Monday 26th June 2017

I have been traveling to Belgium, at least once a month, for some 22 months now. It has become something of a chore, but there is always something to enjoy, even on a day trip; be it the beer, meeting with colleagues or just the traveling by train or car in a different country. Something not many people get to do in their work.

But, it has to come to an end. The project is just about over, apart from a few minor issues to sort out, the offices have been taken down in Oostende, and all of us have been re-allocated to other projects. This is just about the only way we can be shown to have done a good job, be trusted with another.

A morning meeting in Leuven means spending a night in a hotel somewhere; Heathrow, Brussels Airport, or the centre of Brussels itself as it turned out. Which meant choosing when to travel, arriving late in the afternoon, and as long as there was no urgent work, the chance for a wander with my camera.

Travel is now so second nature to me, it doesn’t phase me at all, nor cause stress; just make sure I have the details of my travel, passport and so on when I leave the house. Usually leaving packing to the last minute.

Jools had to go to work as usual, and I had to be online and ready for a meeting at eight, and more after that. After the cool breeze of the weekend, Monday was sunny and humid already, and would get warmer. I have breakfast, get down to work, chugging away until half ten, when it was time to get ready, pack and try on my suit, as I thought it would be funny to dress up for a change.

The taxi was booked for quarter past eleven, arriving 5 minutes early, it got me into Dover with 25 minutes to spare, time to get my ticket and sit on a bench, watching the comings and goings on the station.

The train wasn’t full, so I get a seat in my preferred position, on the right hand side looking forward, and with nothing to read or do, I could gaze out of the window as we left Dover behind, taking the line beside the beach and then through Shakespeare Cliff and westwards to Folkestone. The sea reflected the sky, and looked Caribbean blue, and welcoming, but I know would be cold.

You know the route by now, through Ashford then alongside the motorway to Maidstone, then through the tunnel emerging to fly over the River Medway. This time I was getting off early, at Ebbsfleet to catch a Brussels bound Eurostar. There, it is small enough for there to be no queue for security, immigration and room in the lounge to relax and look out over the lines leading to the Thames Tunnel.

After a 20 minute wait, we could go onto the platform to wait at the marked entrance for our carriage. Sadly, it wasn’t a new e320 that pulled in, ut one of the few remaining original 373s, which are just as fast, but very tired inside.

I had a seat facing back, sharing a table with two business people; they had been told my seat would be empty, so were not welcoming, but hey, its how it is. After pulling out and traveling back the way I had just come, I was brought lunch just as we dived into the tunnel at Folkestone, then nothing to look at for 20 minutes other than my own reflection as I ate.

At Calais, I was able to take a seat opposite when the man who was sitting there got off, now able to face the way forward, stretch my legs out and close my eyes.

I doze all the way into Belgium, waking up as we rattled over the bridge carrying the line over miles and miles of carriage sidings, and into the international platforms. All I had to do then was find a train traveling north for one stop to the Centraal Station, and if I was right, my hotel would be a two minute walk away, if I went out the correct exit, of course.

Centraal Station is in the middle of a tunnel carrying the main lines through the city centre, and is as dark and unwelcoming as it sounds, but up the steps to the level above, and it is transformed into a modern shopping mall, with clear signage pointing the way I thought I needed to go. Down a narrow cobbled street, past an ancient church, and if I was right, the hotel would be on my left.

Although I have passed through or round the city in the last 22 months, I have not visited its centre since the summer of 1973, when my parents took me on a seven day coach trip titled "3 Capitals" or something.

IN a dazzlingly hot summer, we traveled in a non-air conditioned coast from Oostende to Amsterdam, Paris and a 20 hour day to Paris, and back.

All I can remember about Brussels was the Silver "Atomium" and the weeing statue.

Did it expand my horizons? Not sure, but Stella expanded by parents, once back home no more brown and mild for my father, but fancy lager, although not the same as the proper Belgian stuff.

It took 30 whole seconds to find my hotel, then change out of my suit, do some urgent work before going back outside into the early evening sunshine for a walk.

I ask the receptionist which way I should go; across the square she said, and just keep going.

So I went.

A hundred yards or so on, I come to a grand arcade, mostly lines with chocolate shops, selling goodies unbelievably expensive chocolate, the equivalent of a single finger of a Kit Kat costing €1.50.

Back outside I take a side street, all cobbled and lined with restaurants, selling what seemed identical course in the same combinations for the same price. Not sure how that all worked, but business seemed slow.

After some searching I find a bar and go in for a swifter.

€4 for a Karmeliet, with a view onto the cobbled street and rows of empty restaurants seemed very good value to me.

After drinking up, I could see the spire of a building, so go to investigate, and come to the main square, The Grand Place, which was full of tourists, police and photographers. I go round snapping all four sides.

So I walk back the way I had came, stopping off in a bar for a cool trappist beer, strong enough for half a pint to make my head spin, then walk on looking for somewhere to eat, ending up after passing back by the hotel at a square called Cheese Market, and I take a table outside a nice looking place and have onion soup followed by meatball and fites; and was very pleased with my choice. I had the square laid out in front of me for entertainment, and on such a fine warm summer evening, what could be better?

Back in my room, I get a mail telling me my work earlier was fine, so was free to either go back out or have an early night. I have an early night, in bed by twenty past ten, with the sounds of revelling outside stopped by the double glazing.