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ventaOn Friday afternoon while (I sincerely hope) you were all Boogying, I was sitting slightly squashedly in the back of Steve's Volvo as he hurtled down the motorway towards Dover. Once we'd wended our slow way through the jams, extreme hurtling was called for to make the 7pm ferry.
We arrived at the check-in point at about a minute past seven.
Check-in Bloke: Bad news, I'm afraid.
Us: Boo!
Check-in Bloke: Your ferry's late.
Us: Hurray!
Check-in Bloke: By an hour and a half...
Us: Boo!
Check-in Bloke: ... owing to bad weather.
Us: :(
As sea-going ferries go (ie seawards), I think our P&O ferry was relatively small. Of the type that used to be called ro-ro (but doesn't seem to be now, presumably because there's no other kind), we thought it took about 500 cars. Warned of a rough crossing, I decided there was only one course of action: I sat right at the edge of the deck and had a curry. Apart from it being somewhat tricky to carry my cup of tea across the restaurant without spilling it, I quite enjoyed the crossing. I like boats.
Although I have to admit, I did suspect P&O of trying to poison me. I picked up what looked like a creme caramel dessert in the restaurant, only to find that it was way beyond synthetic, and may actually have been the first known instance of a wholly inorganic pudding.
Sadly, the delays meant we finally got into Brugge about one in the morning, running accidentally into some others of our party heading back to the hotel. During the night, we discovered that our hotel was (a) very close to the big bell tower in the centre of Brugge and (b) said bell tower has a carillon. As Julie, with whom I shared a room, put it: the carillon plays on the hour, it chimes the quarters, and does occaional weird things in between which are probably something to do with saints.
One problem I've always found in continental cities is that, being English, I have an ingrained inclination to look right as I cross roads. When the traffic is approaching from the left, this is very little use - and marks me out instantly as a tourist. Brugge helpfully removes that problem by making all its streets one-way on a random basis. This does mean that I'm looking the wrong way around 50% of the time, but so is everybody else.
As my mother pointed out on last Friday's post, I have been to Brugge before, as a brief staging post on a coach journey from Düsseldorf to Zeebrugge. Then, aged about 14, I was deeply perturbed that Brugge was pronounced "Brooshe", but the -brugge part of Zeebrugge was pronounced "brugger". You'd think that, having grown up in an English-speaking country, and thus coping with through/though/enough/plough at a young age, such a trivium wouldn't fox me. However, it did.
At the weekend, I accidentally overheard someone in the ladies' asking exactly the same question, and heard the answer. Brugge is pronounced "Brugger", it's just that the British use the French name for the city (Bruges). Dead simple.
I could happily have spent an entire weekend wandering round Brugge taking photos and just looking at my surroundings. A few times I commented on things to Julie: wasn't it amazing that so many building corners had plaster saints in niches ? That the ubiquitous horses (pulling tourist traps) wore strange leather slings to catch the dung? That the cobbles were laid in such a brain-melting pattern ? only to have her say "Er, do they ? I hadn't noticed". I don't think I notice the same things other people do. I am an inveterate looker at things, and am probably a real pain to sightsee with. So far I've found only one person who'll share my interest in ornamental lampposts, and frankly I suspect he might just be humouring me.
Belgian beer fascinates me. Every beer (apparently. I haven't checked this exhaustively) has its own glass, and a decent bar will serve you your beer in the correctly shaped glass. The pouring of the beer is far more of a ritual than here: the glass in which my Westmalle came, for example, was carefully chilled by being upended over a fountain of water. The beer was poured, then the froth skimmed off level with the rim using a flat bladed knife. Before the glass was handed to me, it was plunged nearly to the rim in water to wash off all the spilt foam.
My consumption for the weekend:
Pintwatch recommends the Straffe Hendrik.
On Saturday night we ate in a restaurant called The Tolkien. It's opposite a grill called The Hobbit (no, I'm not sure why Kemelstraat has such a Middle Earth obsession). I had a stunning main course: Flemish rabbit stew is fantastic. Sadly, I never quite managed to get my mussels in, but I did sneak a quick waffle. And I had a herring salad sandwich, which is not something you see every day (unless you're in Belgium).
So, all in all, a fun weekend. We danced till our feet dropped off, and Brugge is firmly pencilled in my head as a place to go back to for a "proper" holiday.
Designated Hero of the Week is Angi for organising the whole thing. Close runner up is Steve for driving me there (and back).
We arrived at the check-in point at about a minute past seven.
Check-in Bloke: Bad news, I'm afraid.
Us: Boo!
Check-in Bloke: Your ferry's late.
Us: Hurray!
Check-in Bloke: By an hour and a half...
Us: Boo!
Check-in Bloke: ... owing to bad weather.
