It's Not All Walloons and Waffles -- RUTH LEIGH

I’m not a great traveller. I’ve been to a few countries in my lifetime, but I don’t have a bucket list, I don’t yearn to swim with dolphins or throw myself out of a plane and I have never liked the idea of backpacking. I tend to find a country I like and return to it on a regular basis, getting to know it really well. 

As a family, we go to Spain and France a fair bit. However, recently, our second son began going out with a girl from Belgium so I’ve had to expand my repertoire of European countries. Belgium is a country you tend to go through to get somewhere else, which is a bit hard on its residents. I’ve been to Bruges which is lovely and I once listened to a Plastic Bertrand song, plus I do love Hercule Poirot. So I felt I was ready for my new adventure.

You may remember the game, “Famous Belgians” where you had to name as many people who hailed from the diminutive country as possible. It’s harder than it looks. Here are a few to get you going:

 1.    Rubens

2.    The inventor of the saxophone, Adolphe Sax

3.    Plastic Bertrand

4.    Diane von Furstenberg

5.    Hercule Poirot (although he’s made up)

6.    Django Reinhardt

7.    Magritte

8.    Audrey Hepburn

9.    Hergé, creator of Tintin 

If anyone can think of other Famous Belgians, please do let me know in the comments.

The only way my son could meet his girlfriend was if I drove him to Belgium. Having got through the port and on to the boat just before Christmas, I had to drive through the dark and the rain on the wrong side of the road to a house full of people I’d never met before. Somewhere at the back of my writer’s mind as we drove along peering at exits and road signs was a little voice saying, “You know, there might be something in this.”

My son and I went on our second trip a few weeks ago, considerably less stressed as it wasn’t all unfamiliar. Coming off the boat at Dunkirk, we drove along through France staring at a multiplicity of road signs. There seemed to be an exit every 2 minutes and it was all rather confusing. 

The minute we got into Belgium, everything became much simpler. God bless whoever was in charge of organising the main road through the country. The E40 is long and straight with no hills, which is great, but better yet, its signs are few and simple. I started at exit 1 and came off at 5. Each road sign is coloured in a cheerful blend of yellow and green and states the town one might wish to visit in large, friendly letters. We were heading for Ichtegem in the Dutch-speaking north of the country, a language echoed in the names of the towns we passed. Nieuwpoort, Koksidje, Middelkerke.

I dropped the two youngsters in Koksidje on Saturday to meet up with friends and spent a happy few hours in a café writing and people watching. 

Driving back alone through the sunlit plains of West Flanders, I retraced my steps back to the E40 via various landmarks (mostly windmills and bendy lamp posts). Belgium really isn’t that far away and much of its society and culture is linked to our own. Idly, I wondered how it must feel for visiting Belgians as they drive up the A12 to Loowestooft via  Coolkester, Voodkirken and Daarshaam. Do they try to pronounce the names of our towns as the exits flash by, look forward to trying strange, exotic delicacies (jellied eels, crab sticks, saveloy and chips) and gaze out at the grey expanse of the North Sea as the seagulls cry out and the smell of frying fish drifts over the beach? Probably.

Back at the house, we sat down to a hearty meal and my son’s girlfriend enquired how we say, “Bon appetit” in England. There was a short pause while we thought about it, before realising that’s what we say too. 

Sitting round the table was a salutary experience. Dolores (Mum) is a French-speaking Walloon who also speaks Dutch. Davy (Stepdad) is a Dutch-speaking Flemish person who has learned a bit of French, speaks some English and also communicates in West Flemish from time to time. Once they all got going, they switched between languages from one sentence to another, putting me with my smattering of French and Spanish to shame. 

We didn’t have waffles, or fries and mayonnaise. Plastic Bertrand wasn’t playing in the background and at no point did anyone pick up a saxophone to give us a tune. We returned home loaded up with tiny chocolate eggs, honey bread and those seashell shaped chocolates the Belgians do so well. We’ll be back in the summer and until then, I’ll be working on my Dutch. 

As they say in West Flanders, “Nog ne ghoeien dagh[1]”.

Images from Pixabay

Ruth is a novelist and freelance writer. She is married with three children, one husband, assorted poultry and a cat. She is the author of “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge”, “The Trials of Isabella M Smugge” and is currently writing “The Continued Times of Isabella M Smugge”. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities, reviews books for Reading Between the Lines and blogs at ruthleighwrites.co.uk. Ruth has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life. You can find her on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter and TikTok at @ruthleighwrites and at her website, www.ruthleighwrites.co.uk.

 

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[1] Have a nice day