids call vintage and we call second hand. The service was a trifle random and the people waiting-on decidedly nouvelle vague, but the pasta dish was pretty good. and the place, early in the evening, was not packed out. I bet it gets a big thumbs-up from the Guardian food critic, it was all quite left field. The area around London Fields is young and quite trendy, it has a relaxed, lively atmosphere. If I was twenty five I could see the attraction of living here.

Not Bruges, its 'ackney, innit...

Afterwards we headed back to Maisy. The area around Edmonton Green does not feel threatening, but it is poor, a diverse community which must have its issues. Not everyone around the bus station seemed on this planet. One young woman was utterly drugged-up. She was accompanied by a boy, he was probably nine or ten years old;  he seemed to be trying to steer his mother home. As we waited at the bus-stop an older guy intervened and seemed to be helping the kid to persuade his mother to make some progress up the street, but every so often she'd stop and have a bit of a rant at some invisible demon. There are new  high rise  flats overshadowing the district centre. You just wonder about the lives of all the people living in them, it can't be easy and it leaves you feeling thankful for the opportunities we've had. In all honesty I was glad to get back to the van.

Next day we headed back to Sarah's for a coffee. They showed-off their small collection of vintage vinyl on a record deck they'd just bought. Shame we got rid of all 200 of our albums just a couple of years ago, the Bluenote jazz stuff in particular I guess you'd pay a good price for these days, but our urge to de-clutter was stronger than our sense of nostalgia. It was quite amusing to see the Deezer and Ipod generation struggling with the challenges of removing fluff  from the stylus!

Gill being slowly devoured by the sofa

Sarah demonstrates how to hold a spoon with casual style

Rob showing advanced album handling skills - cue Little Richard!

The publishing house that Sarah works for is a corporate sponsor of the Tate Modern so she managed to get two members passes for the newly opened Klee exhibition. We headed for the bus, taking a stroll through London Fields and through Broadway Market, which was doing a roaring trade selling street food, artisan sausages and designer cheese to the thronging young professionals.

Well done to the Hackney Borough Parks Dept - London Field's wild flower meadow is gorgeous.

Broadway Market's fungi specialists - and scrutty little dog.

After a quick tour of East London we were duly dropped off next to St Pauls. It's just a short walk from here to the Tate Modern across the Millennium footbridge. You get a really great view of The Shard. I have a real soft spot for skyscrapers, and though in terms of height no way can it rival structures in the Gulf and Far East, what it lacks in size it more than makes up in clarity of design. 

The guest tickets gave us access to the member's lounge and we had a very pleasant lunch on the terrace overlooking the Thames and the City skyline. London's appeal lies in its diversity and energy. Some parts do have charm and beautiful architecture. Overall though it is a vibrant working city, its industrial heritage and rich history oozes from its pores, but its not a beautiful city like Paris or Sydney, apart from how it looks, its often grey skies make it feel joyless sometimes. It has great energy, but lacks zest.

Lunch on the members terrace, a bit posh....

The exhibition was packed, but well laid out and skillfully curated to tell the story of Klee's creative life. As well as being full of ideas and a meticulous practitioner, a subtle colourist and imaginative draughtsman, you sensed something of the man as well as the artist. He seemed engaging and good humoured, you came out liking the person as well as the painter. We have two Klee prints in our dining room. It was great to come across the original of the Cotes d'Azur beach scene, like bumping into an old friend.

In the evening we tested out the tagine that we'd bought as a house warming present for Sarah and Rob. I suppose given Paul Klee's love of the colours and light of Tangier that the Cous Cous with Moroccan Spicy Chicken that Gill and Sarah cooked up was a suitable culinary tribute to artist. There is a terrible pun in there somewhere about chicken slow cooked in Klee, but really I'm far too sensible a person to mention it.

Testing out the tagine

Looks ready....

We woke next morning to dire warnings about a forthcoming storm. The weather was certainly starting to turn and we took a bit of a buffeting in the blustery conditions as we drove northwards on the M1. Luckily we'd returned Maisy to the storage site before the full force of 'St Judes storm' blew in from the Atlantic causing havoc across Western Europe and resulting, sadly, in a dozen fatalities. Had we been travelling a day later I think we would have had to 'hove too'. I suppose at least we would have had somewhere to sleep.

