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  • ALONE IN STOCKHOLM.

    I’m going through a bit of a Scandinavian phase at the moment. Last year, my wife Chris and I visited Bergen and Oslo in Norway, seeing the fjords and mountains and viewing lots of slightly disturbing Munch paintings including several versions of The Scream. Earlier this summer ( 2026) we were in Copenhagen, capital of Denmark and while there, crossed the famous bridge across the Baltic for a day trip to Malmo, Sweden’s third biggest city. Now, I’m writing this in Stockholm, Sweden’s beautiful capital. Situated on 14 islands linked by bridges and ferries, it sits where Lake Malaran meets the Baltic Sea.

    It’s strange that more Brits don’t visit Scandinavia, just across the sea, choosing instead to fly south to the more reliably sunny resorts of the Mediterranean. Maybe it’s because it has a reputation for being expensive. That’s quite true I have to admit, although Britain is catching up fast. Maybe also, people are put off by the northern latitudes of Norway, Sweden and Denmark ( not to mention Finland), assuming it’s going to be bleak and cold. I believe their winters can be long, dark and freezing, making the perfect stage-set for many a menacing Scandi-Noir thriller series. Yet Scandinavian summers can in turn be very warm and the days long. In fact, friends of mine in northern Norway experience summers when the sun never sets. ( The land of the midnight sun.)

    I first went to Sweden in the mid-80s when we did a house with a family from Sodertelje, on a pretty canal south of the capital. Those were “primitive”, pre-internet days. My first wife and I joined a holiday house- swap organisation called Inter-Vac. People posted ads for their properties in a special magazine, stating what their preferences were for an exchange. Then they actually phoned each other up on a landline, ( there were no mobiles) and engaged in a series of conversations to establish whether they were compatible or not. It was a sort of dating agency but for holidays rather than romance. We were living in a slightly run-down seaside resort on the north-east coast of England at the time ( Whitley Bay.) We wondered whether we would get any takers at all! We needn’t have worried. The phone went into over-drive. It was weird picking up the receiver and talking to a complete stranger from Dusseldorf, our first call. Calls from Arnhem in the Netherlands and Edinburgh in Scotland quickly followed. We even got an enquiry from Florida! That year, 1985, we ended up in lovely Arnhem, the only area in the Netherlands with hills. Two years later, in 1987, we headed off to Sweden. In those days, one could take a ferry from Newcastle across the North Sea to Gothenburg. We then jumped on a Stockholm bound train, disembarking at Sodertelje.

    Our house swappers, Hakan and Cisse, lived in an old wooden property built by Hakan’s grandfather in 1912. We didn’t do a straight swap as we couldn’t afford to go to Sweden in 1986. The Swedes stayed in our house while we were on holiday in Wales. Next year, 1987, we finally went to stay in H and S’s beautiful wooden home while they were at their summer house on the Baltic, about 45 minutes drive away.

    It was a wonderful holiday. We took the train into Stockholm 3 times, going to see the Vasa, Sweden’s Mary Rose which sank on its maiden voyage in 1627. We also took the ferry to Skansen, the world’s first open air folk museum, where we saw 18th and 19th century farm and town buildings, as well as Nordic animals such as: wolves, reindeers and bears. Hakan and Cisse took us to their coastal summer house on the edge of a pine forest and with its own private beach. Friends of theirs drove us out into the countryside. We picnicked by a beautiful lake and swam in the water while a big red sun was setting on the horizon. That’s an indelible memory of mine. Yes, it was a great house swap. They enjoyed Whitley Bay too, thrilled by the tall, brick, Victorian chimney stacks, the lighthouse and beach on the bay and the novelty of double-decker buses. They even liked the litter on the pavements as they said that Sweden was so boringly clean and perfect all the time. We couldn’t understand that last point as we were a little embarrassed about how comparatively scruffy England was.

    So here am I back in Sweden again ( September, 2026.) This time I’m staying at a hotel on Sodermalm island just south of the centre. Unusually, I’m on holiday alone as my travel friend had to pull out because of a family emergency. It’s strange not being able to share the experience but I have still enjoyed it. Just for once, I don’t have to compromise but can do exactly what I want.

    Stockholm is bigger and busier than I remember it. It’s still a very attractive city though, interlaced with shining waterways. Ferries come and go from their jetties on a number of different bays. Some of them are old, charming steamers from the early 20th century complete with tall funnels. But no smoke comes out of them as the boats now have electric engines. The multiple quaysides are lined with elegant 18th century and grandiose 19th century buildings.

    The old town of Gamla Stan is a charming maze of atmospheric cobbled streets and narrow alleys. It’s a tourist’s dream really and every 2 minutes, you find yourself snapping yet another tasteful picture. It’s clustered around a baroque Cathedral ( originally medieval) and a monumental Royal Palace. The former is an oasis of peace while the latter is surrounded by armed guards full of their own self-importance and massed rank of tourists. I think they were performing the changing of the guard when I came by. Cue brass bands and soldiers on parade, marching stiffly around and doing lots of saluting. The most disturbing thing was that the soldiers were armed with machine guns! I dived into the warren of old streets to get away from all the fuss. It being September, Gamla Stan wasn’t quite as crowded as it would have been at the height of summer, but it was still fairly busy. The streets and squares are crammed with, cafes, bars, restaurants, souvenir shops and ice cream parlours, all chasing the lucrative tourist-Kroner. ( except that today, everyone pays by smart phone or plastic card) I sat outside a cafe and watched the world go by as I sipped a coffee and a fruit tart. ( naughty but nice.) The old town buildings are attractively painted in pastel colours — terracotta, ochre, rust red, cream, orange.

    Earlier on my first day I had joined a guided tour of the 1920s City Hall. Tours were being conducted in Swedish, English and Chinese. Luckily I didn’t join the wrong group! It was very interesting. One great hall is in Italian Renaissance style and is where the Nobel Prize winners’ banquets are held. It’s called the Blue Hall but they never got around to decorating it in blue. Upstairs is the parliament and council chamber with a painted wooden ceiling showing scenes from Swedish history set against a star-studded night sky. Finally we came to the Golden Hall, a kitsch version of a Byzantine palace with mosaics and murals depicting Swedish myths and legends. It is here that the food is prepared for the Nobel banquets. It has to be delivered to the hundreds of special guests within 7 minutes of the opening speech finishing.

    On my second full day in Stockholm I went off to the famed Vasa Museum which I’d last visited with my children in the 80s. Vasa was the name of a celebrated Swedish king who finally expelled the invading Danes in the 1520s. One of his successors, Gustav II Adolf, ordered the most spectacular warship of the day to be built in King Vasa’s honour. It was to be his flagship in a bitter war with Poland for control over the Baltic. The ship was designed by a prominent Dutch shipwright. Unfortunately Gustav Adolf got carried away and kept ordering extra embellishments to be added. For instance, he had carvings of Roman legionaries added as he fancied his Kingdom as a successor of Imperial Rome. All the additions made the vessel top heavy for its relatively narrow hull. A strong gust of wind made it precariously list to one side on its maiden voyage in Stockholm harbour. This was in 1628. Water poured in through the gun ports and the Vasa soon tipped on to its side and then disappeared beneath the waves. It had been a maritime disaster waiting to happen. The ship lay preserved in silt for over 300 years until it was raised along with 12,000 objects in 1961. Seeing it for the second time made me think of the Mary Rose in Portsmouth, which I had viewed between my 2 visits to Stockholm. It too had sank on its maiden voyage in the mid 1500s, watched by another vain-glorious monarch, Henry VIII. The 2 old warships are similar except that the Swedish vessel is bigger and more spectacular.

    I viewed an introductory film before inspecting the ship itself at 4 different levels. Each floor is full of artefacts and information panels in Swedish and English. It was an interesting and enjoyable visit although a display of skeletons near the end reminded me that the Vasa Museum commemorates what was in fact a sombre and tragic event.

    I unwound by walking out into Djurgarden’s lovely parkland. It’s a slender island that used to be a Royal hunting ground before they started to let us commoners in. I shared the park with a few joggers and dog walkers. It runs alongside the water and features mature woodland, really lovely flowerbeds and a sprinkling of statues. One showed a lady in a bell-like dress and long, curly locks. She sits on a hillock near the water, surrounded by beds of crimson flowers. Another called “Idyll” shows a pair of entwined lovers looking longingly into the distance. Finally I ended up going into Skansen, the open air museum on a hillside. It was surprisingly quiet. It had been very busy when I’d visited it in the summer of 1987. It has 150 reconstructed buildings from different regions of Sweden. They range from windmills to old town squares, from farms to manor houses. I visited an old ironmongers, a vintage printing works and a traditional pottery. There are panoramic views across the city from the top of the hill. After a drink and a snack, I headed off to the Nordic animals area. I’m not usually a great fan of zoos but I must admit it was very exciting to see a female elk ( or moose) and her 2 calves, 3 large brown bears bounding around their enclosure, a couple of European bison and a family of lynx. I also caught a brief glimpse of a wolverine. I finished off by visiting an old church and a metal bell tower donated by a village after the rest of its church had been burnt down.

    It was a good day on lovely Djurgarden island. In the 1980s we had taken a ferry across ( it’s still running) but this time I took a 10 minutes ride on a smooth, quiet tram. For all Stockholm public transport you can install and load up an app or pay by tapping a card on a scanner. Strangely though, all the Tunnelbana ( Metro) stations have real people selling the tickets instead of machines. It’s a nice human touch.

    My first 2 days in Stockholm had been a success and I was gradually getting used to being on my own. It made me a closer observer of life around me instead of being distracted by a companion. So far I had not made any drastic mistakes even though I had nobody to watch my back. My luck wasn’t to last though. But that’s a subject of my next Swedish blog. “Alone in Stockholm” still has 4 days to go ….

  • 5 Boats and 1 Special Bridge. ( Trips from Copenhagen.)

    5 BOATS.

    I once stayed in a nice guest house in the historical town of Stamford, Lincolnshire. The breakfast room overlooked a large garden surrounded by an old wall and in the far corner of that wall was an interesting- looking plaque. The owner told me that the border being Anglo-Saxon England and the Danelaw used to run right across her garden back in the “Dark Ages” This gave me a strange thrill as I ate my porridge. You see, it reminded me that the Danes had once invaded and conquered large parts of northern and eastern England, setting up their capital in Jorvik or York. My excuse is that I used to be a History teacher. Initially they were sea-pirates ( or Vikings) sailing across the North Sea in their fast longships and raiding the English east coast. For instance they attacked and pillaged Lindisfarne or Holy Island off the coast of what is now Northumberland. The part of England that the Danes or Vikings finally came to control was called the Danelaw. At one point a Danish King, Canute or Knut, ruled all of England as the wars between the Danes and the Anglo-Saxons ebbed and flowed. They lasted until 1066 when the Normans came across the English Channel and took control.

    Why am I telling you all this? Well it’s because my wife, Chris, and I recently “invaded” Denmark, going on an extended city break to Copenhagen. We were returning the compliment although we decided not to row or sail across the sea but take a more convenient plane instead. While there I was determined to hunt down some ancient Viking longships. We had missed out in Oslo last year because the Norwegian longship museum was being renovated and was closed. This time I would succeed. We took a train west from Copenhagen, across old Zealand, to Roskilde only 30 minutes away. Roskilde is the former capital of Denmark. It was founded by the wonderfully named King Harald Bluetooth in 980 CE. It has a World Heritage listed Cathedral and Royal burial site, plus a Viking Ship Museum. The museum houses the remains of 5 original longships from the 11th century. As we paid our Kroner to get in, the girl at the ticket office asked where we were from. When I said Britain, I joked that we were from the land that the Danes had invaded and we were now returning the favour after a 1000 year hiatus.

    The museum and its adjoining harbour sit at the tip of a fjord. As we entered the complex we saw people building longships using original material. At the harbourside floated replicas of the boats inside the main hall, complete with sails. It was if they were ready to nip across the North Sea and invade Norfolk, Yorkshire or Northumberland all over again. Joking apart, visitors can go on rides out to sea on a replica Viking vessel and get to do some rowing if not raiding. We had to queue to get into hall. The ancient boats were a major attraction. At last, after 10 minutes of shuffling, we slipped through the revolving doors and were in. In front of us on the right was an exhibition and the shop which was doing brisk business. To the left, down below, were the 5 longships. They are set against a large glass wall that faced on to the fjord. So if you have a good imagination you could picture the old Viking boats floating out on to the waves again.

    The 5 vessels were discovered at the bottom of a narrow channel of the Roskilde Fjord. They had been weighed down by stones over a thousand years ago, possibly scuppered to form a blockade against invaders. The discovery by a fisherman was in 1962. They became known as the Skuldelev Ships after the place where they were found. A whole millennium had almost passed and there they were in front of us.

    To be honest I was slightly disappointed. I had expected to have my socks knocked off, like when I saw the Mary Rose in Portsmouth or the Vasa, the rescued 16th century Swedish warship in Stockholm. But this was a bit of an anti-climax. I had imagined something big and spectacular, with a reconstructed sail and oars. But we only saw the bare frames of the boats which were surprisingly slender and small. The original wood had been put together like a complex jigsaw after the ships had been carefully raised from the sea bed. Not all the wood had survived. The longships range from 25% to 75% original material. They have been reassembled on metal frames which revealed their shape. They are: an ocean going trading vessel, a 30 metre warship, a coastal trader, a 17metre warship and a fishing boat. They didn’t seem designed to strike fear into the hearts of anyone who saw them appear on the horizon. It was a major imagination job. Chris said she felt an air of menace in the room. Maybe she had a better imagination than me. I gradually got drawn in though, read the information panels and walked round the ancient boats. We learnt a lot about Viking traditions and culture. Some of it was X Certificate stuff. So it was a mixed experience. In the cafe we had very good coffees but were served some of the worst cheesecake we have ever tasted.

    Before visiting the 5 Viking boats we had had a very enjoyable meander round Roskilde. The town has a pleasant, pedestrianised shopping area and in the main square, in the shadow of the 1884 City Hall, was a picturesque open air market. The City Hall or Radhus is in dramatic, neo-Gothic style, built of decorative red brick with white stone detailing. It has a prominent clock tower topped by a spire, arched windows and decorative gables. It’s a pity we couldn’t go inside as it is still being used as a local government centre. I think visitors can get on guided tours but we didn’t have time.

    The main square was enlivened on one side by an absolutely beautiful flower border, which included blooms we had never seen before. Just off the square is Roskilde Palace from the 1730s. It was used by the Bishops for many years and then by the Danish Royal family when they came to the town for funerals. The palace is in a Baroque style with yellow rendered masonry and red roof tiling. The sash windows are in a neat symmetrical line, as in Georgian buildings back in Britain. The town is interesting and pleasant but apart from its celebrity buildings , its centre is not as old or historical as I had imagined. Maybe a lot of the older stuff had burnt down or been destroyed in the war. Anyway the star attraction, boats aside, is definitely the Domkirke or Cathedral.

