4 days, 4 countries!
2010-08-17, 3:52 p.m.
I�ve been back from my trip to Bruges for over a week now but I only get around to uploading the photos (and writing this) today. Sloth is my middle name. It would be cool if it really was. I could imagine giving my name to people:�Stepfie Sloth Stepfordtart-Geetardude�
�Wha�?? SLOTH?�
�Yes� *looks ingenuous*
�Umm�ok�umm�.like one of those weird �stretched bear� kind of things?�
�Yes. Just like the south American arboreal mammal. It means �lazy bastard�. My parents were going to call me �Indolence��but that would have just been silly� *laughs a tinkly little laugh*
�Err�� *is a little bit frightened*
Actually, I don�t have a middle name and I�m digressing quite shockingly.
Sissy rang me on the night before we were due to leave and told me she had borrowed a bike for me to use, so I wouldn�t need to take Treacle�s bike (mine being out of action due to the twattishness of my husband, �mending� the gears by breaking the mechanism so badly that only one gear out of fifteen now actually works). Unfortunately, even tho my sister has known me for some 43� years and had seen me only a few days previously, she had wildly overestimated my height and the length of my legs and had borrowed a bike on which even Peter Crouch would have been wobbling precariously and asking if someone could put the saddle down a bit. Needless to say, the saddle was down as far as it would go. Sissy indignantly protested that she �could ride it fine� but I tried it and could only touch the ground with the tippiest of my tiptoes if I leant the bike over to pretty much 45� and she is a good three or four inches shorter than me and so I suspect she is a big fat fibber. *tssk*
Anyways, we loaded up BiL�s car (49mpg) and I left him a perfunctory note about driving mine (20mpg if I�m lucky and there�s a following wind) while it was in his custody. This mostly consisted of telling him my car is a miserable sulky little git and that he should thrash it roundly with some branches a la Basil Fawlty if it started acting up on him. Then off we jolly well went to Dover.
20 seconds into the afternoon ferry ride over to France, Sissy reminded me how very very sick she gets on sea voyages, which was a bit worrying as it was a blustery old day and the Channel was something less than millpond-like. Managed to distract her from thinking about throwing up by telling her all about how la-the-sage had marvelled at being able to scootle from one country to another so easily when one is a Yerpeean. More on that later.
Landed in Calais, mercifully sans vomir and repaired pretty sharpish to the Aucan supermarket near Grand-Synthe (or �Big Cynthia� as we like to call it, grown ups that we are) for suppertime comestibles. More on those later, too.
Arrived in Bruges in plenty of time to go and get me a hire-bike and it was only �20 for the whole weekend, so not too hideously expensive.
If you take a bike (or two) into my sister�s house, there isn�t much room for the people to get in, so we left them outside on account of her not having any kind of yard or garden or garage or anything useful like that.
This is Sissy�s Bruges house, the skinny white house. The tempting bit of garage that you can see on the right of the picture belongs to one of the neighbours. Parking is at a premium in Bruges and its quite commonplace for people to sell off teeny little bits of land, big sheds and �proper� garages to the highest bidder. We dumped BiL�s car in a side street about a mile from the house and took to our treaders.
At Sissy�s we prepared ourselves some supper � frying the fat scallops we�d bought at Aucan in a butter and herb sauce and wrapping them in foil to keep hot and packing up all the cold stuff (a huge punnet of cooked king prawns, some fancy mayo, a loaf, butter, drinks etc) into the bike panniers before taking off to the nearest park.
Sissy spread the rug out and got busy with sharing out the nosh. I was in charge of photographing Sissy
And pouring the drinks. Cheers!
We stayed in the park until all the food was eaten (and nearly all the drink was drunken) and it stared to get dark and then we went back to Sissy�s to plan the rest of the weekend.
Next morning it was out and about on the bikes again, criss crossing around the city and surroundings, revisiting favourite shopping haunts from my previous trips and picking up all manner of fabulous purchases. In the Kringloop, which is a �brokantiewinkel� � a junk shop, I guess, but doesn�t brokantiewinkel sound SO much better?! � there were three floors of other people�s detritus to sieve through before I found some rather jolly Pimms glasses which will sit very nicely in my bar and Sissy bought a pot, which was an odd shape and could really only be used to store, say, a bar of gold bullion. If you should ever acquire a bar of gold bullion, do let me know, as I am sure Sissy would lend you a jolly useful pot in which to store it.
Sissy speaks awfully good Dutch so she was in charge of �speaking to people� while I did �smiling� and �repacking the bike panniers every five minutes or so as we�d bought something else which wouldn�t go in�. We made five trips back to the house to unpack the panniers and just spent the whole day cycling back and forth, buying stuff. Sometimes I stopped to take photos of stuff which was amusing me. Like this little niche thingy on the side of someone�s house. I can�t help thinking its something of an indignity for Mary to be sharing her niche space with some rather unattractive roadsigns..
