GOING BUSH

I never intended to go native. I did all that in France thirty years ago, and had no intention of starting over here. I planned to work here until retirement, then get the hell out back to France. In the meantime, I felt not a twinge of guilt about reading British papers, watching British telly, listening to nothing but the BBC, shopping at Stonemanor, etc. I'm not stopping, just passing through.


But absence, contrary to popular belief, does not make the heart grow fonder, and an expensive high-speed train journey to Paris or London started to lose its appeal weighed against a £13 weekend return to Antwerp. And a few months back I got fed up with the poor sound quality of Radio 4 on my clock radio in the mornings and set it to RTBF. It was with some relief that I woke up to accurate weather forecasts and even started to understand who was who in Belgian politics. I even got hooked on a presenter called Thomas Gunzig and his daily 5-minute "Café Serré" essays at 8.30. John Humphrys and Today are toast I'm afraid. I started researching scurrilous Belgian conspiracy theories, succumbing to the national obsession with sex scandals.



I have started switching over to the Belgian TV news straight after the end of the BBC1 news, even before the end sometimes. I actually want to know what is going on in this country that I have lived in for five years. I considered going to France during my summer holiday, but decided it would be too crowded, too expensive, and too hot. I decided to stay in Belgium and visit the Ardennes, the coast, and more of Flanders.




I occasionally experience a real craving for golden, crisp Belgian chips. I am even prepared to patiently wait 10 minutes for them to be cooked to order. This is, apparently, a sure sign that you are becoming Belgian. I have not, however, gone bush to the point of putting mayonnaise on them, or God forbid, ordering a "fricadelle" on the side. I also draw the line at Belgian pickles, which are a sort of lurid mustard piccalilli in a jar. Some dubious restaurants even serve pork chops "façon Crosse & Blackwell". Ugh. But in other respects Belgium has a fine culinary tradition, although it is a lot of waffle that there are more Michelin stars in Belgium than in all of Paris.

Waffles are best when bought off a van on a cold day

I can name far more than five famous Belgians without even looking them up on Wikipedia. I know the difference between Freddy (Mayor of Brussels) and Toots (famous harmonica virtuoso) Thielemans. I know the names of all the members of the Belgian royal family and their order in line to the throne, and even have a favourite Royal - the elderly but delightfully irreverent Queen Fabiola.





The language has not been a problem, since I already spoke French fluently, and took to "septante" and "nonante" like a duck to water, to the extent that friends in France fall about laughing at my Belgicisms. I have picked up a few words of Flemish and, although I apparently speak it with a German accent, have scored a few points at the office with my ability to understand spoken Vlaams. Although I'm told that I won't be totally safe in Flanders until I can say "schild en vriend" perfectly. (That's a Flemish in-joke and I'm not going to explain it, just look up Bruges Matins).


I don't frequent the expat districts or the British pubs, and if I do go out for a drink I much prefer a Brussels brown bar, such as La fleur en papier doré, which was a favourite haunt of Magritte, and a Grimbergen in a beautiful glass with a plate of cheese to a pint of warm lager down at the Hairy Canary. I now have a collection of Belgian beer glasses, to which McChe contributes whenever one will fit in his pocket. My friends in Brussels, with the exception of Scouse Doris, are Belgians of various ethnicity (including Ethiopian, Mexican and Italian) and the odd Frog, for old time's sake.




When I recently managed to complete my tax declaration unaided, I knew I'd crossed the Rubicon. I ran it by the office accountant, who congratulated me. "You're almost Belgian," he beamed, as if it were a compliment. I wonder what the next step is - cheating on my tax declaration, perhaps?


Trouble is, as I have a marked preference for Flemish towns despite not really speaking the language, and as the prospect of Brussels being absorbed by Flanders creeps ever closer, I may have to decide soon, do I want to be an adopted daughter of Flanders or Wallonia? I quite surprised myself the other day when I stopped browsing French estate agents websites and started looking at property in Bruges.




Practice makes perfect: "Schild en vriend, schild en vriend, schild en vriend ...."

