"Nice grass, that's England for you..."

Such were our thoughts as we peered  from the bedroom window, waking to a calm, sunny day among the well manicured pitches of Thriftwood Holiday Park, near Sevenoaks. So, homeward bound. The return journey had not been entirely stress free.

It began well with a short hop from Zombie Manor in Belgium to Bavay in France. It was great to see Jackie, Edmund and Anna and catch-up with family stuff, over-eat and generally have a good chat. 

From Bavay we drove 90 miles or so to St Omer, which gave us plenty of time to stock-up (as ever) in Auchun's cave de vin. In all likelihood we won't be visiting continental Europe until we set out on big trip number two in September. The challenge with setting yourself the target of never again needing to buy over-priced mediocre wine from a British supermarket, is the law of diminishing returns kicks-in. Because you can buy good wine at a good price in France, what happens is that you consume a good deal more. Gill has a theory that the better the quality of the wine, the smaller the bottle becomes. Hence our evening conversation at home tend to go something along the lines of:

"POP"
,,,,glug, glug, (fatuous chat)
"My that was a short bottle!"
 "POP"

,,,glug, glug, (more fatuous chat).
"My that was a short bottle!"

The only thing that prevents imminent 'hepatic insufficiency' is a well understood, but little discussed biochemical phenomena know affectionately as the HOME indices. For those of you not fully up-to-date with the ground breaking research soon to be published by the biomedics at my favourite entirely spurious institute of higher education, The University of Scunthorpe, here's a brief layman's guide to the findings. HOME is an acronym which stands for 'Hangover misery equation'. This states that on a decade by decade basis the effects of a hangover increase exponentially as follows: given a similar intake of alcohol, the effects of a hangover on a person aged 30 will increase by a factor of two compared to a decade earlier, after another decade you will find that the misery of the morning after will have increased threefold, and so it goes on. I suffered my 60th a few weeks ago, Decade six plus one day did feel terrible, I woke to find the Tories with an overall majority, and the inevitable effect of the HOME indices made my hangover 120 times worse than it would have been on the day after my twentieth. It's just not fair, is it? The upside I suppose is it does put the brakes on drinking within a fortnight the entire wine lake we have tranported back from France safely tucked in Maisy's copious rear garage (what! you thought the space was for  bikes...).

Pete at 60...before the HOME effect kicked-in

Anyway, back to the journey, The aire next to the Municipal Camping at Arques was a bit of a find. Less than an hour from Calais, tucked away in a country park with lakes, but next to the campsite facilities - only 3.50 Euros per night.

Well maintained service point.

Lake view

Oh look, a tree with a hole....

click!

We had a pleasant early evening walk, admired the swans on one lake, and the ducks with ducklings on the other. As we returned to the van we noted that the ducklings had hardly moved from the spot where we had first noted them and heaped praise upon the mother duck for her advanced coralling skills. Next morning straight after breakfast we hopped out of the van with some left-over baguette to feed the small flock...Amazing! they were all exactly where they had gathered the previous night. Amazing perhaps, but understandable; it dawned on us they were all highly realistic plastic lures, provided I suppose for local enthusiasts of la chaisse. Boy, we did not half feel stupid, but thankful that we had discovered our error before we had begun to toss bits of bread towards the bobbing plastic replicas.

As we headed towards the ferry port we got quite a buffeting from a strengthening wind. It did not seem so bad, not a gale. Even so the ferry schedule was totally cocked-up. The DFDS sailings were running four hours behind, and our boat over an hour late. Worse was to come, due to congestion in Dover, ferries were stacked up outside the harbour. We sailed back and forth somewhere between the Goodwin Sands and the white cliffs, which appeared occasionally through thick mist and pouring rain. Though the sea was choppy and the waves white-topped, the boat stayed fairly steady, it must have had good stabilisers, which was very good news from my point of view. I am a terrible sailor.

We passed this PO ferry at least 3 or 4 times, just in front of us in the queue...

After four hours the sight of the squally sea looked very tedious

Dover, finally through the torrential rain.

So, four hours for a trip that should take ninety minutes, Gill read a good chunk of the Honorable Schoolboy, I watched a repeat of Lucie Safapova dispatching Ms.Sharapova at the French Open, and had time to see her live match, where she doled out the same fate to a young Spanish player. The squally weather seemed to be widespread, it was sunny at the Roland Garros, but the gusty wind was playing havoc with the tennis affecting the flight of the ball and the player's attire in equal measure. 

Delays in Calais resulted in  a backlog of trucks. Consequently we ended-up in the lower hold jam- packed with lorries. It was a squeeze to even open the van door. OK for us, but if we had a young family managing toddlers through it all would have been tricky. Not ideal bed-fellows motorhomes and big trucks - driving off was a bit worrying.