    The city hall in Roskilde is neo-Gothic but the UNESCO listed cathedral is the real thing. It was the first, brick- built, Gothic cathedral in Scandinavia. It was started in 1170 CE, largely finished by 1280CE, and was built on top of the foundations of a previous wooden church. A series of fires, renovations and changes wrought by the Protestant Reformation have seen it rebuilt many times. Approaching the Domkirke from the town centre, the building looked very impressive with its twin Gothic spires piercing the sky.( both 77 metres high.) It also features a small dome and beautifully decorative brickwork. We paid a small fee to go in but it was worth it. We got a booklet in English to guide us round. The reason it is a World Heritage Site is because it has been a Danish Royal burial place for 7 centuries. The first monarch laid to rest there was Queen Margrete I, who died in 1412. She lies in an elegant marble tomb near the alter. An effigy of the queen in prayer lies on top of the tomb. Nearby are 15th century carved choir stalls and a 3-sided, wooden alter-piece carved in Antwerp. ( 1560.)

    In one way, Roskilde’s Domkirke is a living document of 850 years of Danish history and architecture. Apart from medieval Margrete, there is King Christian IV’s Baroque tomb made from wrought iron. He died in 1648. Then there is the graceful. neo-classical tomb of Frederik V from 1766. Altogether, 21 Kings and 18 Queens lie in this spectacular regal cemetery. A modern tomb has already been prepared for Queen Margrethe II, who abdicated in 2024 in favour of her son after over 50 years on the throne. It seems she trusted her son a bit more than the UK’s late Queen Elizabeth II.

    It was a fascinating visit to the most famous cathedral in Denmark. It was also very sobering. Each side chapel and each new tomb reminded me of my own mortality. Despite the large number of visitors there was still a quiet, spiritual atmosphere inside the place. As usual, we sat quietly for a while and just soaked it all in. Then we were walking through a lovely park down to the aforementioned Viking Ship museum before returning to the town and the rail station for the quick journey back to the capital. Luckily, by now we had learnt how to work the ticket machine.

    ONE SPECIAL BRIDGE.

    The majestic Oresund Bridge links Copenhagen with Malmo in Sweden. Malmo is Sweden’s 3rd largest city. The bridge spans a narrow part of the Baltic Sea called the Oresund Strait. As well as linking the 2 cities, the bridge and its accompanying tunnel join Sweden with the rest of continental Europe. It took 5 years to build, after a fierce, forty year debate. I imagine the arguments ran on similar lines to those in England and France before the Channel tunnel was finally built. The Oresund Bridge, was opened in 2000. It is the longest road and rail bridge in Europe with a total distance of 16 kms. The bridge has 2 levels. On the upperpart is a 4 lane highway while the lower section had 2 sets of train tracks. A tunnel takes the trains and traffic south of Copenhagen and on to a specially built artificial island, 4 kms long. At that point the road and railway come out into the daylight and on to the bridge. We saw the whole thing from the air when we flew out of Copenhagen and it looks like the bridge suddenly appears out of the water like magic. Eventually it crosses the sea and reaches the Swedish shore.

    We had a day trip to Malmo, Sweden’s 3rd biggest city, during our stay in Copenhagen. It was exciting to think we were crossing the actual bridge made famous in the hit Swedish -Danish TV series “The Bridge” or “Bron” back in 2011. It starred the acclaimed Swedish actor ( actress) , Sofia Helin as Malmo crime investigator Saga Noren and the Danish actor Kim Bodma as her Danish counterpart. They had the usual awkward relationship but had to cooperate because a corpse had been found exactly halfway along the bridge; half of it was in Sweden and the other half in Denmark. To make matters even more complicated, the corpse was actually parts of two bodies — the torso of a high profile Danish politician and the lower body of a Swedish sex worker. It was a very successful thriller series. We were hooked on it as were many others although those who refused to read subtitles missed out.

    Trains are frequent between Copenhagen and Malmo. The journey takes a mere 35 minutes. Since the building of the bridge, many Copenhageners have moved to Malmo where the property prices are significantly lower. They then commute back into Denmark for work. We decided to go on this adventure on a Monday as that was the day when all the museums and galleries closed in Copenhagen. It would be an exciting journey both under and over the sea and then we could have a relaxed potter around a small city we had never visited before. To be honest the actual bridge crossing was almost over before we knew it. In no time we were heading into the Swedish province of Skane and were soon disembarking on to one of the underground platforms at Malmo central station.

    We walked out into the Swedish city. Our passports were in our rucksacks but we never had to show them to any official. We had crossed seamlessly from Denmark to Sweden as both countries are in the Schengen zone of the EU. In fact, we never had to show our British passports in Denmark either because we had entered the EU while changing planes in Amsterdam. Malmo and its province of Skane had actually been part of Denmark until the mid 17th century. In fact, Malmo had been Denmark’s second biggest city after Copenhagen. Then in 1658, the Swedish King Karl X marched his armies across the frozen Oresund Strait and forced the Danes to cede these territories back to Sweden. Karl is thus feted as a hero in Malmo and his equestrian statue sits in pride of place in the middle of the city’s main square. It forms the background to thousands of tourist selfies. The city had originally prospered because of the rich, herring fishing grounds just off shore. It was said you could easily scoop up the shiny fish with a trowel. The fishing attracted German merchants and businessmen. An Eric of Pomerania gave the town extra significance by building a castle and a mint there in the 15th century. After joining Sweden again, Malmo suffered a period of neglect and stagnation. The fish were no longer so plentiful ( an early example of over-fishing) and the city was a long way from the capital, Stockholm and thus went under the radar. Industrialisation later revived its fortunes, ship yards were constructed and the harbour enlarged. ( in 1775.) However, more decline followed as the shipping industry went down, but the famous bridge across the sea has helped to revive its fortunes in the 21st century.

    We wandered out of the rail station, crossed a canal which had possibly been part of Malmo’s original defences and soon reached the main square which is called Stortorget. This is the one with the statue of a proud King Karl mounted on his charger. Stortorget also has some beautiful flowers, an impressive old Radhus ( City Hall) from 1546 and some more gabled old buildings. Much of the town’s medieval core had been knocked down to make way for this statement square. The Radhus was unfortunately covered in scaffolding but, straight away, another not quite so old building took our eye. It was the Apoteket Kejonet, an art nouveau style pharmacy from the late 19th century. It means Lion Pharmacy — in Sweden, pharmacies are always named after creatures of strength. The pharmacy is now protected by the state and you can wander in at will to see its wondrous interior. We admired: carved shelves of inlaid wood, etched glass, antique medicine bottles and a glass painted ceiling. The assistants just ignored us as we took photos. They probably get more tourists in there than prescription collectors.

    We wandered through a smaller, older square with some half timbered houses, pretty flower pots and cobbles. The bridge over the canal at the other side of the centre had metal models of famous people’s shoes. At least they were famous to the Swedes who took a great interest in them. They included the footwear of a musician, a dancer and an illusionist — none of whom we had ever heard of. We saw Sweden’s oldest operating cinema from 1912. It announced itself with art nouveau swirls of dark oak and beautiful bevelled glass. We explored a quiet and sombre old cemetery and then joined the throngs in one of Malmo’s busiest pedestrianised, cobbled shopping streets. We popped into some stylish art, craft and design stores and enjoyed drinks and delicious cakes in a pleasant coffee shop. We tried hard to realize that we were now in a different country — Sweden not Denmark. But to tell you the truth there were no obvious differences in our eyes. Everyone we encountered spoke perfect English, like in Copenhagen, and we paid with a credit card so never got even a glimpse of a Swedish bank note. The architectural mix is similar too. In a perverse sort of way, I almost felt too comfortable, as one of the attractions of foreign travel for me is to experience some sort of culture shock. Scandinavia is so easy to negotiate that I am surprised that a lot more Brits don’t go there. I suppose it’s the relatively high prices and the harsh winters that put them off.

    We saved the best to the last as it turned out, for we called in at the impressive, brick, Gothic church of St Peter( St Petri Kyrka) on our way back to the station. Although dark and slightly forbidding on the outside, its interior is light and airy. It has a lofty and elegant vaulted roof. Only a few people were in there so it was a quiet, calm oasis. St Peters had been founded by the German community in the 14th century CE. They came here to pray and give thanks for the “sea silver” ( herrings) in the Baltic. During the Reformation a group of Swedish zealots destroyed much of the fancy interior in a gross act of ecclesiastical vandalism. It was drastically changed into a strict Lutheran church. This was in 1527. The elaborate murals that had decorated the church were white-washed over. Thus the interior today has a rather stark appearance and one’s attention is grabbed by the impressive, 17th century pulpit and a 4-tiered alter-piece. A highlight of a visit today is the Merchants’ chapel, tucked into a corner near the entrance. Here the whitewash has been removed to reveal the original, elaborate murals of the former Catholic church — biblical figures, angels and mythical beasts located in a forest of twisting branches and leaves. To see the whole church painted like this must have been mind boggling, but then again, the protestant reformers may have had a point as the busy decoration could well have distracted the congregation from the worship of God.

    So back we went over the famous bridge, seamlessly crossing from Sweden into Denmark. There were no passport checks, interrogations or whole body scans. It was just an everyday journey made by thousands every day. The European Union has reversed the divisions cause by wars and rivalries in the past. We had no adjustments to make when we arrived back in Denmark. We just continued speaking English and flashing our Mastercards. Not a Kroner was in sight — either Swedish or Danish. It was the end of another enjoyable day on our trip to this fascinating corner of Scandinavia.

  • A HYGGE OF A CITY BREAK.

    My wife, Chris, and I have just returned from Copenhagen in Denmark. It was our second visit to Scandinavia in consecutive years. Last year we were in Norway. So what’s so special about Scandinavia? In one way, it’s our reaction to global warming and the extreme high temperatures and wild fires being experienced in the holiday playgrounds around the Mediterranean. Heading to the north of Europe would hopefully give us cooler, more comfortable weather, ( it did), but would still provide lots of interesting sight-seeing opportunities. You might describe us as culture -vultures rather than sunbed seekers. So north it was this July when we visited the Danish capital. Some people, programmed by travel brochures, were bemused by the length of our city visit. Surely a city break is only for 2 or 3 days they pointed out. The trouble is that a couple of days would have given us only a brief, blurred snapshot. So we decided to go for nearly a week, and even that only faintly scratched the surface. There was lot’s to see and do. It was full -on and my step-counter went into over-drive but it was a great adventure. We didn’t pick up many words of Danish because everyone spoke fluent English. However we did learn “tak” ( thanks) and “hygge”. The latter means a good time spent with good people. This is my second blog about our time in Copenhagen. It served us a real hygge of a city break.

    Another Danish word we quickly learnt was “kunst”. It means “art.” Wherever we go, we seek out the local art gallery. The biggest one in Copenhagen just happens to be the National Art Gallery — Statens Museum for Kunst. To get there we walked to the north of the centre and through a quiet park ( Orstedsparken), centred on a lake with lovely flower beds and weeping willows drooping gracefully over the water. Refreshingly, it wasn’t a tourist hot spot so we got a tiny glimpse of Danish life — strollers, joggers, dog walkers and people just sitting on benches watching the world go by. We walked past the Botanical gardens and on to the museum which is in the corner of another big park. This part of the city is very leafy. The paintings and sculpture of the national collection are housed in a late 19th century temple of a building which we gained access to up a flight of steps between classical pillars. In front of the museum is a pool and a fountain. The collection was originally amassed by King Christian II. It consists of European paintings from Denmark, Scandinavia, France and the Low Countries. At the side is a modern extension from 1998 featuring a sculpture gallery with a large glass wall, and visiting exhibitions of modern art.

    We mounted a grand staircase to the first floor. It would have been impossible to view every one of the 9000 works of art on show so we were strictly selective. We controversially ignored the earlier paintings from the 14th to 18th century, although on a quick walk through I happened to notice masterpieces by Rembrandt and Rubens. We concentrated on stuff from the Danish Golden Age ( 19th and early 20th centuries) which was a mixed bag but we saw some memorable pieces. Many of them depicted social history such as a poor family being evicted, farmers working in the fields and a team of men hauling in a fishing boat. One of the most striking was of a large painting of a flock of dark geese flying off into a spectacular pink sunset. Then there were the enigmatic pictures of Vilhelm Hammershoi which I had been previously introduced to in a Michael Palin -presented BBC documentary. A woman sits working at a desk with her back to the viewer, in subdued light. The interior is grey and plain and illuminated by just a shaft of sunlight coming through the window. Who is she? What is she doing? The viewer is left to guess. We next explored a series of rooms featuring an outstanding collection of French impressionist and post-impressionist art — Corot, Monet, Manet, Cezanne , Dufy, Derain, Gauguin and most impressive of all — an extensive selection of early paintings by Matisse, one of my favourites.

    Our walk back to the centre took us through yet another park. This was a Royal one. In the middle of Renaissance style gardens divided up by low hedges in geometric patterns, stands Rosenborg Slot ( Palace — there’s another Danish word for you.) It’s a classic, fairy-tale palace completed in 1634 in decorative red brick. This Renaissance fantasy is crowned with spires, towers and ornate Dutch gables. It was built as a summer palace for Christian IV and was opened to the public from 1834. Unlike at the Amalienborg Palace which we had seen earlier, it was nice of them to let the plebs in. People in fact were queueing because Rosenborg houses the Crown Jewels including the Crown of the Absolute Monarch which sports 2 enormous sapphires. I wonder if the ones on show are just replicas like the jewels in the Tower of London?

    Later that day, after a rest in our hotel room, we trekked to the south of the centre for a complete contrast to all that high culture and Royal pomp. We headed along the waterfront of the inner harbour and over a bridge on to the island of Christianshavn. Soon we reached an area of narrow cobbled streets along a pretty canal. The canal had colourful houseboats moored along its banks. This area is sometimes called “Little Amsterdam” but that’s perhaps stretching the imagination a bit. It would have been nice to linger but it was raining again and the scene had become rather bleak. We were heading for “Freetown Christiana”, a bohemian, hippie enclave based in an old army barracks. We had been to a similar centre for the counter culture in Ljubljana when we were in Slovenia, also based in a former military base. It’s ironic that the current residents preach peace and love while they are living in a place that was originally built to propagate war. Anyway, even in the rain it was wonderful, taking us right back to our flower power days in the late 60s. It was originally an area of 17th century fortifications which were later abandoned as the city outgrew them. The area became run down and neglected after the army left and then, in 1971, squatters moved in and set up their “free town.” They have had an uneasy relationship with the city authorities ever since, but surprisingly have been able to thrash out a deal in which they pay a subsidised rent for the site. People from all over the world can buy shares to help pay the rent and other running coasts. This has been controversial as the hippies are sitting on top of a couple of acres of prime city centre land that would be ripe for profitable real estate development. But for now it is a refreshing throwback to those heady days of peace and love. It still has the feel of a traveller hangout on the hippie trail to Kathmandu in the 60s or 70s. The roads are unpaved, vivid murals decorate the old buildings, prayer flags flutter and wooden buildings sell vegan food, T Shirts and souvenirs. Slogans such as “All you need is love” and “free Palestine” daub the walls of many buildings. My favourite was: “Delete your local Fascist.” Nearly a million tourists visit every year. The smell of cannabis pervades the air, but the notorious “pusher street”, where hard and soft drugs where sold openly, has now been closed because of gang violence. As we wandered around enjoying the atmosphere and the amazingly colourful murals we heard a rock band strike up. Just by chance we had arrived in time for one of the free rock concerts that are staged every Sunday tea-time in Christiana. This was a very accomplished Queen tribute band — Keen on Queen. Freddie Mercury’s lot were never my favourite band but the raw, live rock music was exciting and we joined a sizable crowd to listen for a while and be taken back in time. The rain eventually relented and we walked back to the hotel, soggy but happy. As we left Free Christiana, a sign announced — ” You are now entering the EU.”