CULCHER VULCHER

Now I am on my hols and have decided that I am going to spend three weeks exploring Brussels and Belgium, which I have sadly neglected in the five years since I arrived, due to pressing imperatives such as having to earn a living and catching up on EastEnders. There are many museums and galleries to see in Brussels and elsewhere, and I have resolved to follow the advice of my old friend Arthur Smith many years ago, and "get a bit of culcher down me lugholes".

But before that, some retail therapy. Belgian labour law decrees that most shops must close on Sundays in order to allow staff to spend time with their families. As a fellow worker, I sympathize, but as a consumer, it makes me rage. Still, there are dispensations. Small furniture and antiques stores (but not Ikea!) can open. There is a whole district of Brussels which is devoted to antiques. David Dickinson would be in heaven. Needless to say it is a popular place for adults to get away from their kids on Sundays.

Photo courtesy of Andreea of Brussels Daily Photo

The Sablons district has a small antiques market which is a joy for moochers like me. I love vintage stuff. Particularly cutlery and jewellery. I have been searching for years for some bone-handled round-bladed knives which are very hard to find these days. A dear old aunt of mine has a set and I have always coveted them. Lo and behold, at the antique market last Sunday morning I found not one, but two sets of six - both English made and with handles in Bakélite imitation ivory or bone - the real thing being not only expensive and rare but a bit dodgy in these eco-friendly days. And I'm always a bit worried where the bone comes from: never mind wildlife, I'm thinking cemeteries.

Ceci n'est pas un couteau à manche en os*

I couldn't decide, and the nice Congolese lady in the wig said she'd knock them down to 30 euros for the lot. So now I have a dozen! I have a large cutlery drawer so I'll use one set for breakfast and another set for teatime. Having a different set of cutlery for each meal and each course is quite essential. Not enough people attack food with the correct tools. I'm the only person I know who has a set of fish knives and forks, and snail tongs and forks. As Hyacinth Bucket used to say, one can never have too many dessert forks.


Bakélite, à propos, was invented by a Belgian, Mr Leo Baekeland, and was the world's first synthetic plastic. Its real name is polyoxybenzylmethylenglycolanhydride. And there's me thinking that was the name of a village in Wales.




Nearby I found this lady who'd obviously been on the Grimbergen. The artist must have been able to sculpt really fast to capture her before she was arrested.


I then - finally - went to see the Magritte Museum, which has been open for over a year. I am not very good with museums, I get culture fatigue quite quickly. This one is on 3 floors, you start at the top and work down. I had to leave all my bags (including the knives) in the cloakroom, which is always a good move, as it means you've got no money on you when you hit the gift shop. I was wearing a light cotton jacket, which I removed and carried over my arm. A nasty young woman in a uniform told me I had to put it back on again! Why? I asked. Because it takes up too much room, she replied brazenly. It could touch something, and there are alarms everywhere. Well if that is a problem, I suggest they ban children under 15 from the Museum. Magritte would certainly not have approved.

It's raining men! Alleluia ...

Magritte joined the Communist Party in 1945, which made me wonder how he ever managed to get any of his stuff exhibited in America. Possibly with the help of Harry Torczyner, his American lawyer, publicist and friend. I spoke to Harry Torczyner once on the phone many years ago - he was a pal of my very first boss in Paris, an international lawyer. Does that mean that in the game "Six degrees" I can claim Magritte in two? Torczyner was a madman, but he owned an awful lot of Magrittes. My favourite Magritte, "Golconda" which I call "It's raining men" (above) is not in the Museum, but my second-favourite, The Empire of Lights (below) is. I love the feeling of warmth that emanates from the lit windows of the house, set against the sinister darkness of "outside". I imagine all couch potatoes love Magritte.




On reflection, I should have got those deep-bowl soup spoons for 20 euros a set. I think I'll have to go back on Sunday.




* This is not a bone handled knife

A RIGHT ROYAL SHOWER

Wednesday was Belgium's National Day. A particularly sensitive National Day this year, since Belgium is (once again) hanging together by a thread. Following the June 13th election, where the Flemish separatists won a majority, they're still interviewing and reporting back to the King. We might have a government in the autumn if we're lucky. How did Cameron and Clegg manage to get a government together in a week?