Us: :(
As sea-going ferries go (ie seawards), I think our P&O ferry was relatively small. Of the type that used to be called ro-ro (but doesn't seem to be now, presumably because there's no other kind), we thought it took about 500 cars. Warned of a rough crossing, I decided there was only one course of action: I sat right at the edge of the deck and had a curry. Apart from it being somewhat tricky to carry my cup of tea across the restaurant without spilling it, I quite enjoyed the crossing. I like boats.
Although I have to admit, I did suspect P&O of trying to poison me. I picked up what looked like a creme caramel dessert in the restaurant, only to find that it was way beyond synthetic, and may actually have been the first known instance of a wholly inorganic pudding.
Sadly, the delays meant we finally got into Brugge about one in the morning, running accidentally into some others of our party heading back to the hotel. During the night, we discovered that our hotel was (a) very close to the big bell tower in the centre of Brugge and (b) said bell tower has a carillon. As Julie, with whom I shared a room, put it: the carillon plays on the hour, it chimes the quarters, and does occaional weird things in between which are probably something to do with saints.
| Brugge is, as people were keen to reassure me last week, beautiful. It's a rabbit warren of tiny, narrow cobbled streets running between buildings which look at first austere, but soon reveal themselves to be covered in playful stone and plasterwork designs. |  |
One problem I've always found in continental cities is that, being English, I have an ingrained inclination to look right as I cross roads. When the traffic is approaching from the left, this is very little use - and marks me out instantly as a tourist. Brugge helpfully removes that problem by making all its streets one-way on a random basis. This does mean that I'm looking the wrong way around 50% of the time, but so is everybody else.
As my mother pointed out on last Friday's post, I have been to Brugge before, as a brief staging post on a coach journey from Düsseldorf to Zeebrugge. Then, aged about 14, I was deeply perturbed that Brugge was pronounced "Brooshe", but the -brugge part of Zeebrugge was pronounced "brugger". You'd think that, having grown up in an English-speaking country, and thus coping with through/though/enough/plough at a young age, such a trivium wouldn't fox me. However, it did.
At the weekend, I accidentally overheard someone in the ladies' asking exactly the same question, and heard the answer. Brugge is pronounced "Brugger", it's just that the British use the French name for the city (Bruges). Dead simple.
I could happily have spent an entire weekend wandering round Brugge taking photos and just looking at my surroundings. A few times I commented on things to Julie: wasn't it amazing that so many building corners had plaster saints in niches ? That the ubiquitous horses (pulling tourist traps) wore strange leather slings to catch the dung? That the cobbles were laid in such a brain-melting pattern ? only to have her say "Er, do they ? I hadn't noticed". I don't think I notice the same things other people do. I am an inveterate looker at things, and am probably a real pain to sightsee with. So far I've found only one person who'll share my interest in ornamental lampposts, and frankly I suspect he might just be humouring me.
 | However, my weekend of pottering about gazing was perpetually interrupted by the rapper team wanting me to dance. Shocking of them. The good people of Brugge seem far more likely to stop and watch people dancing in the street, so we performed for a succession of polite, attentive and extremely bemused Belgian audiences. |
| Jabberwocky, the north-west morris team who heard we were planning a trip to Belgium and wanted in, proved to be great at drumming up crowds. And, for a raucous morris team, surprisingly good at dancing in small bars. |  |
Belgian beer fascinates me. Every beer (apparently. I haven't checked this exhaustively) has its own glass, and a decent bar will serve you your beer in the correctly shaped glass. The pouring of the beer is far more of a ritual than here: the glass in which my Westmalle came, for example, was carefully chilled by being upended over a fountain of water. The beer was poured, then the froth skimmed off level with the rim using a flat bladed knife. Before the glass was handed to me, it was plunged nearly to the rim in water to wash off all the spilt foam.
My consumption for the weekend:
Pintwatch recommends the Straffe Hendrik.
On Saturday night we ate in a restaurant called The Tolkien. It's opposite a grill called The Hobbit (no, I'm not sure why Kemelstraat has such a Middle Earth obsession). I had a stunning main course: Flemish rabbit stew is fantastic. Sadly, I never quite managed to get my mussels in, but I did sneak a quick waffle. And I had a herring salad sandwich, which is not something you see every day (unless you're in Belgium).
| After Saturday's dinner, it was determined that, since Mabel are a self-professed team of gin-drinkers, and we were in the country of jenever, we must all have a glass of jenever. I have to concede that the "traditional" jenever a few brave souls tried is vile. On the other hand, the flavoured stuff is quite nice - my vanilla jenever came out rather like alcoholic custard. |  |
So, all in all, a fun weekend. We danced till our feet dropped off, and Brugge is firmly pencilled in my head as a place to go back to for a "proper" holiday.
Designated Hero of the Week is Angi for organising the whole thing. Close runner up is Steve for driving me there (and back).
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Date: 2005-09-20 10:47 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2005-09-21 06:51 am (UTC)