    Art continued to be a feature of our holiday as Copenhagen seems to be rich in galleries. Near the Central Station and beside Tivoli Gardens, is the wonderfully named Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek. It was founded by the brewing magnate Carl Jacobsen in 1897 and is a reminder that in the 19th century, industrialists were the nouveau riche and were starting to take over the roles previously filled by royalty who were retreating to their palaces. Glyptotek is based on ancient Greek and means “sculpture collection.” It is another neo-classical building with grand, marble staircases and beautiful stained glass panels in the ceilings. It contains a fabulous collection of Danish and French sculpture and paintings including a Danish version of the 3 Graces, Rodin’s “The Kiss” and a collection of impressionist and post impressionist paintings. 2 rooms are devoted to the paintings and sculpture of Degas for example. Another section contains a rich collection of antiquities from Mesopotamia, Palmyra, the Etruscans, and Ancient Romans. It’s like a wing of the British Museum or the Louvre. It is a great place to explore and now includes a beautiful modern extension. At its centre is a palm -filled, glass-domed, winter garden complete with statues, pools and fountains. There are plenty of windows as the original intention was to have an art collection lit by natural light. The only problem was that is was quite humid inside. We enjoyed our visit but it was really nice to get back into the fresher air of the streets.

    We had a double dose of art that day because a plane cancellation at the start of our trip meant we had one day less in Copenhagen. So it was that soon after the Glyptotek experience, we were on a train north to Humlebaek, a small town north of the capital and just south of Helsingor. Here, just a 10 minute walk from the train station is the impressive Louisiana Museum of Modern Art centred on a 19th century villa with light -filled modern extensions. It got its name, not because it has been twinned with the American southern state, but because the original owner of the villa married 3 times and bizarrely, all his wives were called Louise. Later, the property was owned by a cheese magnate, Knud Jensen, who established the museum in 1958. He wanted it to be a modern building full of space and light, in contrast to the grand mansions of other museums in Copenhagen. It is in a beautiful setting, on a wooded hillside that slopes down to the sea. His vision was ” to show the interplay between art, architecture and landscape.” The paintings and sculpture are displayed in glass filled corridors and rooms that look out on to lovely green lawns. The lawns have been transformed into a sculpture park. We saw modern pieces by Max Ernst, Jean Miro and Henry Moore, to name but a few. There’s a lot of abstract, squiggly modern art which is not to our taste and some,( in my opinion), pretentious photography and films. But everyone to their own. We enjoyed the gaunt, sculptured figures of Giacometti and a wonderful exhibition of portraiture and other paintings by Lucien Freud. Ironically we had gone all the way to an obscure town in Denmark to see an exhibition from London’s National Portrait Gallery. But it was really enjoyable. Afterwards we had coffee and cheesecake at one of the outside tables of the cafe and enjoyed views of the woods, the sculptures and the shining sea. ( it was another sunny day.)

    Unfortunately, lots of others had had the same idea of visiting Louisiana that day. Droves of people got off the train with us and the car park was crammed. It is now a bucket- list destination and so the one thing we didn’t experience was peace and quiet. It was still great though, and the walk back to Humlebaek station, through a little housing estate, gave us a tiny glimpse of ordinary Danish, small town life, with well tended gardens and cars parked in the driveways. We struggled with the ticket machine at the station but a fellow passenger in the queue kindly helped us using perfect English. By the way, you cannot usually buy return train tickets in Denmark because each ticket is only valid for 2 hours from the time of purchase. Our train back came almost immediately and was right on time, like every train we caught in Denmark. There was no talk of Delay-Repay. Soon we were back in Copenhagen to rest up. We had had another a great day of art viewing and were feeling both sated and happy. We had really enjoyed another hygge day.

    ( NB This is the second of my blogs about our visit to Copenhagen. It is not meant as a travel guide but instead, is an impressionistic overview of our experience. I hope you have enjoyed it.)

  • Copenhagen Without Subtitles.

    RETURN TO THE KILLING.

    It had been a difficult journey to the Danish capital. Our flight from Newcastle ( N E England) had been cancelled by KLM airlines at short notice the day before and the rescheduled flights had involved a very early start and changes at both London Heathrow and Amsterdam. 3 flights and 4 airports in one journey was pretty stressful and we had already lost one day of our precious holiday! Now at last, we were making our final descent into Copenhagen. As we breached the clouds, the city lay before us and just before we landed we flew over a wood. I found out later that this wood was the setting for the disturbing opening scene of the cult Scandi-noir series: “The Killing”, made by Danish TV in 2007. It became a world-wide phenomenon and over 20 tense, taut episodes, turned our happy -go- lucky image of Copenhagen on its head. Back in 1952 Danny Kaye had sung of “Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen, Friendly Old Girl of a Town” in the biopic “Hans Christian Anderson”, the fairy tale writer who is one of the city’s most famous sons. With “The Killing” we now had to adjust to a cityscape brooding beneath leaden skies, a constant air of menace and of course, Detective Sarah Lund’s rather loud, knitted jumpers. Over 3 successful series we all got uncomfortably accustomed to slow-burning suspense and tension, sudden explosions of violence, graphic depictions of emotion and multi-layered mystery. It was a far cry from the comforting, cosy crime series we had got used to back in Britain. We also all got adept at reading subtitles at high speed as the programme was in its original Danish.

    So which Copenhagen were we going to experience? Would it be the dark, menacing one or the carefree, sunny one? Happily for us it would be the latter. It helped that we were visiting in July when the days were long and the sun a frequent companion. I believe Danish winters can be long and harsh. It might have been a different experience if we had visited in December and gone out exploring dodgy areas after midnight. A quick, efficient train ride whisked us from the airport into the city centre and the first sounds we heard as we emerged from the Central Station were the happy screams of people enjoying the roller-coaster in the famous Tivoli Gardens just across the road. Opened in 1843, Tivoli is one of the oldest fun fairs in the world and was a major influence on Walt Disney when he created his theme parks a century later. The happiness theme continued with the address of our hotel, which is on Hans Christian Anderson Boulevard. Luckily for us, it was sunshine and smiles all the way ( except for a couple of showers) and being early-to-betters we never experienced any dark alleys, spooky shadows or spine chilling traumas.

    DESIGNER CITY.

    Our hotel, the very welcoming Alexandria, had a theme celebrating Danish, 20th century design. The corridors had pictures of stylish furniture and quotes from well known designers. Our room was furnished in 1960s style, complete with abstract art, and furniture that took us back to our teenage years. I’d never realised that a mirror, a chair, a lamp shade or a desk could be so nostalgic. The Danish design theme continued on our first full day when we strolled down Stroget, the city’s pedestrianised shopping area. It mixed high end names with tourist friendly souvenirs shops, cafes and bars. We enjoyed looking round a 2 storey comic book store but it was the design shops that most grabbed our attention. I never thought that I could get so interested in chairs! Some of the shops were almost like works of art in themselves. Everything was so tastefully and artistically arranged. It was just a bit different from our B and M bargain stores back in Blighty.

    HAPPY PEOPLE.

    Copenhagen is an easy city to explore. It has no hills and is perfect for walkers and cyclists. People of all ages were out on their bikes and at times it was as if we were in the Netherlands, or even Oxford or Cambridge. Large areas of the centre are pedestrianised and it is a pleasant and easy place to negotiate. Polls consistently highlight Denmark as having a high quality of life, and rate the Danes as one of the happiest people in the world. Copenhagen looks both familiar and different at the same time as it is a blend of mainland northern Europe and Scandinavia. It has as much in common with London, Berlin or Amsterdam as it has with Stockholm or Oslo. It has no “blockbuster attractions, but is a pleasant and eclectic mix of museums, galleries, designer shops, parks and royal heritage architecture.

    WALK TO THE DESIGN MUSEUM — Mass Tourism, Churches and Royal Palaces.

    Unfortunately Stroget and its nearby squares and streets are a major tourist magnet. One rule for many tourists is that there is safety in numbers. Birds of a feather, flock together. So there we all were, Chris and I included, fighting our way through the throngs of what we came to refer to as the “main drag.” Dive down a side street for a block or two and the crowds evaporate like magic. Another trick to escape the crowds is to visit a lesser known church. While Chris was having a nose around Sostrene Grene ( a homeware shop I think), I slipped into the brick Church of the Holy Spirit. It is a beautiful Lutheran church, founded to serve a monastery in the 13th century, but largely rebuilt after a fire in the 17th century and then remodelled in the neo-classical style in the 1870s. It has a striking Baroque alter and organ but the thing that especially took my eye was a large, dazzling painting of the Annunciation at the back of the building. It shows Mary receiving the Holy Spirit from heaven in the form of a dove and a blinding beam of light. Opposite her is an angel giving her the message from God. The painting is dazzling because the holy spirit and the angel’s wings are represented in gold leaf. For a while I was mesmerised by it. It was very peaceful in the church and I shared it with only about 4 or 5 other people. After a tranquil 10 minutes I re-joined Chris and we left the main drag for quieter streets nearby.

    Copenhagen does not have a quaint medieval old town with half timbered buildings and higgledy-piggledy cobbled lanes. It is still attractive though, featuring stately buildings from the 18th to 20th centuries and some really modern architecture down by the waterside. Most of the old stuff was destroyed in 2 disastrous fires in the 1740s and 1790s. What was left was then largely finished off by the British, who bombarded the city and port in 1807 to stop the strong Danish navy joining up with Napoleon’s France. Denmark had desperately wanted to stay neutral but Britain would have none of it. Nearly 200 people were killed, 800 odd wounded and over a thousand buildings destroyed. The bombardment went on for 5 days until the shell- shocked Danes surrendered and had their fleet confiscated.

    We crossed a couple of busy pedestrianised squares complete with statues, fountains and attractive flower displays, on our way to Nyhavn. We felt compelled to go there as it’s on every tourist guide’s bucket list. It’s a picture postcard canal flanked by attractive pastel-coloured, gabled terraces dating back to the 17th century. The canal was built in 1671 by Swedish prisoners of war to connect the city centre to the sea. If it was in Amsterdam or Bruges, nobody would single it out as special, but in Copenhagen, because of the destruction described above, Nyhavn is one of the few older areas of the city centre that has survived. It’s name means “new harbour.” I remember thinking it was pretty when I first went to Copenhagen in 1981. It is still quite attractive but the whole area is now swarming with tourists, desperate to tick it off their lists. All the pastel buildings are now expensive restaurants and bars. Despite the high prices they were all packed. Nyhavn is where the hop on hop off bus stops, where rickshaw drivers and Ubers pick up their fares and where boats trips of Copenhagen harbour start and finish. These trips all include a visit to the famous “Little Mermaid” statue on a rock, which is another magnet for the tourist masses. She is a character from one of Hans Christian’s more famous fairy tales and the model for it featured in a well known ballet.( actually the naked body is that of the artist’s wife with the head of the ballerina planted on top of it.) There were queues for the boat trips so we didn’t bother. The whole place was heaving — a perfect example of mass tourism killing the proverbial golden goose.

    As soon as we left Nyhavn the streets became quiet again. We went down to the waterfront and saw 3 huge cruise ships docked in the outer harbour in the distance. Maybe that explained the crowds and high prices. We strolled past the Royal Danish Opera House ( Operaen) on the inner harbour, a stunning modern building with a large, copper tower and a projecting upper story balancing over the water’s edge. Large posters advertised its production of Evita. In this inner harbour area, there were rows of changing rooms, and we saw people diving into the sea for a swim. Copenhagen’s waters used to be polluted but were successfully cleaned up in the early noughties.

    We were now in Frederiksstaden. It’s an area of grand Rococo mansions and palaces along immaculately straight streets and was built to honour King Frederik V. Miraculously, much of it escaped the fires and the British bombardment. Yes, Denmark, like the UK, has a monarchy but today the Danish version is relatively low key compared to the pomp and circumstance of its British counterpart. We were on our way to the Design Museum but inevitably, on the way, we got drawn to Amalienborg Palace, the winter residence of the Royals. It’s actually very impressive. Four, almost identical Rococo palaces are arranged symmetrically around an octagonal, cobbled courtyard that centres on a statue of Frederik V on horseback. The palaces were paid for by Danish nobles but were commandeered by the Royal family when one of their other palaces burnt down. Unfortunately none of the palaces are open to the public so all their interior splendour is enjoyed by just a privileged few. Ceremonial guards in black busbies and navy blue uniforms, marched up and down, trying to keep a straight face as selfie- taking tourists dodged in front of them for that precious Instagram moment. A straight road leads from the Amalienborg courtyard to the round Marmorkirken ( Marble Church) which is based on St Peter’s in the Vatican. It was started in 1749 and only finished in 1894 because of lack of money. We visited it later that day. It is very impressive and special. It’s also peaceful despite the many visitors who flock in there. It’s spiritual atmosphere and awe -inspiring dome obviously stuns most people into silence. Near the Marble Church is a Russian Orthodox Church with 3 shining golden domes. It was built in the mid 19th century to celebrated a Danish princess marrying Alexander III who was soon to become Czar. We tried to get into it a couple of times but despite what it said on the internet, it was always locked. ( maybe a casualty of Russia’s war on Ukraine.)

    DESIGNMUSEUM DANMARK

    I said we were heading for the Design Museum of Denmark and we finally made it after a 2 km wander. And what a wonderful destination it is. We both agreed it was one of the outstanding highlights of the whole trip. The museum is housed in 4 wings of the former Frederik’s Hospital built in the 18th century. Everything in this area seems to be named after King Frederik V, its Royal sponsor.