Anyway, as McAnarchist is away on his hols and there was no threat of republican heckling, I decided to watch the King's televised addresses to his peoples. The plural is deliberate in both cases - he is not, please note, the King of Belgium, but King of the Belgians. Albert II is a people's monarch, like Mary, Queen of Scrotes (who was French) and the King of the Hellenes (who is Danish). My aunt who was something of a Mrs Malaprop used to refer to the "King of the Belgiums". She may turn out to be right in the end.




His pre-recorded address was broadcast at 3 p.m, like our own dear Queen on Christmas Day. He spoke very slowly, as he's getting on a bit and it takes him a while to read the autocue. There was an open door behind him - I don't know what that's supposed to indicate, maybe that he'll step down if surplus to requirements? Maybe my Belgian reader can enlighten us on that one. He did two versions, one in French and one in Flemish, which were broadcast on the relevant TV channels, and finished each one with a few sentences in German, as there is no Belgian TV channel for the very small German speaking minority. Awfully nice of him - you wouldn't get the Queen doing a version of her speech in Welsh. King Albert is, like our own dear royal family, descended from minor German nobility (the family name is Saxe-Coburg-Gotha) although the Belgian royals have had the sense to dilute the German blood over the years instead of topping it up.


Incidentally, our own dear Prince Charles is nearly 44% German, and William will be the first British monarch since Queen Anne to be less than a quarter German. From George I up until Edward VII, British monarchs were all 100% ethnically German. Edward VII married Alexandra of Denmark, which diluted the bloodline somewhat, but then George V undid all his good work by marrying Mary of Teck (Queen Mary), and our own dear Queen didn't help by marrying Philip von Battenberg.

Prince Harry is not ashamed of his German ancestry

The Belgian royals have intermarried with Swedish, Italian and Spanish gels. Philippe, the Crown Prince, is half Italian, a quarter Swedish and the rest is a jumble of German, Austrian and French. He was the first Belgian crown prince to marry a nice Belgian (Flemish) girl called Mathilde who doesn't advertise the fact that her mother is a Polish countess. Their children are therefore 25.78% Italian, 25% Flemish, 25% Polish, 12.5% Swedish, 7.82% German, 3.13% Austrian and 0.78% French, which I think qualifies them eminently to be monarchs of Belgium, which won't exist by then so it won't matter.



Anyway, back to the National Day. After the King's speech, there's a parade. I once went to watch it in person but couldn't see a thing because of the crowds. It is also traditional that the heavens open on the opening bars of "Lily the Pink". So this time I played it safe and bagged a front row seat on the sofa. The weather remained uncharacteristically clement. The sun shines on a crisis.


King Albert rode up the Rue de la Loi in an open sided jeep, with only two desultory looking bodyguards walking alongside, one carrying a briefcase. His No.2 son - the spare to the heir - arrived dressed in a navy uniform, looking suitably uncoordinated and a bit out of it, as behoves the second son of a monarch (cf. Princes Andrew and Harry). Prince Philippe, the heir to the throne who is known officially as the Duke of Brabant, arrived looking uncomfortable and affecting a stiff leg, with lovely smiling future Queen looking glam in red and smiling and waving a lot. I felt a vague sense of déjà vu. Aunty Fabiola, who's been receiving death threats from an unidentified nutter in recent years, stood out in a white trouser suit, so that her would-be assassin could get a better shot, although she refrained from waving an apple as she did last year, in what was apparently a reference to William Tell. She's one mischievous old gal, and my favourite Belgian royal.




There followed a military parade which was like Bastille Day in miniature, kicked off by a flyover of the palace by the Belgian Air Force's Mirage fighter jets leaving red, black and yellow vapour trails. Seconds later there was a roaring sound outside my window, and I just caught the tail end of the flypast as it banked around over my house. I get a bit of a frisson from jet engines at full throttle. I used to be a regular at the Paris Air Show, and once had to be prised off a Harrier Jump Jet. I can't resist a powerful thrust.

Ooooooooh ....

To remind us that we are under the Belgian presidency of the EU, there was a contingent of soldiers from all 27 member countries, trying to march in step together. I noticed some of them still tried to stand out from the crowd though - the French swinging their arms more vigorously, having warmed up on the Champs-Elysees the week before. The Poles were smartly turned out in their tight breeches but refrained from goose-stepping. The UK was at the back (they marched in alphabetical order). It was something of a metaphor for the European Union and a worrying presage of what an EU army might look like one day.