Maisy hooked up at London's Lea Valley Camping

The clocks have just changed, the weather grows steadily colder. Soon we're going to have to learn how to drain the systems in the van and prepare it against winter dampness. I think we'll try to keep the mechanics functioning even if we close down the habitation systems. We'll try to use the van for days out over the winter, but I can't see us sleeping in it again until next spring. Thinking back to early July, and our first nervous drive from Yorkshire when we bought it, we've learned so much, driven it through cities, up mountain passes, slept through raging Alpine thunderstorms - it's been great. We've thought about owning a motorhome for years, wandered around dealers and chatted about layouts. The reality has exceeded my expectations. Gill 'owned' vans well before me by living the dream vicariously through long distance motorhomer's blogs. When I peered over her shoulder and read their posts, well the skeptic in me dismissed all the pet name stuff as embarrassing sentimentality. Guess what - now we've got a blog and a van called Maisy. We're planning to fly to Sicily at Easter, visit America again next summer, use the van for weeks here and there all the while. In October we are going to head to the Med for a longer trip of ten weeks taking in the South of France, the whole length of Spain's Mediterranean coastline, then drive north and catch the ferry from Santander. Sicily will be great, especially if all the kids come, I'm looking forward to re-vistiting New York again, but its the long trip next autumn that I'm really looking forward too. Freedom is always elsewhere.

Windmills in the mist

Next day we were up early, although it had rained overnight, the morning was bright and sunny. We had planned a visit to the Groeninge Museum, and then to wander across to east of the old city to see the famous windmills and do a bit of touristy shopping.

As we crossed back over Minnewater Park the sun disappeared and a low, chilly mist descended on the city. The effect was strange as it humg about 60 or 70 feet above the rooftops so although at ground level visibility was fine, the steeple of the Church of Our Lady tailed off into invisibility.

The disappearing steeple

In the square outside of the museum there is an interesting map of Bruges made out of lace, a scary fountain and a strange sculpture consisting of metal items of mysterious purpose packed into a tub. Well, it's Art innit!

Talking of art, the museum visit did not go as well as hoped. The Groeningemuseum houses a clutch of 'Flemish Primitive' masterpieces that have sat on my 'must see' list ever since I studied a Northern Renaissance module back in 1975 while at Manchester University. Gill's not so keen on art galleries, I can understand why she finds their hushed atmosphere stultifying and the reverence paid to the treasured pictures slightly ridiculous. She'd much rather admire a granite landscape than a famous picture. What happened next wholly reinforces her point. In the first room hang two Jan Van Eycks: the celebrated Virgin and Child with Canon Paele and a small portrait of a woman which hangs next to the larger panel. This is thought to be Van Eyck's wife, and is the first known portrait of an artist's spouse in the world. I was lagging behind a bit when Gill called me over, "I've just seen something amazing" she said, and drew my attention to the jewel-like brilliance of the rug upon which the Virgin is enthroned, the details were so carefully rendered you could almost see the fabric strands of the carpet. "How did he do it" she enthused, "imagine how tiny the brush must have been to paint like that," her forefinger hovering two or three inches away from the heavy glass screen that protected the picture. At this juncture a nearby attendant intervened, and rather than supply us with a nugget or two of information concerning mid-fifteenth century oil painting techniques, admonished us as if we were naughty children, "Don't point Miss with your finger so close at the picture".

Why not? Given the protective glass that shielded the painting the issue could not be one of security, but of decorum. The comment was in the same register as "it's rude to point" as if you were going to upset the picture's feelings.... I can see why Gill gets so irritated sometimes in galleries, the behavioural norm is reverential looking, not active enthusiasm or animated engagement - clearly such responses are frowned upon. I was taken aback; Gill was cross - "I'm out of here" and with that she disappeared at pace into the next room. For me the attendant's crass comment overshadowed the whole visit, As I wandered around I thought to myself, she's right, the way traditional galleries are set up is deliberately designed to exclude rather than engage. The lapsed art historian in me felt very sad about this. These pictures are among the most wonderful things our civilisation has produced; the mathematics behind the perspective and  alchemy behind the mixing of pigments were revolutionary im 1434, it represents the first flowerings of a more scientific way of looking at the world that underpins modernity. It should be explained, celebrated, shouted about - not hidden away in hushed silence.

Next we headed across the the eastern edge of the old town to take a look at Bruges' famous windmills. These were constructed at the end of the eighteenth century on top of the city walls, which I suppose were no longer needed for defensive purposes. The mist had not dissipated and the windmills took on a somewhat spectral appearance. The washed out tones resembled the pallid palette used by the Dutch landscape painters back in the 1700's which we'd just seen the gallery. One can only conclude that there must have been a lot of foggy weather back then too.

Old windmills on the city wall

doing their best to look atmospherically picturesque.

It was almost time for lunch, so we started to wend our way back to the city centre down a street called Rolweg - there's many a 'weg' in Bruges, which is hardly surprising since it means 'road' in Flemish. This part of town is packed full of cute artisan cottages, a shoemaking district apparently, unless the tourist map was just telling us a load of old cobblers....

Cobblers cottages.