    Pride of place goes to a permanent collection of 20th Century Danish Applied Art and Craft and includes iconic designs of international repute. These include Arne Jacobsen’s Ant Chair, Kaj Bojesen’s classic wooden toy monkey and Ole Kirk Christiansen’s Lego brick. We actually walked through an illuminated tunnel of chairs from the different decades of last century. Halfway down the tunnel, I had a Damascus-style revelation — chairs are actually beautiful works of art and not just boring, functional objects that we happen to sit on. There were also lots of interesting and exciting things from Japan — particularly wood prints and posters. The latter explored the tragic legacy of the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and Japan’s difficult relationship with the USA. At the end was a dazzling display of pop art design which bowled me over. After inevitably visiting the shop, we relaxed with coffee and cake in the courtyard garden. Earlier we had seen black and white photos of this garden in its hospital days when beds were dragged out to give the TB patients some fresh air.

    After this highlight of our first full day in the Danish capital, we strolled across the centre back towards our hotel. However our stroll was ambushed by a heavy rain shower and we were forced to shelter in a covered walkway with dozens of others. We heard the end of a young guy’s guided tour spiel ( they all laughed and gave him tips), and smelt a sicky mixture of burgers, ice cream and sweet donuts. When the rain eased and we moved on, we passed the main synagogue of Copenhagen guarded by 2 young soldiers sporting machine guns! It was a bit of a contrast from the ceremonial guards we had encountered at the Royal Palace and was an unfortunate reminder of the troubled times the world now lives in.

    We popped into a Netto supermarket for picnic food to have later. ( The city is full of Nettos and Seven Elevens.) Copenhagen is quite expensive and we didn’t want to have to phone our bank manager in order to pay a restaurant bill. There was a bar- code on our receipt which opened security gates to let us out. Maybe this would be an idea to reduce the shoplifting scourge that is affecting Britain. We gained the hotel via the Radhus or City Hall Square. Copenhagen’s Radhus is a handsome early 20th century building with an impressive clock tower. We arrived back at Hotel Alexandria just in time for wine o’clock. The guests can enjoy free wine in the foyer between 5 and 6pm — a very civilised arrangement.

    ( This was a description of our first full day in Copenhagen. We were there for 5 full days even allowing for our late arrival, so there is more to come. You have been warned!)

  • Italy Under the Radar – A Visit to Gubbio.

    Up to a couple of weeks ago I’d never heard of Gubbio. It’s not exactly near the top of most people’s Italian bucket-lists. But, visiting my wife, Chris’s: daughter, Italian son in law and Anglo-Italian grandkids every year, we have got to do many things that regular tourists don’t even think of. Our family visits provide many such “Heineken” moments.

    Gubbio is a small town of about 30,000 people in Umbria, a region in the centre of the Italian peninsula. Chris’s family live in Perugia, 43 miles or a 45 minute drive away. Gubbio is in the north east corner of Umbria near the regions of Le Marche to the east, and Tuscany to the west. ( Sorry about the geography lesson.)

    The thing about family visits abroad as opposed to conventional sight-seeing tours, is you get to do ordinary, everyday things as well as ticking off the Trip Adviser’s list of must sees. On this visit for instance, we got to visit a local police station ( Comando Stazione Carabinieri) . It wasn’t because we had broken the law! We were there to collect Chris’s grand-daughter’s Italian passport. While waiting there we witnessed men coming in to collect their gun licences so they could presumably go hunting. Policemen with holstered pistols also wondered in and out to collect documents as well. It was not an everyday tourist activity but interesting nevertheless. It was, in fact, an example of Italy’s infamous suffocating bureaucracy in action. Many i’s and t’s have to be dotted and crossed. Queuing has become a way of life. ( And many think it’s just us Brits who are famous for their patient queuing!)

    Anyway, we called in at the Carabinieri HQ in Perugia before heading off to Gubbio. The reason we were going there, apart from it being one of the most perfectly preserved medieval centres in Italy, was because Chris’s son-in-law, G, had acquired a motor bike and Gubbio has an excellent biker’s garage where it was going to be checked out and serviced. So the rest of us drove to meet him there to have a day out together.

    Guided by a sophisticated sat-nav, we parked just outside the old centre. The car-park just happened to be next door to the remains of a partly restored Roman amphitheatre! ( 1st century AD or CE) Luckily my humble, British debit card worked perfectly in the Italian parking machine. 7.5 Euros sounded pretty reasonable for 7 hours. Now in tourist mode, we got our camera phones at the ready and made our way to Gubbio’s medieval centre, which we entered through an old stone gateway of porta. This is one of six still puncturing the town’s defensive walls.

    Most of the streets were quiet even though we were in mid-June. Gubbio is still well under the mass tourist radar, thank goodness. Although the centre is almost like a museum piece with its ancient stone buildings, narrow streets and lanes, it did not feel like a commercialised tourist-trap at all. It was just the opposite in fact. Every now and then we passed a small, colourful ceramics shop but nobody came out to give us the hard sell. The tall buildings have attractive, terracotta clay-tiled roofs with little, lantern-like chimneys. ( very photogenic.) The chimneys are still there today as they protect the flue from rain and help to promote an updraft.

    Gubbio sits in an upland valley of the Apennine mountain chain. The town spreads up the lower slopes of Mount Ingini. A small river divides it neatly into two halves and is crossed by several old bridges. When we were there the river had mostly dried up to a mere trickle. The lower land beyond the town is largely devoted to olive groves. Unlike Perugia, which was founded by the Etruscans, Gubbio, along with nearby Todi, was one of the original settlements of the Umbrii people, an Iron Age tribe. The Romans came to call this region: Umbria. The Umbrians had many powerful enemies and so retreated into small, defensive dwellings in the Apennines. This is why Umbria, like its neighbour Tuscany, has so many hill-top settlements today. The ancient Umbrians formed an alliance with the Romans against the Etruscans which gave them a certain amount of protection but also led them to being swallowed up by the expanding Roman Empire. Roman authors referred to it as a place with heavy, mountain mists. For a while it had great strategic importance as it controlled a major highway through the Apennines, the Via Flaminia.

    The old Umbrian language was related to Latin and Oscan.( whatever that is!) Gubbio has the distinction of holding the oldest documents in the ancient Osco-Umbrian family of languages. These are the Iguvium ( or Eugubian) Tablets. They consist of 7 bronze tablets dating from 300 to 100 BC. They were discovered in 1444 AD ( CE.) by an illiterate shepherd. They are the main source of research for scholars of ancient Umbrian. One can still find them in the town’s museum which is housed in a splendid palace. ( we didn’t have time to visit it.)

    The Roman Empire in Umbria fell after invasions by the Saracens in the 5th and 6th centuries after Christ. Gubbio eventually fell under the control of the Ostrogoths and/or the Lombards, who had a prolonged power struggle to fill the vacuum left by the Romans. The town’s history is full of conflict and complications and I’m sure you would fall asleep if I tried to jump down every rabbit hole. It was completely rebuilt on its present site after being destroyed by Hungarians in 917AD. It seemed to be fair game for any powerful, marauding enemy that came along. For a while it fell under the control of Charlamagne’s Frankish Empire which later morphed into the Holy Roman Empire. Later still it was ruled by the Popes in the Vatican and so became part of the Papal States. Finally Umbria, along with the rest of the Papal States became part of the new, united Kingdom of Italy in 1860.

    Gubbio actually prospered in the 12th and 13th centuries thanks to the production of woollen cloth. Vines, olives, fruit trees, flax and hemp were grown in the surrounding countryside, when it wasn’t being devastated by an invading army. This prosperity would explain the presence of 2 or 3 impressive palaces and a sprinkling of frescoed churches. But then a long, slow decline set in which explains its relative obscurity today.

    We wandered through the narrow streets flanked by stone buildings of a pale rosy-pink. Swifts flew here and there above us, their magnified shadows dancing on the walls as they darted in and out of their nests. Colourful lines of washing hung from lines suspended from high windows. It’s funny how other peoples’ photogenic knickers have become a tourist attraction. We called in at the Duomo or Cathedral but it looked quite bare as it had been remodelled in the 18th century and its medieval ornamentation tidied away. I spotted some fading, 16th century frescoes in a side chapel. There was Mary talking to the angel and learning that she would be bearing the son of God. Opposite the cathedral is an impressive palace. We walked from the picturesque Duomo square or piazza to a more workaday square with a small bus station at one side. This is the dramatically named Piazza Quaranta Martiri ( Square of the 40 martyrs.) We have discovered lots of squares and streets in Italy, named to remember an important or tragic event. This one remembers the 40 local people who were shot by the Nazis in 1944 as a reprisal for the activities of the partisans in the mountains.

    Our next stop was the Piazza Grande, the main square of the town. By now, people, both locals and tourists, were getting more numerous. This is one of the main places for tour groups to meet up and is a popular meeting spot with cafes, benches and some shady trees. In front of us to the right was a small park in front of an old church. To our left was a 14th century building which was founded as a hospital. ( Hospital of Santa Maria, established in 1326.) It has an attractive terracotta, pan-tiled roof, with an old bell tower and a two colonnaded arcades, one sitting on top of the other. The street level arcade is lined with classical columns. This arcade or loggia is an extension stuck on to the side of the building. Presumably this passageway, open at one side, was originally used for exercise while taking shelter from the rain or beating sun. Today the lower loggia is occupied by several restaurants which were doing a brisk trade. It’s a popular eating place for tourists.

    The upper loggia or arcade was added in the early 1600s by the Wool-makers’ Guild after a lot of controversy. They wanted to stretch their washed pieces of cloth over the arcade roof to dry. Some people obviously thought this was sacrilege in a building dedicated to the Virgin Mary. However, commerce and profit won out in the end and the so-called “stretching loggia” was duly added. The whole thing is called the Loggia dei Tiratori and very picturesque. It must feature in an endless stream of Instagram and Facebook photos.

    The big attraction of the Piazza Grande however is its beautiful setting. Above it sits the 14th century Consul’s Palace. Its crenelated, fairy-tale facade and 98 metre high campanile can be seen from all over the town. Behind the palace, the lush, wooded slopes of the Apennines rear up dramatically. At the top of a steep hillside, a tiny church can be seen peeping out through the trees. People can travel up there by cable car to avoid a stiff, 40 minute hike.

    By now we had met up with G who had parked his motor bike. We ascended a steep road to a little, quiet restaurant he had kindly booked for our leisurely lunch. Inevitably it featured shavings of black truffles, a speciality of the area. These flavoursome underground mushrooms are sought out and dug up in the woods by people using specially trained sniffer dogs. Truffle hunting is a popular pastime in this part of central Italy, especially amongst the older generation.

    We now climbed up to the Consul’s Palace which is situated in a spectacular square with stunning views across a sea of orange rooftops and the green hills and dark mountains beyond. Opposite the Palazzo dei Console is another medieval palace called the Palazzo Pretorio which is now the Town Hall. From the palace square we looked down over the town and then suddenly we heard the evocative throb of dozens of vintage cars. It turned out that the town was the halfway point of a stage of the Miglia Mille ( Thousand Miles) which is described as one of the most beautiful road races in the world. Crowds had gathered, police were on hand to redirect the local traffic and as we watched, a succession of brightly coloured historical cars arrived in the town, interspersed with support vehicles. Many of vehicles were sports cars from the 1950s and 60s. We spotted Masaratis, Alpha Romeos and Ferraris, along with less glamorous vehicles such as ancient VW Beetles and 1950s Italian police cars. Each car had a driver and a navigator. I’m not a “petrol head” by any means but it was fascinating watching the spectacle unfold. Suddenly the sleepy “museum” had woken up. People were walking around waving little, red “Miglia 1000” flags and down in the Piazza Grande, a large marquee had been erected to give lunch to all the contestants. That day’s stage had started in Rome, had passed through Umbria’s highlights including paying homage to St Francis in Assisi and was heading to Bologna at the end of the day.

    The Miglia Mille is an open-road, motorsport endurance race established in 1927. It’s for historic cars and passes through some of the most scenic parts of Italy. The full course goes from Brescia to Rome and then back again. It lasts for just one week so we were very lucky to see it. They did a couple of circuits of old Gubbio to cheering crowds before stopping for their lunch break. One car ended its adventure there however. The shiny red Masarati had had its side badly bashed in during a crash, and was now taped off and guarded by the police, ready to be towed away.

    After the excitement of the car rally we continued up to the top of the town and reached a curious-looking funicular up the mountain to the little church. Being a bit nervous of heights we had to pluck up courage to get into one of the open- air cages suspended from a moving wire. It didn’t stop but only slowed down for us to board, helped by an attendant. The cars were like metal, elongated bird cages which accommodated 2 standing people. We were carried high above the trees on the steep hillside. When we dared to look we were treated to wide sweeping views of the town and the countryside around. As we climbed we got glimpses of bare mountain peaks above the tree line in the middle distance. Despite our initial nerves it proved to be a smooth, sedate experience and soon we were being helped out of our cage at the top.

    We had climbed up to see the little church of St Ubaldo, which displays the remains of the town’s patron saint in a bronze urn in front of the altar. Actually, the revered body is missing 3 fingers, which were hacked off by a manservant as a religious keepsake! Although small, St Ubaldo’s has actually been given the title of a Basilica because it has been visited by a couple of Popes. It had a small courtyard surrounded by cloisters. The Basilica also houses 3 huge, candle-like structures called Ceris. They weigh 400 kilos each. These decorated wooden pillars topped by statues of “rival” Saints are carried round the town on the 15th May, the birthday of Ubaldo. I say carried, but they are actually raced round the town by rival teams to entertain cheering crowds. The 3 teams wear different colours and represent different parts of the town. Sometimes things can get so heated amongst the supporters that scuffles break out. The event is called the Corsa dei Ceri ( Race of the Candles.) Despite the apparent fierce rivalries, it is the tradition to always let St Ubaldo’s candle win. The others have to make sure they get back inside the Basilica before the leaders close the doors. G told me that the pillars have been known to topple over and crash into the crowd. The other year, a watching American tourist was tragically killed. One spectacle to miss I think!

    We looked around and sat quietly for a while. Hardly anyone was there. It wasn’t exactly the Sistine Chapel! Then we plucked up more courage to go back down the mountain side in the bird-cage lift. The man had trouble closing the gate of our cage because of the rucksack on my back. Luckily he succeeded just before we plunged off into the void. I exaggerate for effect! It was actually a gentle ride down.

    Our last stop in Gubbio was at a gelateria. While in Italy it’s compulsory to have at least one ice cream. We all had 2 flavours. Many people around us had whipped cream on top of their ice cream but we thought that was a bit over-the-top. Give me a 99 anyday! My double dose was of pistachio and coconut. It was delicious and very refreshing on a hot day.

    The only thing left was to walk back to the car which was doing a good impression of an oven as it had been sitting in the baking sun all day. ( All the shady spots had been taken.) The magical air-con soon performed its trick and, after picking G up from the motor-bike shop, we had a comfortable drive home to our base in Perugia. Everyone was tired but happy. We had been well and truly Gubbioed!