After that there were marchpasts by tough looking Belgian soldiers in camouflage gear and berets, looking like the typical bull-necked European legionnaires, all boots, berets and matching cravats. The army showed off their latest light armoured tanks, all the rage this season, and the navy their stylish new dinghys. A shock of special forces (that's the collective noun) rolled past in full body armour and balaclavas, hanging off a huge armoured BMW 4x4 with a nervous looking Belgian Malinois sitting on top (not wearing a balaclava). I wondered how they got away with the balaclavas, since the burqa has been banned in Belgium?

Rex (not his real name), the only member of the special forces I am allowed to show you

Towards the end, like the bride at a fashion show, came the star turn: a pan-European contingent of police cars, led proudly by a gorgeous 560 horsepower Lamborghini Gallardo LP560 sporting the blue and white livery of the Italian Polizia, which put all the Queens and Princesses on the podium in the shade. Apparently they use it for chasing speeding cars on the autostrada. Yeah, right. Crisa? Che? Ma non troppo.




The parade concluded with the Choirs of the European Union singing "Ode to Joy", the European Anthem, for which the King and Queen stood to attention. David Cameron should be so humble. Then followed the Belgian National Anthem, which took me quite by surprise. I'd always thought this was the Italian national anthem. I'm sure I heard it at the World Cup.

AN IDEA OF PROVENCE

Having used up all my air miles, and covered 14,000 kilometers or so on my Grand Tour of the American West, I have shelved any plans for further globetrotting this year and instead am re-reading Peter Mayle's Provence books in my bijou urban patio courtyard, sitting by the lavender plants with a glass of chilled rosé within easy reach, the muffled sound of accordeon music wafting out from the stereo and the aroma of roast lamb in rosemary and garlic drifting on the air. In fact I can recreate almost all of Provence apart from the heat, and we have had plenty of that here in Brussels lately. It's set to continue, so why waste money on the real thing? And I bet you can't get decent chips in Provence.

Ceci n'est pas mon jardin

You either love Peter Mayle or you hate him. I'm in the first group. His books conjure up for me all the sights, sounds, tastes and smells of Provence - which I have, I must confess, never visited apart from the (very) odd weekend on the Cote d'Azur. Peter Mayle's Provence is full of charmingly eccentric Anglophile locals, rural idylls, comical dogs, good cheap wine, blue curls of woodsmoke, the chink of pétanque balls, village fetes, truffle deals, fabulous sunsets, pastis tastings, goat races, long lunches, and honest workmen. I'm not so sure this Provence actually existed when Mayle wrote the book, and it certainly doesn't now he's ruined it. I suspect you'd be lucky to find a real French person anywhere between Aix en Provence and Draguignan these days.

It was OK when the slebs kept to the Cote d'Azur: if you wanted to go and gawp at them you could, but the hinterland was relatively unscathed, apart from artistes such as Picasso and Lawrence Durrell. But then everysleb and his pedigree dog took to the hills, and now you might as well be in the San Fernando Valley.



Johnny Depp, Brangelina, John Malkovitch, Pierre Cardin, Tom Stoppard, Geordie filmmakers Tony and Ridley Scott, Alistair Campbell, and, God help us, the Beckhams, not to mention a host of other "peepol" and hordes of lesser known moneyed Brits and Americans have built homes there or converted old properties. I'm told the Lubéron (Mayle's manor) has turned into Beverly Hills. It sounds ghastly.

Bargemon, one of the many places the Beckhams call home

And anyway, it's horrendously hot there in summer. And expensive. And then you've got the forest fires. And the Mistral. Flies, if not mosquitoes. No, I think my way of "doing" Provence is much better. And cheaper.




Mayle was played in the TV series based on his books by the late great John Thaw to the best of his ability. Thaw was (in other productions) a great English thespian, the like of which we may never see again. From the unorthodox but efficient Detective Inspector Regan in The Sweeney, to which role Philip Glenister paid homage in 'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes', to the coolly intellectual Morse, he was the consummate all-rounder. Why, in this short play by acclaimed playwright Ernest Wise, he plays both a British and a German officer with aplomb, sensitivity and gravitas.

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