 In Dover itself and for miles back along the A20 and M20 the traffic trying to reach the port was utterly jammed. Even though the police had initiated 'lorry stacking' on the M20 hard shoulder, some drivers had ignored this and both lanes were at a standstill for miles. I was relieved to be heading in the opposite direction.

Finally towards late afternoon we got to the ACSI campsite near Sevenoaks only to discover the reception closed. After various failed attempts by Gill to reach someone on a mobile number written on the door she enquired at a bungalow on site. At first the woman pretended she knew nothing, then admitted her son ran the site and rang him. There followed tales of woe about people being off sick or visiting ailing relatives in hospital...it was all a bit like arriving unannounced at Fawlty Towers. There is something not quite right about customer relations at many British campsites. Either they are run in a haphazard and unprofessional manner, like here, or, it goes to the other extreme with uniformed gruppenfuhrers - like in the Camping and Caravan Club sites. Anyway, we did have a minor triumph. This was the first ACSI site in the UK we have stayed in. It's listed in the book at 18 euros. As we had quite a few Euros left Gill enquired if she could use them, and the owner agreed. I don't think that is going to happen again at other sites with Euro exchange rate the way it is.

So, our mini-trip to the Moselle comes to a close. Nothing else planned until autumn - in the meantime the van needs to be repaired after our little bump in Guardamar del Segura. Right now, we don't quite know what we are going to do with ourselves. There is no cure for itchy feet other than to scratch the itch, and we're itching to go already after only two days at home.

Belgian Static

The description of the campsite, Manoir de la Bas, proved correct in two respects, and entirely ill-founded in a more important one. The ACSI blurb was right, the place is set in the 'beautiful grounds of a 17th Century manor offering a spacious 20 hectare campsite, quiet and undisturbed'.

Gills more searching analysis proved spot on too, fishing ponds were central to the Manoir de Bas experience, and an interest in the quality of the sanitary arrangements which seemed to loom large in many a Belgian campsite description was later shown to be an aspect which we too should have considered more fully.   

But first, the important omission. The tourer's campsite, with maybe 40 pitches, is set in acres of wooded grounds; what the ACSI book fails to mention is that the space is shared with well in excess of 100 static caravans. At least these are sited imaginatively among the trees, not in serried rows like in North Wales or on the South Coast. However, it's not the caravans themselves which make the place seem more than a little odd, but their occupants. No wonder the blurb mentions the quietness, a good few of the statics' owners seemed positively catatonic, wandering about vacantly as if  inadvertently left behind by a zombie flash mob who had long since moved on. There is no direct way to illustrate this, but this tribe, thankfully, provides artefacts and effigies aplenty to satisfy the curiosity of the most ardent amateur anthropologist. Welcome to the strange and unexplored world of Belgian static caravan pitch decoration.

1. Common (or garden) gnome obsession.

The effigy of the gnome occurs in many Static tribal cultures, not just in Belgium, but across Western Europe. Gill is of the view that such cultural crossover has resulted in a deterioration in gnome iconography. She is very insistent about what constitutes correct gnome representation:

a. A maximum height of 12"

b. full white beard, pointy, but not wispy.

c. ruddy cheeks.

d. blue dungarees, a jacket is considered an effete addition.

e. black boots

f. hat, red or blue, pointy, but well worn and crumpled.

g. unsmiling  demeanour, gnomes are serious creatures and not to be trifled with.

h. They look solid, and hazardous to kick (plastic is a no no).

i) A fishing rod is optional, but only really acceptable if the gnome effigy is sat beside a real pond with live goldfish.

j. Toadstools are an anathema, associated with pixie culture and as such entirely inappropriate to gnomic values.

As can be noted, the gnome observed above contravenes these conventions in numerous respects, not least in its gigantic proportions and friendly expression.

2. Plastic pastoralism - a yearning to return to the simplicities of a peasant existence, without the attendant risks of imminent starvation or bubonic plague, underlies much Static tribal lore and ceremonial imagery. Here the Static owners have chosen to decorate their postage stamp size pitch with a large plastic cow, recalling imagery sacred to many cultures from Hindi to Minoan.

3. An alternative to the sacred cow image is what might be termed veneration of the neo-Bambi cute. This involves placing some doe-eyed creatures of woodland extraction around your static pitch in order to provoke spasms of extreme sentiment in passers-by. Shamanistic practice in many tribal cultures results in achieving states of transcendent, or  higher consciousness. In Static tribal belief this is known as 'the utterly kitch'.

 Fundamental to this state is that adherents must be completely oblivious to having achieved it. Only outsiders to the tribe can note it, usually by being unexpectedly overcome by a sudden need to snigger.

4. Ghastly figurines - very peculiar this one. It is difficult to comprehend the mind of the person who decided to cheer-up his Belgian sacred spot with effigies of Stan and Ollie in various shapes, sizes and poses. What's that all about? A celebration of being 'pals'or the evocation of mishap... who knows!  