Eventually we ended up at Jan Van Eyck Square at the end of an old dock which reached from the outer canal into the centre of town. We had lunch at a local restaurant named after the famous painter. It was crowded and small, but the omelets were tasty and the chips homemade. I was a bit shocked to have to pay 60 cents for a bit of mayonnaise - this is Belgium! Where there's chips there's got to be mayonnaise! What is the world coming too! The atmosphere in the restaurant was hardly lively, mainly couples speaking to each another in whispered tones accompanied by soulful 'chanson' type background music. By the time I'd heard Celine Dion for the third time it was definitely the moment to pay-up and go.

Looking towards Jan Van Eyck Square

On the way back to the motorhome we stopped off at a couple of touristy type shops to buy some chocolates and beer glasses for les enfants. As in any touristy place there is some strange trash to be bought.

Beer merchandising

Gonk-like Santas imported from Germany - the Brothers Grim!

We headed down the main shopping street to see the city's cathedral - it's big, it's ugly and built of bricks. The nicest architecture in Bruges is often the most modest, the whitewashed cottages and the like. The actual monuments are built on an impressive scale, but often without particular finesse. You wonder if the rich merchants were into height and size as a way of asserting power, a bit like the towers in San Gimignano. Anyway, just to prove the point that I like new structures as much as old ones I took a shine to this curvilinear bus shelter near the motorhome parking lot. Some thought has been put into how its sweeping lines related to the verticality of the trees in the park and form a foil to the horizontal rectilinear benches. The rounded form of the shelter itself was mirrored by the sinuous patterns in the brick paviers and the whole structure designed to harmonise with the form of a nearby footbridge that connects the shelter to the park.

It's certainly the case that new structures are not always ugly nor old ones always lovely, though that's often what guidebooks infer. Even more impressive is that the 'loo-lady' who looked after the place's toilet block had an extremely friendly small  pooch; the woman was very attentive around the facilities, disturbingly so for a slightly reserved Englishman having a pee!

Maybe I should post-up the bus shelter on Trip Adviser as a 'thing to do' in Bruges and invent enough fictional tourists to review it so it becomes more popular than the Groeningemuseum as payback for the attendant's rudeness.... a satisfyingly puerile fantasy!

The new top tourist attraction in Bruges...

Look, see, it's been designed with forethought and care!

Finally back with Maisy and our exciting purchases, some chocolates (small box), one small lemon tart to share wrapped with panache and placed in its own box, and three garlics...boy do we know how to party.

Shopping, but hardly a spree....

Gill pronounces on her half of the lemon tart, "this is quite lemony."

Before we had tea we took a a short wander around the canals and 'Jachthaven' next to where we were staying. The canals are very much working waterways with big chunky barges trundling towards Zeebrugge carry mainly bulk materials. The waterways are used for the leisure purposes too, the marina was full, and some barges had been refurbished as floating hotels. Nearby an old red lightship had been converted into a restaurant.

The old lightship

Pigeons on parade

For some reason I was quite affected by the sight of the old lightship, it seemed an emblem of a past life when the sea was a more dangerous place, and fishermen and mariners had to rely on a sextant and a slide rule rather than radar and GPS. One can be thankful for technical progress but still admire the heroism of people who faced the elements with courage and earned their living where hardship and danger was an everyday fact. The lyrics of Ewan McColl's great song 'The Shoals of Herring' occurred to me. When I got home I looked for it on Youtube.

After we'd eaten we went back into the centre for a final stroll. Bruges is very atmospheric at twilight. The street lighting is low key and the sound of the open topped horse drawn carriages echoing on the cobbled streets evoke  some heartfelt version of the past which probably never existed outside of Mills and Boon or Georgette Heyer. There's no doubt that Bruges' tourist authorities have thought through with ingenuity the invention of the place as a centre for a 'romantic city break'. Appreciating the ingenuity does wholly undermine the sense of romance, but it does put into some perspective. Chatting to Gill about it afterwards, I think the proximity of the well designed motor-home aire to the city centre and the attractive streets and cafes would make Bruges a really good first or last stop-off on a longer trip.

The carriages can give you quite a turn if you go round a corner to find Dobbin heading towards you at speed.

Pretty squares and inviting cafes for an early evening drink.

Pedestrianisation and subdued lighting helps create Bruges' romantic atmosphere

Sadly I was on medical instruction not to sample the Frituur

The twilit Beguinage - Bruges at its photogenic best...you can find a score of identical shots on Panramio.

I stood in a row with two others sporting digital SLR's to take this. I liked the green tree, quite Tim Burton.

So, back on the tunnel tomorrow and off to Lea Valley Camping in north London. Variety being the spice of life, I'm anticipating a bit of edgy urban grit to countermand Bruges' schmaltzy nostalgic vibe.