  • 30 Hour Trek to See Our Italian Family.

    INTRO — My wife Chris has a daughter, son-in-law and two teenage grandchildren in Italy. The kids call her their English nonna. Her son-in-law, G, is Italian. Chris misses the regular contact which most of her friends have with their families, but it does make for some interesting and enjoyable holidays. She also has a son in Australia, so it’s doubly frustrating but doubly exciting as well. We have subsequently had many more memorable experiences than we would have had if her offspring lived just down the road. Trips to see the many wonders of Italy are now an annual highlight, for example. So far we have travelled to Termoli in the south, Milan in the north and Perugia in the middle, all on family visits.

    Perugia is the main city in the land-locked region of Umbria, which is often called “Italy’s Green Heart.” So controversially, our visits don’t involve lying on beaches or having a dip in a blue, sun-kissed sea, the favourite stuff of holiday brochures. But Umbria is still a fantastic destination, with beautiful scenery ( lush, wooded hills, and fields of golden sunflowers), atmospheric historical towns, wonderful food and interesting wild-life. For instance our relative’s garden had delicate swallowtail butterflies floating round it during the day and fireflies and cicadas at night. The downside however is quite a long and complicated journey from our home on the north east coast of England. This year, the journey involved: a short taxi ride, 3 train journeys, an overnight stay in an airport hotel, a 3 hour wait at London Stansted airport, a 2 hour flight, a slowly shuffling passport queue, and a 30 minute drive into the hills, until, finally, Chris was reunited with her family. This blog is a description of the ups and downs of that journey.

    THE 30 HOUR JOURNEY. — Our journey from the North Yorkshire coast on the trains to Stansted airport in Essex, took up much of a day. An old, noisy diesel train took us on our branch line from the North Sea coast at Saltburn, through industrial Teesside and on to the east coast main line at Darlington. At Middlesbrough, the noise in the train increased significantly as we were joined by a group of excited school children, setting out on a trip to London. It took me back to my days as a teacher. I guessed they were about 10-11 years old. Their excitement was infectious and many were grinning from ear to ear as they boarded our little train. We thought we would say goodbye to them at Darlington but they caught the same south-bound express as us and were actually sitting in the same coach. In fact, we were surrounded!

    At first they all went very quiet, as they all immediately tucked into their packed lunches, sweets and crisps, even though it was only 10.30! The Azuma train sped happily south to York, but then the trouble started. We often have trouble on Britain’s underfunded rail network. We were told by a harassed-sounding train manager ( they used to call them guards) that we would be held indefinitely on a red signal at York as there was a medical emergency down the line. All trains, north and south, had been halted. It turned out that some poor person had ended their life by jumping in front of a high speed train at Sandy in Bedfordshire. Thousands of people were now stranded up and down the line from Edinburgh to London. We were OK as we were not flying until the next day, but I felt sorry for the teachers in charge of the school party. They had planned to have a meal in the capital, go on the London Eye and then go to a show later in the day. As the wait dragged on and on, they were hitting the phones, desperately trying to rearrange their schedule. The school kids were getting more and more restless and noisy, such that we missed subsequent updates from the train manager.

    However, at last, after an hour and 9 minutes, we finally moved out of York. We travelled south without further trouble, briefly stopping at Doncaster and Newark to decant and take on passengers as scheduled. Not surprisingly we missed our connection at Peterborough and had an extra hour and a bit to wait. We took the opportunity to visit the station cafe, a dubious pleasure at the best of times. We had drinks and I had a toasted sandwich to keep me going as I had not eaten since an early breakfast. The Cafe Local was a bit grotty with left over cups, plates and cartons littering the tables. The overworked staff had had to cope with lots of extra customers that day. The poor station announcer was issuing a repetitive string of apologies — ” We are sorry that your journey will take longer than planned.” It was here that we found that the “medical emergency” at Sandy was in fact a tragic suicide. It must have been terrible for the driver. One man in the cafe, waiting for his girlfriend to arrive at Peterborough, said she’d been stuck at London Kings Cross since 10am and had still not moved an inch north. It was then 1-30 pm.

    Our next train to Stansted was 10 minutes late, due to congestion in the Birmingham area. However we got seats easily enough and it was fairly quiet. We rolled over the flat, fenland countryside. At Ely we saw lots of colourful boats and canal barges and the impressive, dark cathedral with it’s graceful lantern tower. Ely Cathedral is sometimes compared to a ship on the sea as it stands on a piece of higher ground above the low lying fens.

    After a stop at busy Cambridge, where Chris grew up, we finally made it to Stansted airport, only an hour and 4 minutes late. We caught a shuttle bus to our overnight Premier Inn about 10 minutes away. We never attempt to travel down to Stansted on the same day as our flight, as our stress levels would probably go through the roof. On the shuttle bus we compared big, heavy cases with an elderly lady who was travelling to Verona to visit her son. We were carrying lots of English language book for Chris’s 2 Anglo-Italian grandchildren. The lady had a huge pink case full of : baked beans, HP Sauce, Tomato Ketchup, jelly and custard powder. These were just some of the British things her son missed while living in the city of Romeo and Juliet. The bus driver had to help to carry her case into the hotel foyer.

    The next day, after a comfortable night and a decent hotel breakfast, we were back on the shuttle bus, arriving at the airport terminal at 9am. We were a full 4 hours early for our 13.05 flight. Chris had been listening to lots of horror stories on the radio about people queuing for over 3 hours and missing their flights because of the extra post-Brexit passport checks to get into and out of the Schengen zone. Apparently there had been absolute chaos at Athens airport where loads of people missed their flights because of the enormous queues. However, we were so early that even the electronic sign told us to sit down and relax as our Ryanair flight had not started the check- in process yet. We had in fact already checked in and got boarding passes online as instructed to do so by the airline to avoid a £55 each penalty fee. ( which we had been stung by the previous year.) But we still had to deposit our hold luggage and go through security, so we waited nervously for half an hour until told we could proceed. When we did move it only took us about 20 minutes to get through check-in ( somebody glancing at the boarding passes on the screen of my phone), the do- it- yourself luggage drop off and the security scans. The Ryanair app installed on my smartphone made it very easy, although as a rule I prefer people to apps.

    Airports are stressful places at the best of times, and after passing through security where we subjected ourselves to a demeaning whole body scan, I was just breathing a sigh of relief when I suddenly experienced 2 minutes of sheer panic! I couldn’t find my passport anywhere, despite frantic searching! I thought I’d emptied my pockets and put everything into my small rucksack to be scanned. From my bag I retrieved my phone, wallet and other bits and bobs but no passport emerged. We emptied my rucksack and checked its contents 3 times but to no avail. Without a passport our trip to Italy would be over before it even started. Our cases would travel there but there would be nobody to collect them at the other end. After Chris had called me a couple of choice expletives, I finally patted my pockets and the passport was there. It was in an obscure trouser leg pocket which I didn’t usually use. I had forgotten to put it into my bag and the scanner had failed to pick it up as I walked through and got the green light. So much for whole body scan! My relief was palpable!

    Now began a 3 hour wait and a prolonged bout of people watching. A hen party passed by all wearing white veils. Then a stag group appeared all dressed as babies with nappies, tiny sun hats and dummies. Most people were glued to their smartphones, endlessly doom- scrolling. We got talking to a lady who was travelling to do 5 days of dog sitting in Nimes. A little later we heard about a make-up artist who was being flown out to Tuscany to prepare a bride and her bridesmaids for a wedding. Apparently lots of British couples are flying out to Italy to get married. It’s probably a bit more scenic than the local registry office back in Britain. We had drinks at an airport cafe where one was expected to order by phone using a QR code on the corner of the table and then, at the end, we had to pay at a self service till as at the supermarket. I found it a totally dehumanising experience but then, most younger people would regard it as normal and think of me as old fashioned.

    Finally we were called to the gate and proceeded to walk down lots of long corridors and up and down flights of stairs to get to Gate 45 for the Perugia flight. We ignored the escalators and moving walkways as after all that sitting around we wanted to get some much needed exercise. We had our special, small ruck-sacks to fit in with Ryanair’s latest reduced dimensions for cabin luggage. It’s another Ryanair scam along with such expensive gimmicks like “Priority boarding.” A Ryanair employee comes down the queue to check bag sizes and if you are caught with a bag that’s too big, it’s a 75 Euros penalty fee! We noticed some people hiding their obviously too big bags as the man came down to check. Sometimes the passengers can be as sneaky as the airline!

    Our flight was an hour late leaving as it had missed its departure slot. It gave us all a chance to dry out as we had been made to queue in the rain before getting on. Even the priority boarders got a bit damp! The 2 hour flight was relatively smooth although I missed out on seeing the Alps and Dolomites because we were sitting over the wing. In future I must remember to avoid rows 18 to 22!

    Umbria International Airport near Perugia and Assisi is very small and usually quiet. The entrance doors feature pictures of St Francis saying: “Welcome brothers. Welcome sisters.” It’s a big contrast to London Stansted. Nevertheless we had to queue for a full half hour at passport control. The Italians and other EU Nationals got through in less than 10 minutes. British travellers are now classified as “Others.” We have to endure the extra security checks introduced since the controversial 2016 Brexit vote. People have to have their photos taken and then have their fingers and thumbs scanned as well as having their passport checked before being allowed through. I had already been processed at Amsterdam airport earlier in the year and so presumably my extra identification data was already in the EU system. Nevertheless I still had to present the fingers of my right hand. The guy next to me was being put through the full works and was having difficulty understanding the Italian border guard’s instructions. It was all a bit humiliating. At last both Chris and I were rewarded for our patience with a “Grazie” and we were free!

    By the time we got through, our cases had been round the carousel about a hundred times. We quickly grabbed them, passed through the green, “Nothing to Declare” exit, and finally met up with Chris’s daughter, who had kindly come to greet and meet us. We stepped out into the hot, late afternoon sun for the half hour drive to our holiday base –a converted farmhouse overlooking a wooded valley with a view of the medieval hill-top city of Perugia on the opposite hill. The children greeted us as we arrived. Our Italian family visit had finally begun!

  • Mixed Fortunes in Brussels. ( 1972 – 2026.)

    I’ve been to Brussels, the capital of Belgium 3 times and nearly went there on another occasion. It’s been a city of mixed fortunes for me. Good things and not so good things have happened there.

    I first attempted to go way back in 1972, newly married and a newly qualified teacher. It was to be a grand tour of the Low Countries by rail, starting in Bruges and finishing up in Amsterdam. In those days we went across the Channel by boat as there was no tunnel. Very sadly, just before we set off, my new father-in-law unexpectedly died. Our departure was thus greatly delayed. Instead of wandering around the Belgian capital, I found myself at a sombre funeral in Kent. The holiday, although much needed by my grieving wife, was greatly truncated and Brussels was missed out.

    Incredibly I didn’t get around to trying again until 2012 when I went with my travel buddy, Eric. We had met on a group tour of Romania and went on several holidays together, mostly in northern Europe. Belgium fitted the bill exactly. On this jaunt, we had a few days in Brussels followed by a few in Bruges, with a visit to Ghent thrown in for good measure. In Brussels we stayed in the gritty, working class suburb of Anderlecht, famous for its football team, the most successful in Belgium. We must have booked there because it was cheap. It certainly felt authentic. We had a room up a steep staircase above a typical continental bar and brasserie. It made us feel as though we were in the real Belgium rather than in an anonymous, chain hotel. Our room overlooked a crossroads, very busy during the day but eerily quiet at night. Every morning we drank our coffees and witnessed the rush hour traffic build up to a crescendo and then gradually die down again.

    The location wasn’t exactly convenient. We had a half hour hoof to the nearest Metro station, where we got the train into the centre. Of course, we wanted to see the Grand Place which is often described as one of the most beautiful squares in the world. It certainly impressed. A huge, cobbled space in the heart of the city, it showcases a stunning panorama of Gothic and Baroque architecture from the 15th to the 19th centuries. A medieval town hall is faced on 3 sides by ornate guild houses all built to show how rich and successful their tradesmen sponsors were. These highly ornate old buildings are decorated with statues, arches, classical columns, pinnacles, fancy gables, and most eye-catching of all — glittering gold.

    It should have been a memorable moment when Eric and I walked into the famous square, but our attention was instead caught by a large stage and giant speakers set up for a pop concert that evening. So we had to try to imagine what it must look like when not invaded by all this distracting, modern paraphernalia.

    Despite this slight disappointment we had a good time in Brussels. We visited the art gallery in the Upper Town to see paintings by the so-called Flemish Primitives ie Brueghel the Elder, Bosch and Memling, as well as masterworks by the French artist Jacques-Louis David. I remember being stopped in my tracks by David’s world famous “Death of Marat” ( 1793), which shows the French revolutionary bleeding to death in his bath after being stabbed by Charlotte Corday. I’d seen it so many times in history textbooks that I couldn’t believe I was actually standing in front of the real thing. The gruesome scene shows Marat slumped in his bath-tub holding a letter from his assassin in his left hand and a writing quill in his lifeless right hand. He had used his bathroom as his office because of a serious skin condition.

    In that 2012 visit we visited the spectacular, glass-roofed shopping arcade Galeries Royale St Hubert ( 1846), one of the largest and earliest in Europe at the time. We climbed to the Upper Town to see the Royal Palace and the formal park opposite. Then we descended in a glass-walled lift to the Marolles, the now gentrified but still atmospheric working class area of cobbled squares, open air markets, and little shops and bars. We stopped at an outside cafe where Eric wound up the waitress by asking if they had any beer? ( Belgium has more brewers per head of the population than any other country in the world.)

    We passed by the Mannekin-PIs, the famous statue of a small, urinating boy, but hardly gave it a second glance as it was so underwhelming, despite it being on many a tourist’s list. The undoubted highlight of our stay was a tour of the city’s Art Nouveau architecture. Brussels was the birthplace of Art Nouveau which flourished in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Two architects in particular, Victor Horta and Paul Hankar started creating organic forms that broke with tradition. In their buildings, there was no such thing as a straight line or right angle. Ironically they were reacting to the uniform, mass-production of the industrial age, but at the same time were using products of that very industrialisation, such as wrought iron and glass.