Next up - waltzing children add a chintzy touch to a caravan picture window, in the background the intrigued and delighted on- looker!

Finally, Bungaloid Nirvana - admittedly this oriental themed patch showed a modicum of design skill in the planting. In truth it contravened a key tenet of Static culture by being almost tasteful. Perhaps a helpful neighbour will improve it by slipping in one night and surreptitiously adding a gnome or two. Even here, you are faced with the question - why? I cannot imagine the owner having embraced the Orient with more vigour than lighting the occasional patchouli scented candle or suffering under the misapprehension that the monthly reflexology session is actually relieving a propensity to haemorrhoids .

And then, we come to the issue of the insanitary facilities here... No, I've ranted enough, you can imagine...

Hunt the Lidl

It was only a two hour drive from Spa to our next stop-off at Aische on Refail. The campsite at Manoir de la Bas promised much according to the ACSI blurb, 'beautiful grounds of a 17th Century manor offer a spacious 20 hectare campsite, quiet and undisturbed...' This we know because Gill has embarked on an in-depth textual analysis is ACSI book copy feeling that differences in emphasis between the entries of one country and another may inadvertently reveal hidden cultural characteristics. As an exercise in impromptu socio-linguistics this seems to me to be inspired; M. Foucault would have been impressed. Initial findings regarding Belgium include, a predeliction for fishing lakes, a latent anxiety about sanitary facilities and an eagerness to stress the proximity to cross-country skiing opportunities, even in those campsites closed during the winter months.

Before we could embark on field research we needed to shop. 'Find the Lidl' is the motorhomer's equivalent to the age old game of hunt the thimble. The area around  Namur involved a particularly challenging game, but in the process we did experience the delights of Namur's suburbs, got a distant glimpse of its famous fortress high above the Meuse. Furthermore, we benefited from an unexpected 21km. excursion through the spectacular Meuse gorge, while swapping fatuous comments along the lines of,  "Well, all these people must shop somewhere."

Finally, as we reached the centre of Andenne a familiar blue and yellow logo appeared in the distance, murmurings of joy rang through the cab, everything was good, a Lidl and a pull-through space to park-up Maisy! Sometimes blessings fall upon us like manna from heaven... mostly though we just have to make do with more mundane moments of apotheosis, like finding a Lidl before lunch.

This part of the Meuse valley is a mixture of spectacular tall limestone cliffs and industrial decay. It's a bit like West Yorkshire, and if Belgian TV ever fancied remaking Last of the Summer Wine, not only do they have the location, but many a candidate for the role of Nora Batté could be found amongst the aisles of Andennes Lidl. That being said after failing to find fresh milk on sale, then discovering that the local banks locate their cash machines inside the premises, rendering them inaccessible outside business hours, I concluded the area was really more suited to a re-make of League of Gentlemen.

An abandoned ancient Mercedes had been dumped in the corner of the Lidl car park, number plate removed to hide  the identity of the perpetrators. Rather than tow it away, the authorities had clamped it instead! 

This was merely a variant of a unique aspect of the Belgian psyche. Some of the motorways are seriously pot-holed, so instead of repairing them, up goes sign which says, 'bumpy road ahead'. Similarly, the road markings on motorway slip roads have worn away. Clearly it's cheaper to plant a sign saying 'absence de marqueage' than repaint the road. 

The BBC are reporting that our illustrious PM is off to Brussels to re-negotiate our club membership. I hope he is not whisked from the airport down a decaying Belgian motorway on the way to see scary auntie Angela. Because, in truth, British roads too are beginning to get somewhat potholed, and their white lines worn away in places, but as yet we don't point it out with warning signs. 

Why? Because in the UK we are under the collective illusion that the effects of austerity are a temporary phase of 'belt tightening' before Head boy Dave and his Tory prefects' jolly economic japes 'make Britain great' again. Belgium is one step ahead of us and has acknowledged that decline may be permanent. What a great situation for a goverment committed to collecting the same taxes, but offering reduced services in return. I can just see the signs going up now - Level Crossing: Beware, absent barriers; Hospital foyer: Doctor free zone, Airport: Landing lights, carbon footprint reduction scheme, alternate nights only. The opportunities for reducing profligate public spending are endless, once you developed a Belgian artritude.

If you don't like it, well while we still are members you could re-locate to other less developed places in Europe, where property is cheaper and the Government adheres to obsolete and old fashioned modes of political thinking that ministers are  there to serve the people and improve their lot - Spain is like that, surprisingly, so is Germany.

I see it now, we have made the big decision, sold up, and headed in off in Maisy for a new life in Cadiz or Koblenz, southwards we trundle, devastated that we might never again enjoy the delights of Stoke on Trent. Soon we approach that magnificent relic of British civil engineering, Spaghetti Junction, and note new signage - Beware, exit reduction scheme now operates.