Oh, and there was this. Presumably, these guys will come round to your house when you�ve split with a lover, and drop off huge buckets of ice-cream and family size bags of Doritos. After all, what else could a depressed foodservice be for?
Though we searched the whole weekend, we weren�t able to find the trucks of two other respected Brugesian businesses; the builder with his name proudly painted down the side of his truck � Sadly his name is Johann Krappi. I�m not sure I could ever hire a builder I knew to be crappy. Oh, and there�s a �Jeli de Molder�, too, which I supposed would be a handy bloke to call if you were having difficulties serving a particularly truculent or recalcitrant dessert.
Oh, and we also saw this, whilst cycling along one of the canals. There�s nothing like being discrete, is there, and that�s nothing like�..
In the evening we thought we�d have a little expedition out to �a pub, in the woods�, which Sissy seemed to think I�d enjoy. Personally, I think that she was just ensuring that I had NO feeling left whatsoever in my arse cheeks as we totted up the days routes and worked out we�d gone around 20 miles in our various shopping jaunts. Just in time we realised that my bike had no front light. It was still light but we were pretty sure that it wouldn�t be by the time we wanted to come back from the pub, so we set about fashioning an ersatz affair using a torch and some�quite a lot of�shitloads of duct tape. Unfortunately, as we were hoping not to come across any Politie while we were out (the cycling rules are strict and wide reaching in Belgium, and the policemen have big sticks with which they are allowed to hit you), the shitloads of duct tape was wound in a somewhat overkill fashion around my front mudguard. As I set off, it began to rub against my tyre (and possibly other bits of the bike which I couldn�t see) and set off a loud humming buzz. If it weren�t enough to sound like a cycling swarm of bees, the noise got higher in pitch and louder the faster I cycled.
In the end I decided to try to get up sufficient speed for the noise to be so high pitched that only dogs could hear it (and not Politie with sticks). Despite my best attention, I never managed to get above �teenager, revving the guts out of 50cc motorbike�, but we did get to the pub pretty quick.
(Possibly) fuelled by Belgian beer and lemon Jenever (kind of like gin�.but not. Nice enough for sipping, icecold, and comes in lots of flavours, including chocolate. YUK) and clearly still thinking about la-the-sage, Sissy proposed an activity for Saturday:
Lets cycle to Holland!
I was snarfing down the Hoegaarden by then (and making Sissy order it, as its one of those words that�s easy to say in English, but jolly difficult in Dutch � the first couple of times she said it, I thought she was just clearing her throat) and my ears were still ringing from the sound of the Bee Moped Bike Torch contraption, so I�d said Yes before I�d actually registered what she said.
Sissy is 6 years older than me, a couple of dress sizes bigger and has never exactly been renowned for her athletic prowess. How hard could it be to cycle to Holland if a fat old lazy person was suggesting it?
Saturday morning, fortified with thick slabs of toast and softboiled eggs, we set off. Id sensibly remembered how hot Id got on Friday, cycling around, and so had put a vest top on under my sweater. At the last moment, I stuffed the waterproof jacket Id brought with me, into the pannier and wobbled off down the street in Sissy�s wake.
Pretty soon we hit the canal route � all across that part of Belgium there are wide flat cycle paths alongside every canal and the bike is King. No dodging the traffic like you have to do here, and no real necessity for helmets and other safety stuff either as you never need to put yourself in any danger. EVERYONE cycles, from the littlest kids to the most ancient and doddery old grandmas and the car drivers just have to jolly well wait cos bikes have RIGHT OF WAY, too! Fan-bloody-tastic!
This is where we were cycling � see what I mean?
About five miles outside Bruges we eventually started to come to signs of civilisation, including this funny little building, covered in bells. You might also be able to see that there is a stork sat atop the chimney pot. Of course, I started making fabulously funny jokes about new babies and stuff like that but Sissy pointed out that it was one of the buildings for the local priory and that it was unlikely that there�d be any new babies delivered there anytime soon. Meh.
�and at the end of that particular path there was also a Belgian windmill. Commit this one to memory, if you will, as you may need it later.
After another mile or so, we came to the town of Damme. It seemed like a good place to stop and, as it was lunchtime, a good place to lunch too. I took this photo looking back towards Bruges. If you look v carefully right on the horizon level, kind of in the middle of the canal, you can see the spire of one of the churches in Bruges. I cant remember which one.
All we had to do was cycle the other way along that canal, towards Holland:
But not til we�d had lunch.