    We did the tour with an excellent organisation called ARAU. ( Atelier de Recherche et d’Action Urbaines.) It’s a heritage-action group set up to help protect Brussels’ historical architecture, especially Art Nouveau and Art Deco. The tour was fascinating. We visited the only surviving Horta designed department store ( 1906), the Grand Magasin Wauquez, famous for its stained glass, huge windows letting in floods of light and ornamental iron grills, girders and balustrades. It’s now the Belgian Comic Strip Centre. Belgium is second only to the United States in the production of cartoons, the most famous being Tintin and the Smurfs. We took a bus south of the centre to the Ixelles and St Gilles neighbourhoods. Here we visited an art nouveau school and a sumptuous private house paid for by the immense riches earned in the colonial era when Belgium ruled and exploited the Congo in central Africa. Leaving the dubious morality of empire aside, we were privileged to gain access to such a mansion. We were told that no photography was allowed. A female caretaker arrived to unlock the door and followed us from room to room with an eagle eye as the guide gave his expert explanations. Suddenly though, he stopped and abruptly ordered 2 young Asian girls to get out immediately and wait outside. The caretaker had spotted them surreptitiously taking photos. We were just then at the beginning of the Instagram age when some feel compelled to snap absolutely everything. The guide explained that future groups might no longer gain access to this wonderful house if the transgression was reported back to the owner. Despite this unfortunate incident, it was an interesting and enlightening tour and we learnt a lot.

    My next visit to Brussels came in 2022 with another travel buddy and close friend, Ian. We stayed in Mechelen, a small city halfway between Antwerp and the capital. We took the half hour train journey for what we planned was the first of 2 visits to Brussels. Once again I was bowled over by the splendid St Hubert shopping arcade. We were particularly impressed by a couple of chocolate shops lit up by bright lights shaded by beautiful Tiffany-style glass. We went on to the Grand Place which greatly impressed Ian, but again I was slightly disappointed because this time it was hosting, not a pop concert but a beer festival! Apparently 100 beers were on tap. However, the marquees and security fences rather detracted from the architectural splendour all around.

    Following a guide book trail we made our way via atmospheric narrow streets to Place St Catherine where an open air market was in progress and then out to a lovely church called Eglise St Jean Baptitse. It was all very interesting and we enjoying our meander. Unfortunately one of the downs of my visits to Brussels now took place. I was robbed of about 200 euros. The guy did it by asking me for change, ostensibly for parking. Wanting to be helpful to a fellow tourist ( he said he was German) I naively took out my wallet. He distracted me by trying to give me some sort of shopping token which he kept pushing towards me. I declined as I didn’t understand what he was saying. It was only later in the day that I realised he had relieved me of almost all my cash. There was just one 10 euro note left to hide the fact that everything else had been swiped! It left a sour taste in our mouths and we decided not to visit Brussels for a second day because of this bad experience.

    We did however get to see the wonderful Horta House before I realised I had been robbed. This is the art nouveau home and studio of the turn of the century ( 19th to 20th) architect Victor Horta. It’s now called the Musee Horta. We found our way to the St Gilles district on the metro. Frustratingly they wouldn’t let us in until we had booked online even though we were there in the flesh and there was space inside. It was only a year after covid and everyone was very nervous about overcrowding. Thus online booking and timed tickets were now the order of the day. We had to stand in the street, get on the booking site on our phones, pay for our tickets, contact our bank for a verification code and finally get the magical QR code that we needed to get in. Ironically, the lad on the door couldn’t get his scanner to beep when it pointed to the code on my screen. In the end he let us in anyway after all that fuss. He gave us tickets from a basket which we showed to another man who promptly put it back into the same basket!

    Musee Horta is wonderful inside. Horta himself lived there until his death in 1919. It is a light-filled, sensuous creation, full of ornate, curving wrought iron and stained glass alongside beautiful wooden furniture and panelling. The central feature is a delicate staircase spiralling up the whole height of the house and bathed in natural light from a large skylight above. It is decorated with painted motifs and is surrounded by mirrors which increase the sense of space and light. It would be impossible to describe every detail. Suffice to say that it is like going through the Looking Glass ( or the back of the Wardrobe) and entering a magical alternative world. I was entranced but when I went to buy some postcards it was then I realised that I had been robbed. Talk about going from one emotional extreme to another! It seemed to sum up my mixed fortunes in Brussels.

    After all that it was with some trepidation that I went back to Brussels again this year with my wife Chris. Once more I stayed in Mechelen like I did with Ian, and we made the easy train journey to the capital. This is when I get to repeat some of the things I said earlier — sorry! Chris had never been to Brussels so I had to show her the impressive shopping arcade : the Galeries Royale St Hubert. By a small miracle we got to see it when it was virtually empty. We arrived there at 8-30am and had it to ourselves. I read that shopping arcades went out of fashion with the rise of department stores. It’s sad and somewhat ironic that department stores are now struggling and having to give way to internet shopping. We have 2 empty ones in Middlesbrough near where I live. Anyway we visited this historic arcade in Brussels which is surviving thanks to tourism. As on previous visits we next went on to the Grand Place. We had come so early because we were booked on a walking tour starting there at 10am. Just for once — a stroke of luck — the grand square was empty. Previous visits had coincided with a music concert and a beer festival. This time however, we could see the square in all its glory. It started to rain a bit, but you cannot have everything. Unfortunately we were due to find our guide by looking for a white umbrella but now the whole square was awash with them.

    We had booked ourselves on to a 3 hour Art Nouveau walking tour. The organisation I had previously gone on a similar tour with was not operating in April which was a shame. The tour was quite expensive — £51 each– but it said it would cover the highlights of art nouveau in Brussels and would finish at the Musee Horta which I already knew was/is wonderful. We met the group and the guide, Maria, without any trouble. The rain had stopped and most of the umbrellas had gone down. Marie started her introduction, talking through a microphone attached to her head. Unfortunately the mike kept slipping off, I had trouble deciphering Maria’s accent and there was a lot of background noise as the Grand Place filled up with more and more tourists. It was a very mixed start.

    We moved off up the hill called the Mont des Arts to the Upper Town. I was still only picking up about 25% of what the guide was saying. I wasn’t the only one having trouble as 3 people left the tour after about 10 minutes. Slowly though, I got used to Maria’s voice and started to understand more. We stood outside a former art nouveau department store at the top of the hill. It is now a musical instrument museum. We heard its history and admired its twirling, unusual ironwork. We now jumped on a tram –an exciting moment for me– tapping in with our credit cards. We travelled south into the Ixelles and St Gilles areas and got off after 5 stops. Despite traffic it was much quieter here because of the lack of tourists. I started to hear more of what Maria was saying. It was really interesting stuff, especially as she was giving her personal interpretations alongside the standard speel. However I now had to absorb another disappointment, as the guide informed us that we weren’t going to go inside any of the buildings. We would be standing outside, looking at the fancy doors and windows of the exterior and Maria would show us photos of the wonders inside. I thought this wasn’t good enough considering the price we had paid — over £100 between us. Still, we had to go with it and like I said, a lot of what she told us was very interesting. Our group consisted of Dutch, Americans and us Brits. 3 more people left near the end because Maria’s enthusiasm led her to over-run. But the majority stayed the course.

    Maria’s enthusiasm for the subject of Art Nouveau was infectious. She had really got into it during the covid lockdowns. She lived in the St Gilles area so incorporated many of the buildings into her lockdown exercise walks. She gave too much information, in my opinion, but we learnt quite a lot. Art Nouveau was basically an architectural style for the wealthy. It was a way of showing off to the neighbours about their success. If you were super rich in the 1890s, you could hire an eminent architect to design a house to suit your personal taste. Horta and Hankar were the main men to go to in Brussels, the equivalent of Gaudi in Barcelona. Art Nouveau was a reaction to industrialisation and mass production. It was influenced by William Morris and the Arts and Crafts movement in Britain. Its buildings have many allusions to the natural world. The movement was also political, being a Socialist reaction to Catholicism and the traditionalists. The new, natural art style was a statement of identity. Sometimes this style is called “Total Art”. That’s because the architect, craftsmen and artists had total control over every aspect of the building, from door handles to taps, from lights to furniture. The same approach was being followed by Charles Rennie McIntosh and his wife Margaret McDonald in Scotland at a similar time. Art Nouveau buildings have lots of natural light, originally inspired by the Crystal Palace in London. Coloured glass was imported from the Tiffany works in America. Sometimes the architect’s quest for total control got a bit carried away however. One architect even went so far as designing all his wife’s dresses! It wasn’t a movement for feminists.

    Maria explained that Art Nouveau was also about escapism. It was about going into an inner world. Of course, this art movement was taking off at the same time as Sigmund Freud’s theories about the workings of the mind were surfacing in Vienna. The tour finally finished outside the Musee Horta on rue Americaine in St Gilles. Here we had to absorb a triple blow. We had assumed that we would finish with a tour of the house but this wasn’t the case. We weren’t allowed in. What’s more, we couldn’t even see the outside of this Horta masterpiece as it was covered in scaffolding and protective sheeting. Thirdly, we found that we couldn’t book to see it later that afternoon as it was fully booked all day and every day for the foreseeable future. This is yet another result of mass tourism. Why didn’t they all just stay at home? And so the tour, interesting as it was, ended in anti-climax. To cap it all, it had started to rain again — heavier than before.

    The tour had ended but we realised that we didn’t know where we were or how to get back to the city centre. We had just followed the guide out here and she had now disappeared before we had had the chance to ask her for directions. To make matters worse, the rain was getting heavier and we both needed the loo, especially Chris. She had been wanting to go since the beginning of the 3.5 hour tour. Thus we were in a bit of a pickle to put it mildly. So, first things first — we needed a toilet. I looked down the street and on a corner about 200 metres away was a bar announced by its outside tables and chairs. We headed straight for it. It was empty inside and luckily the bar girl understood English. I quickly ordered coffees and ascertained where the facilities were. It was a bit like the relief of Mafeking, for those of you who know your Boer war. We sipped our coffees, watched the rain drops running down the window and listened to French pop music. We couldn’t have got much further from a cosy, guided tour if we had tried. After about 15 to 20 minutes the rain eased. But we still had the problem of finding out where we were and figuring out how to get back to the centre. It was like a real life version of an escape room. I vaguely remembered that in my previous visit to this area, I had caught a metro. By studying my guide book map and looking at google maps, I finally worked out where we were and how to get to the station. Trams were plentiful but no good as we didn’t know where they were going and we might end up in an even bigger mess if we caught one going in the wrong direction. Anyway, after a 15 minute trek we miraculously made it to Horta station. We now had to figure out which line to go on and how to get tickets from the machine. As is usual in this impersonal day and age, there was no person to ask for help. Our first attempt to make sense of the ticket machine ended up with us getting a receipt but no tickets. We must have pressed the wrong button at some point. After carefully observing other passengers we tried again and this time succeeded. Our tickets got us through the barriers and we caught the pink line north for 4 stops. It was crowded but 2 young people kindly got up for us to sit down. We must be looking old!

    Back in the centre we explored the area around the old Bourse or Stock Exchange building . It looks like an ancient Greek temple. The streets were now heaving with tourists. We stumbled across the St Hubert shopping arcade again and this time it was absolutely crammed with people. It was quite shocking to behold — more like a massive rugby scrum than a sedate shopping centre. We ended up eating in a small bar, with more loud pop music and 3 or 4 men propped up on high stools drinking their pints. The food was OK and we enjoyed the 80s music. At least it was an authentic Brussels experience instead of a tourist trap. Finally we revisited the Mont des Arts which has lovely formal gardens and sweeping views from the top. We visited the extensive shop of the Musee des Beaux Arts. Chris likes shops and we both like art so we were in our element. Finally we walked through the Upper Town to see the Gothic: Sablon church and a beautiful little park opposite it with lovely flowers and statues set into hedges.

    I had survived another visit to Brussels. The day had had its highs and lows but overall had been very enjoyable. Just like all my other visits to the city, this one had been a day of mixed fortunes but we had navigated it successfully and had a great adventure. Now all I have to do is to go back to Brussels yet again to see the interiors of some of those art nouveau mansions we couldn’t get into on this occasion. Next time we will book well ahead and certainly go out of season to beat the worst of the crowds. Brussels 2027, here we come.

  • Ducking and Diving in Bruges.

    We were recently in Belgium, so inevitably we visited Bruges. You have to don’t you? Missing out Bruges in Belgium would be like omitting London when visiting England or not bothering with Paris while getting to know France. Bruges dominates Belgian tourism with about 8.3million visitors per year. That’s a lot to cope with for a small city of only about 120,000. I mentioned our Belgium trip to various friends and they all asked “Are you going to Bruges?” It’s as if no other places in Belgium exist.

    Why is Bruges so popular? Well, it’s simply one of the most perfectly preserved medieval cities in Europe. Often dubbed “The Venice of the North”, it combines picture-postcard facades, scenic bridges and a delicate web of glistening canals.

    Its golden age was back in the middle ages between the 13th and 15th centuries when, along with Ghent, it dominated the textile industry, turning high quality English wool into superior clothing that was exported all over the known world. It was a leading member of the Hanseatic league, a huge, pan-European trading organisation centred on the North and Baltic Seas, which , in effect, was a forerunner of today’s European Union. Goods from all over the world were traded there. The city and its merchants became immensely wealthy and many fine buildings were erected which reflected that.

    However, the good times did not last. By the late 1400s, its river, the Zwin was silting up, severing Bruges’ vital link with the sea. The city slowly slipped into decline as other ports such as Antwerp were favoured by the powers that be. For centuries Bruges wallowed in obscurity. World events passed it by as if it was asleep. It didn’t get swept up in the Industrial Revolution. In the 20th century it remained miraculously untouched by both World Wars although the Germans invaded their tiny neighbour on both occasions. Taking over a medieval back-water was not on their list of priorities. It was as if the once proud city had fallen between the cracks. Eventually though, it reinvented itself as a tourist destination, packaging and selling its glorious past to modern day travellers.

    The turning point came in 1892 with the publication of a French novella: “Bruges-la-Morte” ( Bruges-the Dead City). Its author was George Rodenbach. The book ignited curiosity amongst French readers in this forgotten time-warp on their doorstep. They started visiting to catch a glimpse of a forgotten age.

    When I first travelled to Bruges in the early 70s, it was popular but still relatively comfortable to visit. Tourist numbers were manageable and no area seemed over-crowded. It was the same in the early 90s when I revisited on a trip with my daughter. However, by the time I went again with a friend at the end of the noughties, I was shocked to see the huge crowds swarming around the main squares and most picturesque spots along the canals. What had happened in the meantime? Well, we had now entered the age of mass tourism. Budget airlines had made long distance travel cheaper and easier. People from eastern Europe, China, Japan and the Far east were now on the move. Travel was no longer the privilege of the wealthy West. Films such as the comedy thriller “In Bruges” had helped to put the photogenic city on the map. Since then, in two subsequent visits in the 2020s I have witnessed Bruges increasingly become a major tourist honey-pot. That is thanks to social media, and You-Tube video makers ( everyone thinks he/she is Stephen Spielberg these days) Then there are Tik Tok influencers and increasing numbers of people pursuing their Instagram bucket lists.

    This recent visit with my wife Chris was my 5th time in the once sleeping city. Now it has fully woken up to the great rewards to be had by courting the tourist dollar. The trouble is that it is starting to become a victim of its own success. Is it in danger of killing the goose that laid the golden egg? It’s a worrying thought. Despite all this though, Bruges still remains an outstanding place to visit. We just had to be prepared to duck and dive a bit to avoid most of the hordes and the worst of the commercial excesses. Prices are quite high of course but you just have to accept that and get on with it. To avoid the football- like crowds at the height of summer, it’s best to visit in spring or autumn or even in winter. When there, it’s best not to follow the sheep- like procession along the main drags but try diving down side streets or venturing into lesser known parts of town. That way one might get a quieter, more authentic experience and perhaps even cheaper prices. It’s difficult but not impossible to drag oneself away from the often artificial attractions of “tourist land.”

    The local authorities are also trying to tackle the problem of over-tourism. Cruise ships docking at nearby Zeebrugge have now been reduced from 5 to 2 per day. Groups having guided walking tours are being restricted to 20 and are being told not to stop at the most obvious places for explanations and photo opportunities. The idea is to keep tourists flowing instead of being clogged up in a human log jam. They are also thinking about increasing the tourist tax and key attractions are introducing timed tickets. That may cut down on spontaneity but will ease the frustrating problem of overcrowding.

    So, how did Chris and I get on? Well first of all we visited in April rather than July. We came as independent travellers rather than as part of a large tour group. We travelled by train disguised as “normal people” instead of being ferried in from an enormous cruise liner. We also ventured into areas away from the main squares and most obvious sights. Did we succeed? Well , partly yes and partly no. In the case of the most compelling sights, we just had to take a deep breath and go for it. If you cannot beat them, then join them. But we didn’t climb up the 366 winding steps of the enormous belfry on the market square, we didn’t go clip-clopping over the clattering cobbles in a horse and carriage and we didn’t queue to get on a crowded boat tour with a canned commentary. We also resisted the temptation of Choco-Story ( about chocolates) and the Frietmuseum ( about chips.) We even avoided the relatively new Harry Potter experience even though Potter fans swear that ancient Bruges is a real life recreation of Hogwarts. Finally, we missed out on any sampling of waffles although their warm, sweet scent seemed to permeate the air wherever we went in the main areas..

    We travelled across country on a slow train from Mechelen in the east of Flanders to Bruges in the west. We passed through flat, agricultural countryside with lines of graceful trees and neat and tidy little towns. It was nearly 11.30am when we got to Bruges. Descending from the platform we joined the tourist throngs on the busy station concourse. The first voices we heard were English. Some people from Newcastle were remarking on what a small world it was as they had just bumped into some visitors from South Shields! After crossing a busy bypass, we soon reached the Minnewater, a pretty, willow lined pond dubbed the “Lake of Love.” Cue the first photo!

    We walked on to Bruge’s Begijnhof, a former community of single, religious women and still inhabited by a handful of Benedictine nuns. As we were part of the daily tourist invasion, we didn’t see any habits floating by. The complex is an oval of pretty, white-washed houses from the 17th century, arranged round a green and surrounded by a protective wall. In the centre is a Baroque church. On the green were swathes of fading daffodils. It must have been wonderful there just a few weeks before. Notices requested “Quiet” but unfortunately that was a vain request as several tour groups were congregating there including noisy bunches of bored teenagers.

    We left the Begijnhof through an elaborate, 17th century gateway , straight on to a picturesque bridge over a canal. Swans basked on its green banks and a pair of coots with their 5 fluffy chicks, fussed around in the water below us. Views from both sides of the bridge were ( are) beautiful. We ducked and dived amongst the selfie-takers and got a few decent pictures ourselves.

    A medieval wonderland now beckoned us into its midst — gabled merchant houses, quaint bridges, shining waterways and impressive, stone churches lined the way. The most common buildings had attractive crow stepped gables. Inevitably many of the venerable buildings had been turned into tourist-trap shops selling souvenirs, lace and especially: chocolates. There were also numerous cafes and restaurants to tempt us in. We stopped at an English-style tea-shop. Bizarrely it was decorated with paintings of uniformed generals and admirals with dog’s heads! The food was lovely. We succumbed to cakes with our coffee and tea and they came with ice-cream, squirty cream and a small selection of delicious Belgium chocolates. Very naughty but very nice! The couple who ran the cafe also owned owned a chocolate shop across the street. ( one of many.)

    We meandered on through a tangle of narrow streets lined by gabled houses, their facades pointed to the blue sky. ( we were lucky with the weather.) Above them all reared the belfry of the Market Hall, a soaring 3-tiered tower dominating all around. Like a magnet it draw the crowd, including us, inexorably towards it, until finally, we were in the square itself. It’s a huge cobbled space, lined with photogenic guild houses, now turned into pavement cafes packed with diners. Many of the gables are crowned by golden figures of people and animals. Unfortunately a flower market was just winding up. Stalls were being dismantled, crates and boxes packed away and vans and small lorries were strewn around in what usually is a pedestrianised area. It was all a bit messy and detracted a little from the majesty of this medieval showpiece. Understandably though it is a working market place and not just an attraction for tourists. We still managed to enjoy the people- watching and the delicate carillon tunes coming from the bell tower every quarter. Bruge’s carillon has 47 bells of different sizes.

    Bruges has not one but two splendid squares, attached to one another by a narrow passage. The second one, the Burg is even more eye-catching than the Markt. Its buildings are studded with statues, many of them golden. The Burg is named after the fortress that was built there by the first Count of Flanders in the 9th century. It’s now long gone. We sat down to rest and do more people watching — couples courting, parents playing with their children, workers snatching their lunch, friends meeting and parting. All the time, horse drawn carriages came and went, their wheels and hooves echoing on the cobbled surface.

    In a corner of the Burg is one of my favourite churches — the moody, atmospheric Basilica of the Holy Blood. It’s been there since the 12th century. It’s named after the Holy relic that found its way to Flanders in the Middle Ages. Supposedly, it’s a piece of cloth stained by drops of Christ’s blood collected at the foot of the cross by Joseph of Arimethea. It was probably acquired by Crusaders who sacked Constantinople in 1204. It is paraded through the streets of Bruges every year on Ascension Day and is greatly revered. The basilica is actually in two parts. Downstairs is a gloomy, Romanesque crypt, while up 3 flights of stairs, the main chapel is decorated with colourful wall frescoes, painted in 1898. The centre piece shows Christ on the cross surrounded by angels and looking down on a field of sheep, while below, pictures show monarchs bowing to bishops and other mock-medieval stuff. This late 19th century makeover was very controversial at the time.

    To one side, a priest in robes sat on a raised platform guarding a silver phial containing the sacred relic. We were there on a seemingly normal day, but a constant queue of pilgrims shuffled reverently forward up a set of steps to view the precious cloth.

    We now walked away from the centre, heading north alongside a wide canal. Every now and then, packed tour boats passed by, but otherwise the area got increasingly peaceful. The crowds had just melted away. It was as if an invisible barrier had been erected, beyond which no tourist was allowed to stray. We passed a pretty confluence of canals and veered left. We now walked along virtually empty streets towards St Annakerk. We crossed a bridge over a canal and there was the church in front of us, sitting in its own quiet square. St Anna’s is an impressive baroque church from the 17th century. We almost had it to ourselves. There was only a caretaker, silently reading his book and a couple of other visitors came and went while we were there. It has a beautiful altar flanked by sinuously twisting columns. At the back is a huge fresco which is actually the largest painting in Bruges.

    The area around St Anna’s is the former medieval, working class district. It is a lesser known part of the city, and is sometimes called “Quiet Bruges.” It is a charming, authentic glimpse into the city’s past, featuring: simple, 17th century brick cottages, scenic canals, local cafes and even a windmill or two. As we wandered around we almost had the narrow streets to ourselves. It was a peaceful atmosphere as we had left the crowds behind.

    We were getting tired now. We had a snack and a drink at a canal-side cafe near the Burg. Then we started to make our way back to the rail station. Unfortunately, I got a little confused in the jumble of streets, as my map frustratingly only named the main drags. Luckily a kind local man helped us, giving clear directions in perfect English. He said he had lived in London and a local there had helped him when he too had got lost, so now he was paying off his debt to the English.

    We caught our train on time and were able to rest our feet on the journey back. It had been an interesting and enjoyable day of contrasts:- crowded squares and deserted streets, busy basilicas and empty churches, tour groups following their guides and ordinary people going about their everyday business. We had played it by ear to avoid the worst of the crowds. Sometimes we went with the flow, while sometimes we swam gently against it. Bruges is still a beautiful place but it has to be careful that it doesn’t sacrifice its soul on the altar of mass tourism. In our short time there we managed to glimpse both its past and its possible, overcrowded future. We had a great day though, along with thousands of others.

  • Belgium Holiday. ( or was it an Adventure?)

    I have a friend who’s hooked on adventures in far flung countries. His trips are full-on and crammed with exciting, unpredictable experiences. He journeys way out of your average person’s comfort zone. Over a coffee he explained that he actually comes home for a holiday. For him, being at home in his familiar routines is like being on a restful holiday, a peaceful sojourn in between adrenaline-filled trips.

    His differentiation between a “holiday” and an “adventure” fascinated me and got me thinking. When I go on holiday, I don’t regard it as an opportunity to rest or recharge my batteries. I have no interest in lying around on a sun lounge or a beach all day. I prefer to be stimulated by exploring new places, being surprised and potentially having experiences that I wouldn’t encounter in my everyday life. I like to expect the unexpected. For me therefore, a change is as good as a rest. So maybe I too am seeking adventure, though one of a more sedate kind.

    Belgium is only a short hop across the sea from Britain but it still has the capacity to surprise and excite because much of it is so different from my British norm. It might be one of the smallest countries in Europe but it consistently punches above its weight in terms of variety and interest. So Belgium was my wife Chris and I’s latest holiday, or was it an adventure? I’ll let you decide.

    We flew into Amsterdam from Newcastle, our nearest major UK airport. Then we took a fast inter-city train out of the Netherlands, south east into neighbouring Belgium. Straight away we knew we were in the “low countries” which is the literal translation of “Netherlands.” The land is flat and low lying, and divided up into squares or polders by drainage channels. From the descending aeroplane window we had already spotted vivid bands of colour in the tulip fields below. The Belgians and the Dutch used to belong to one country ruled by Spain. After gaining their independence from the hated Spanish, they eventually split up into two separate nations, partly because of religious differences. Belgium was largely Catholic while the Netherlands was predominantly Protestant.

    Belgium today is a intriguing mixture of Dutch and French. It is mostly flat ( except for the Ardennes in the south) and has lots and lots of bicycles. Every railway station we went to had massive bike sheds. It’s a linguistically confusing country. Flemish, a form of Dutch is spoken in the north, while Walloon, a form of French is the language of the south. Brussels, the capital, in the middle of the country, is multi-lingual which can lead to confusion. For instance if you wanted to get a train from Brussels to Mechelen, where we stayed, you also have to look out for signs to Malines, which is the French version of its name. The names on the train information boards alternate at regular intervals. To complicate things even further, part of Belgium even speaks German!

    Belgium is famous for beer and chocolate, for Audrey Hepburn and Eddie Merckx ( multiple Tour de France winner), for Rubens and Van Gogh, for Gothic architecture and Art Nouveau. It’s famous for Brussels sprouts of course which I used to hate as a child. Brussels, the capital, is often referred to as the capital of Europe as the EU has its headquarters there. The country was only officially created in 1830, and it was supposedly to protect Belgian neutrality that the British declared war on Germany in 1914.

    This was my 5th visit but it was Chris’s first. Most people seem to just pass through on their way to somewhere else. It’s funny that a country so close is so often taken for granted. A Belgian inter-city express picked us up at Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport. The train station is underground and the trains run through tunnels below the airport concourse. People descend to the platforms on escalators. Actually, we nearly missed our train because we forgot to put our watches forward an hour to get on to continental time. So instead of a leisurely hour and a quarter looking round the airport shops, we had a panicky 10 minute rush to platform 5 when I realized. The train came in bang on time as they nearly always do in the Low Countries. We never had to worry about Belgian or Dutch delay-repay. We sped south to Rotterdam and then on across the border towards Antwerp. As we were now in the EU’s Schengen Zone of free movement, we never noticed when we crossed from the Netherlands into Belgium. There were no passport or security checks. So far, so good we thought but then, the train suddenly slid to a halt in the middle of the countryside. Everyone was mystified. After an announcement however, explained to us by a fellow passenger, all was revealed. Someone had been smoking in a toilet and set off the smoke alarm. This in turn had automatically stopped the train. The guilty loo was actually in our coach. 3 train managers descended and made a forced entry. I hope the guilty guy had time to pull up his pants before they all burst in!

    We arrived half an hour late into Antwerp but luckily our local connecting train was on the adjoining platform so we still managed to catch it. It was a double decker train, something we don’t have in the UK. ( but unlike continental countries we DO have double decker buses.) We were travelling on to Mechelen , a town of just under 90,000, halfway between Antwerp and Brussels. Half an hour later we arrived. Unlike on a package holiday there was no guide to greet us and take us to our accommodation and welcome drinks. We had to figure it all out for ourselves. Luckily I had been to Mechelen before and had a good guide book map, so I was able to navigate us to the sanctuary of our hotel after a brisk 10 minutes walk. Checking in was quick and simple as the receptionist spoke excellent English. It was a lot better than our limited French or non-existent Dutch. Our room was clean and comfortable but — shock, horror — had no kettle, tea bags or custard creams! But who cares? We were now on a foreign adventure, where difference and surprise were the order of the day.

    The next morning we strolled into a medieval wonderland. Who needs Disney? Although it is historical and picturesque, Mechelen still sits under the tourist radar and is relatively quiet and undiscovered. It makes for a more relaxing base than the busy capital of Brussels or the mass tourist mecca of Bruges. Prices are more reasonable too. The town centre of Mechelen is largely pedestrianised though you constantly have to watch out for speeding cyclists. It is arranged round a stunning, cobbled square, book-ended by a cathedral and the stadhuis or town hall. The Grote Markt is lined on 3 sides by 16th century or mock 16th century gabled buildings, all of them different. Old gabled buildings also line the surrounding streets. Even the replicas are over a century old. Former guildhouses or merchant houses, many of them have now been converted into smart boutiques or eating places. Their outdoor tables spill out into the street. Facing us as we walked towards the central square was the 14th century Alderman’s House, Mechelen’s first town hall, now turned into a tourist information centre. Here we learnt about the town’s glory years in the early 16th century, when it was briefly the capital of the Burgundian Empire. The town especially celebrates Empress Margaret of Austria who welcomed many artists and scholars, attracted by the pomp, ceremony and prestige of her court.