On the Wednesday night, before I went to Bruges, my dad phoned and was most insistent that I go over to his house and pick up some paperwork and other bits and pieces that I simply MUST give to Sissy. To be honest, it was a bit of a pain to schlep all the way over there as I had packing to do and house tidying to do and filling up the freezer (so L wouldn�t starve my kids while I was away) to do, but I went anyway cos it seemed to be important to him and all that. Turns out it was just an envelope but he said it had some cash in it from someone who is having the house as a holiday rental in September so I gave it to Sissy as soon as I saw her as I know ���s are at a premium for her at the mo. Well, when we opened the envelope on the first day in Bruges, it did indeed contain the rental Euros from the house guests but there was also a little letter, instructing us to have a lovely weekend and SQUEEEEEEE a �50 note for us to spend �on a nice lunch, love from Dad�.
Thanks very much, dad, we had the tomatoes stuffed (and overflowing) with teeny brown shrimp, and salad and chips and a couple of beers and there was even enough left over for�.well, I�ll tell you about that in a bit.
As we scoffed our mood lightened, in inverse proportion to the sky which was darkening at a worryingly �disaster movie� rate. I took this picture of Damme Town Hall before it got too menacing, but I think you can see that it isn�t exactly �balmy cycling weather�.
As we set off after lunch, a thin drizzle slowly descended. I took off my sweater (it was still warm, despite the damp) and put on my waterproof jacket. Too late I realised that the waterproof jacket I had picked up in such haste�was actually Treacle�s. Needless to say, we aren�t exactly the same size when it comes to clothing so it was a bit like putting the skin back onto a sausage, getting the ruddy thing on.
Sissy and I were both wearing jeans and, after about another half a mile or so, when we had to get off and shelter under some trees, we had to concede that might not have been our best move. For half a second we contemplated cycling back to Bruges and going and getting a hot chocolate but we�d gone pretty much half way and there were patches of blue sky over in the direction that Sissy said we were going and we were already pretty much soaked, so we took another photo of ourselves and just soldiered on.
Cycling in soaking wet jeans is no fun. The legs ride up, the body rides down and, if you aren�t careful, by the time you cross the little bridge that divides Belgium from Holland and get a fellow passing cyclist to take your picture (to prove that you did it!) your jeans will have created themselves a big pouchy weird bit in the middle of your tummy which will make you look pregnant � especially if you are wearing a cagoule which clearly says AGE 10-11 inside it. If you were hoping to look cool, or intrepid, or even �sporty��you�ve fucked it. Just grin like the big damp idiot you are and say CHEEEEEESE!
The first town you get to when you cycle into Holland, is Sluis. I�m told that Sluis used to be a port, but it silted up and now it�s just a funny little town. In the way of strange little border towns the world over, it has a faint air of �frontier� about it � I half expected saloons and stagecoaches and maybe a little log-built fort to keep the Injuns out. Instead, Sluis has built its reputation on three things: Imported smoking materials (No, not Brown Cafes. Tut), Hairdressing supplies (? WTF?) and Sex Shops. Yup, Sluis is all about Cigars, Shampoo and Shagging. Oh, and lest you should think that I�m exaggerating, I would say pretty much every second or third shop was one of the three mentioned above.
Oh, and there�s a windmill. I hope you�re noting the differences between the Dutch windmill and the Belgian windmill (previously seen). There�s no test or anything like that, but I did do all this for YOU, dear reader, so you�d better be paying attention!
Sissy and I splashed gamely from shop to shop. Not the cigar shops (as we don�t smoke) and not the sex shops. I surprised myself a bit there, as I am rather fond of sex shops over here. I love the seediness of them and the lack of ambiguity in any of one�s browsing/purchasing moves. If you buy lubricant in Superduperdrug, I cant help feeling that the purchase is saying �I have something wrong with my foo AND I hate sex so I�m going to have to pretty much bathe in this stuff before I will let his winkie anywhere near me�. Buying lubricant in a sex shop says �I am going to fuck. Very soon. There�s gonna be some other purchases from this shop too, today, and if I don�t buy this lube there�s gonna be a LOT of explaining to do at A & E tomorrow morning if I can even still WALK. Hell, Yeh.�
I did buy two massive bottles of 40vol peroxide (for hair bleaching) cos it was astonishingly cheap and its difficult to get in quantity over here as you can make homemade bombs from it, apparently. I can order it online but if I go the shop (same company as the website, incredibly) I can only buy 100ml at a time. Dumb.
Once we�d exhausted all the shopping opportunities in Sluis, we wasted invested that last of dad�s money on two coffees and two big plates of poffertjes, which are kind of puffy mini pancakes, covered in sugar and melted butter. YUM.
If you feel so inclined, you can learn to make themHERE. I�m going to have a go � I�ll let you know how they turn out.
So. Job done. Four countries in four days, 65 miles of cycling (Yep! Get ME!) and no major mishaps except feeling like somebody had kicked me very hard up the arse for a few days afterwards. Oh, and Sissy had to dry her shoes in the oven when we got back
Apropos of nothing at all - Look! L looks like Jeebus!