    Mechelen, although modest in size, became the ecclesiastical capital of Belgium. It is sprinkled with fine, old churches and is dominated by the magnificent St Rombout’s Cathedral, with its soaring tower, built in the later 1500s. The latter is the tallest Gothic tower in the country at 97 metres, even though it was never fully completed. You can climb up its 535 difficult steps to go on a sky walk which offers 360 degree views, as far as Brussels and Antwerp on a clear day. Being increasingly nervous of heights we decided to give the climb a miss and stay safely at ground level. The 15th century Stadhuis is UNESCO listed. It comprises a former cloth hall and the arcaded Palace of the Great Council. A smartly dressed wedding party was gathering as we passed by. It was lovely strolling round the ancient square being transported back in time. The experience was enhanced by pretty tunes played every quarter of an hour on the cathedral’s carillon. This is a feature of any visit to Belgium. The tunes are played on a set of bells of different sizes. St Rombout’s tower houses Belgium’s finest carillon, a 49 bell affair. Each bell plays a different note. Carillons are technically the world’s largest musical instruments and were originally used as time- keeping devices and to mark special occasions. The bells are triggered by the rotation of a large drum with metal pegs. The pegs pull wires attached to the bell’s clappers. The frequent, gentle tingling of the carillon adds to the magical atmosphere of the town centre.

    Our adventure/ holiday in Mechelen wasn’t adrenaline – filled but was full of delightful, little surprises as we strolled the quiet streets. We wandered into a couple of the churches and the cathedral itself, mainly Gothic affairs with high naves, classical pillars lining a tall nave, and ornate, gilded altars. A common feature of all of them is a massive, wood-carved pulpit. These feature saints, angels, cherubs, animals, birds and foliage. You name it, it’s there. They are over-the-top Baroque affairs from the 17th century. The wood carvers then were highly skilled and in great demand, as the Catholic church launched its counter-attack against the Protestant Reformation. There’s a lot of this extravagant church furniture in Belgium as it was/is the Catholic part of the Low Countries. The pulpit in Mechelen’s St Peter and St Paul Church has a particularly spectacular example. It’s a former Jesuit place of worship and at the time it was carved ( early 17th century) missionaries were spreading the Jesuit message all around the world. Thus the pulpit features a globe and human figures from all the known continents at that time. I spotted a native American with a feathered head-dress. Disturbingly, I also spotted a near naked African who was in chains. The carving was done when the African slave trade was in full swing and was supported by the church. Presumably they believed they were guiding “heathen savages” to Christian enlightenment. The church is beautiful if you can put aside this moral issue. It also features richly carved confessional boxes.

    Another feature of old Belgian churches including the ones in Mechelen are large religious paintings, many of them completed several centuries ago. St Rombout’s Cathedral for instance has an Anthony van Dyck’s depiction of the Crucifixion, tucked away down a side aisle. He was Peter Paul Rubens’ star pupil back in the early 17th century and went on to become King James I’s and King Charles 1’s chief court painter over in London. It’s a realistic, graphic affair with muscular bodies writhing in agony on their crosses ( the 2 thieves are also included) and distraught, tearful onlookers. 17th century religious masterpieces like this are not for the faint-hearted. Also in the cathedral is a series of very old paintings portraying the story of St Rombout himself. He came to Mechelen as a Christian missionary from Ireland ( or possibly Scotland) to convert the “heathens” and was murdered for his pains. As a penitence, the conscience- stricken locals, once converted, built this huge edifice in his honour. Christians, especially Roman Catholics, love a martyr and Mechelen has its very own.

    The streets beyond the cathedral were very quiet. In fact, we often were the only people there. There were no tourist masses, following the pink umbrella, queuing for a burger or an ice-cream or posing for selfies. We had the quiet lanes almost to ourselves. We strolled past 16th and 17th buildings undisturbed. One delight of Mechelen is its “secret” walled gardens. We came across 3 quite by chance. One is in the grounds of a grand 16th century house or palace, the Hof van Busleyden, now a museum. It had beautiful displays of tulips and irises. An information board told us that one problem they had back in the 1500s was bulb thieves sneaking in at night. Alright, it was a crime, but it illustrates how highly valued flowers were ( and still are) in the Low Countries. Our next enclosed garden was behind the cathedral and was a more informal affair with blossom trees and bushes, a grotto and a shrine to Mary in the corner. This is the Archbishop’s Palace garden. Finally, we discovered a Renaissance garden with boxed hedges in the grounds of a tapestry restoration company — De Wit. This was originally the grounds of an abbey built by monks in 1484.

    We popped in to Sint-Janskerk ( St John’s Church) to see another incredible wooden pulpit and a series of impressive paintings including a triptych ( 3 for the price of one) of The Adoration of the Magi by Rubens himself. There was nobody there and the caretaker lady seemed very surprised to see us when we wandered in. She was even more shocked when I told her we were from England.

    In our meander we were heading for an area called the Groot Begijnhof or Large Beguinage. This too is a World Heritage site. The Begijnhofs or Beguinages ( many things in Belgium have at least 2 names) were communities of religious ladies who devoted their lives to worship, but did not actually take the vows to become nuns. Their charming complexes include a church and collections of quaint cottages, often arranged around a green and surrounded by a protective wall. There are a whole series of them spread across Belgium and the Netherlands. The one in Mechelen merges with the adjoining streets but it is still delightful wandering down its narrow lanes and in and out of little closes. When we were there many of the doorways were decorated with little bunches of fading daffodils and tete a tetes, a reminder that Easter had only just finished. One little house had a special plaque outside it and apparently is a place of pilgrimage. It was here that a visiting Pope stopped to use the toilet back I think in the 1980s. The residents must have been very surprised to find the white clad Pontiff knocking on their door. Its water is now considered sacred by some Catholic visitors.

    It was a lovely first full day in Belgium. A quiet, pleasant stroll in the sunshine with little surprises strewn along the way. I suppose it counts as an adventure as we were going into the unknown and were pretty tired and foot-sore at the end. We never encountered a sun lounge. Instead, we flopped on to the outdoor chairs of a cafe opposite the art gallery and enjoyed a restful drink. We had seen lots of things we wouldn’t have seen at home and had remained constantly interested and stimulated. Our pace had been gentle as befits our age but it had still been a bit of a magical mystery tour which is what we like. However, we enjoyed our rest in the evening as we didn’t want to overdo things. Afterall we were on a holiday!

  • The Meaning or Meaningless of Easter.

    It’s Easter weekend. Our close is clogged with strange cars. Several of our neighbours are hosting family gatherings. The shouts and screams of young children disturbs our usual Sunday morning peace as people’s grandkids let off steam in the garden. Maybe soon, some of them will go on an Easter egg hunt or will be devouring some egg -shaped milk chocolate. I did it myself when I was a young kid.

    I used to teach RE ( as well as history and geography) and a significant part of the curriculum was about Easter. Although we had to teach comparative world religions, studying the beliefs and practices of Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism etc, the emphasis had to be on Christianity as we are still officially a Christian country. For Christians, Easter is the most important festival of the year, even eclipsing Christmas in importance. That is difficult to believe in 21st century Britain in what is an increasingly secular society. It seems that our 2 main festivals are now driven mainly by commercial interests and the media rather than by the church. We go through the religious motions of course. Today’s news contained the obligatory item that the King and Queen and the rest of the Royal family ( except Harry and Andrew) have attended church at Sandringham this Easter morning. However, when I asked my pupils what Easter meant to them, the overwhelming answer was time off school and eating chocolate eggs. They might have added, time with their extended family. So much for all my carefully crafted lessons about the Christian idea of Jesus dying to save our sins, understanding humankind’s suffering by being tortured on a wooden cross and then being born again or resurrected to offer us hope and the promise of eternal life. ( if we play our cards right and the spirit in the sky forgives us our repented sins.)

    I don’t blame my students as they were merely accurate representations of the society they lived in, although I don’t think they would have done very well in the end of term exam. When I was a young kid, I too looked forward to the time off school and the colourfully-wrapped easter eggs that my indulgent grandma and grandad would give to me. However I grew up in more religious times, back in the 1950s, when many more people attended church on Sundays and we children were packed off to 2 sessions of Sunday School as well as to an evening service. My parents and grandparents were Primitive Methodists ( the “Prims”) and were very strict followers of the rules that had been laid down for them by John Wesley and his mates at Oxford University in the 18th century. It was a sort of “off the peg” religion for the masses. Follow the rules ( the “method”) and you will lead a happy life and go to heaven when you die. This stuff about conquering death was, and still is, a very comforting, hopeful thought for many and explains why christianity became so popular. It also explains why Easter is so important.

    As a child Easter also meant having to go to church twice in a weekend. It was a bit of a trial as all I wanted to do was go out and play with my mates and scoff my chocolate. On Good Friday we all went to church for a bout of communal misery. We were thinking of Jesus suffering on the cross and being subjected to a long, painful death. Apparently, the victim nailed to the cross didn’t die from blood loss, thirst or starvation as one might expect. He died because the dead weight of his slumping body crushed his lungs. You learn some gruesome things when you are an RE teacher. The mood in the Good Friday chapel was sombre and we sang down-beat hymns such as : ” There is a green hill far away, without a city wall, where our dear Lord was crucified, He died to save us all”. We were told that Jesus Christ, who was either God’s son or God in human form, had volunteered to take the punishment that God was going to dish out to the human race for all the bad things they had done while on earth. Jesus was the ultimate substitute. He was giving us all a second chance. All we had to do was confess our sins, say a sincere “sorry” and all would be well, as Jesus had already suffered our punishment. I wonder whether Stalin or Hitler believed in all this, a system that would allow them to get away with mass murder? But I digress from my childhood visit to the Good Friday service. It was a very trying, endurance test of patience. True Christians take it all very seriously though and even decorate their churches and themselves with crosses, the ultimate symbol of their Christ’s great sacrifice. The crucifixion and resurrection of Christ is even acted out in Passion plays. There was one presented by a drama company in Trafalgar Square this year. It must be weird being a tourist and taking a picture of someone realistically pretending to be suffering and dying on a cross.

    Two days later, on Easter Sunday, we were back in church again for more hymns and prayers and another long sermon. But this time everything was upbeat and happy as we were celebrating Jesus’s resurrection, his cheating of death. We sang joyful songs full of optimism. Then when I got home, I was at last allowed the hit the chocolate!

    So what’s this about eggs at Easter time? Surely it’s not really just about giving ourselves yet another sugar rush? As always in these festivals and traditions, a lot of symbolism is involved. The egg represents new life, because Easter always coincides with the arrival of spring. After the dreary, dead months of winter, we are all cheered up by the advent of Spring. We enjoy the appearance of snowdrops, crocuses, daffodils and tulips, bringing welcome colour to our gardens, parks and verges. We enjoy the beautiful blackthorn and cherry blossom. We like the arrival of lambs in the fields or spotting a baby rabbit. We love hearing the birdsong ( if we can hear it above the traffic noise), and seeing our feathered friends building their nests and laying their eggs. The eggs contain the new lives that give us all that hope that the world will go on for another year. Chris Packham and Michaela Strachan will be setting up their cameras so we can all witness this rebirth of the natural world on our television screens on Springwatch. Leaving all the religious stuff out of it, Easter for many, is simply a celebration of the coming of Spring. In fact it gets its name from the old English word: Eostre, the pagan goddess of Spring. As with Christmas, the Christians simply commandeered an already existing pagan festival and exploited it to increase their own popularity.

    So the egg represents the hope of new life. Wearing my cynical vegetarian’s hat, I think it’s deeply ironic that many will celebrate Easter by eating slaughtered chickens, the most common and popular meat in the British cuisine. New life, new death. I wonder how KFC are commemorating Easter?

    The egg, when broken open also symbolises for some the empty cave-tomb, the discovery of which told Jesus’s disciples that he had risen from the dead. Thus, because of their symbolic significance, Easter seems to be all about eggs. We eat chocolate versions of them, we decorate them, our children hunt for them, we decorate little Easter trees with colourful pretend eggs and stick them in our windows for others to see. A few years ago, a friend of mine hid a dozen Cadbury’s Cream eggs in his large garden for his grandchildren to find on Easter morning. It kept them enjoyably busy for a while. The trouble is that they only ever found 9 so there are still 3 chocolate eggs out there giving the worms an unexpected Easter treat! When my children and I visited Norwegian friends for Christmas back in the 1980s, we all painted hard boiled eggs the night before and then after the children had gone to bed , we hid them around the house and made up cryptic clues to help the young ones find them the following morning.

    Since I became an adult, I have never been a great one for tradition. I resent having to put on a straight -jacket dictated to me by the rest of society. The pressure to conform has increased since the rise and rise of social media. Now we can all be the stars of our own “perfect” lives and show the world how lovely our Easter decorations are and what a happy time we are having with our wonderful, happy families. We post joyous photos or videos on Instagram or Facebook and wait for the “likes” and love emojis to come rolling in.

    But, cynicism apart, if I stop to think about it, tradition is the glue that sticks our largely individualistic society together. Following a tradition help us to bond, feel part of a common society and reinforces our sense of identity. I think it’s a good thing that different generations of a family get together at festival time instead of staying in their separate boxes. I don’t really mind the extra cars and children’s screeches disrupting the normally peaceful existence of our close. It’s just a bit sad and difficult for people who don’t belong to a “happy” family however — the divorced, the widowed, the lonely. Either the family gatherings around them emphasise even more their isolation or they become the pitied relative in the corner of the room , invited because he/she is on their own. For some, it will a long day of food, drink and desultory small talk.

    I think Easter is a strange remnant of a festival in modern Britain. A few go to church but many don’t . Lots of people get together with their families but others cannot. For the majority, the origins and real meaning of Easter have been lost in the mists of time. Britain now has a large Muslim minority. I wonder what they think about it all? As much as the rest of us think about Ramadan I suppose. There was shameful booing at Elland Road football stadium recently when play was stopped at dusk to enable 3 visiting muslim footballers to break their fast. Some probably Islamaphobic wag on social media suggested that Easter football matches be stopped to allow the Christian players on the field to eat their Easter eggs. His comment and the booing sadly show some people’s lack of respect for other people’s religions and festivals.

    For the tens of thousands at the football stadiums Easter is about sport, and crucial promotion or relegations battles. For others Easter represents family gatherings, like a mini Christmas. For children it means chocolates, sweets and gifts. Some fly off for foreign holidays in warmer climes. Bikers like to gather together and go for a long ride in the countryside. Some use their time off work and school to go to the seaside and eat fish and chips or ice-creams. A few little traditions cling on. Some eat fish rather than meat on Good Friday and others munch into hot cross buns. There was a big controversy the other year when the supermarkets suggested leaving the cross off their cinnamon flavoured tea cakes, even though their taste wouldn’t be compromised one jot. We don’t have many traditions left in Britain but many cling on to the ones we still have even though their meanings and origins have been largely forgotten.

    Yes, a lot of the meanings of the most important Christian festival are lost on many of the British public at large. Yet it is still an occasion that binds us loosely together, even if it just means saying “Happy Easter” to people in the street instead of the usual “good-day.”