There are few experiences that my esteemed colleagues and I have not had between us in our impressively long collective teaching career, and speeding down a main road in Belgium while updating the blog is no longer one of them. It’s a strange experience but it can be done, albeit with a little difficulty, as my fingers tend to hit the wrong keys whenever the coach sways but it’s worth it to keep the world abreast of our doings.
Today we woke to rain but, as ardent pluviophiles, we could tell that it wouldn’t last and indeed, as we arrived at the foot of the cathedral in Brussels, the last drops were falling and to be replaced by at first overcast and finally by relatively sunny conditions. Queuing into Brussels had eaten into some of the planned free time but we were still on schedule for the morning’s activities: a quick walk downhill through the 19th century elegance of the Galéries St Hubert where luxury shops vie with each other to separate the well-to-do from their euros to the stunning Grand Place, then a glance – and no more – at the iconic Manneken Pis and then finally a visit to Planète Chocolat where we would learn something about the art of producing chocolates. This was the intention but, as von Clausewitz reminds us, the first casualty of war is the plan. How right he was. No sooner had the boys scented the first of the elegant chocolate shops with the white-gloved assistants waiting to hand pick the pralines to the customer’s exacting requirements then they were inside, hands hovering over their wallets. With difficulty they were extracted – after all, we had a schedule to keep to – and promptly dived into the next one. The well-filled bags that some of them are bringing back as presents pay tribute to their zeal in this respect; a Shirburnian cannot long be kept away from chocolate.
The talk at Planète Chocolat was all that we had hoped: a film of the raw materials, a demonstration of how to fill moulds, free samples and finally the chance for two lucky volunteers, Hughie Leveson-Gower and Ollie Coombe-Tennant, to show their considerable skills at handling the gooey stuff. After such high drama, the lunch break was taken.
We reconvened at the nearest underground station to head south into the Anderlecht district for a guided tour of one of the last independent breweries in the city. What an extraordinary place. Instead of white-coated technicians pressing buttons to produce gallons of chilled Euro-fizz, this was a family firm that proudly makes a natural brew that depends on the skill of the blender and the unique micro-organisms that live in the area. Experience tells them that these creatures will kick-start the fermentation process in three to four days but, if it takes up to a month, they are quite prepared to wait – and their confidence has not been misplaced once in four hundred years. We were warned that the addition of extra hops makes for a bitter blend and the guide was right. While the sight of a generous sample is always welcome, the first and subsequent mouthfuls were accompanied with thoughtful grimaces and the silent recognition that total abstinence might well have much to be said in its favour.
Another burst of free time – no sense in letting good chocolate remain unsold – and we were back into the Brussels grid-locked traffic. We’re now on the road somewhere in southern Belgium heading into the setting sun. From time to time I try to call tonight’s restaurant to put the meal-time back by 30 minutes; not only are we going to arrive later than we expected in Lille, it has also been noticed that a football has been bought and it would be a pity if there were not time to put it to good use before dinner.
Did we all speak Flemish? Probably not. Are we more aware than we were this morning of the ease with which we can move – for leisure, study and work – between countries in continental Europe? Almost certainly. After all, we’re British people in a French coach 25 kilometres from Lille listening to music on a Dutch-language station. What will be the effect on this newly-acquired understanding of tomorrow’s trip to examine some of the cemeteries of World War I? All will be revealed in the next instalment.
Today we woke to rain but, as ardent pluviophiles, we could tell that it wouldn’t last and indeed, as we arrived at the foot of the cathedral in Brussels, the last drops were falling and to be replaced by at first overcast and finally by relatively sunny conditions. Queuing into Brussels had eaten into some of the planned free time but we were still on schedule for the morning’s activities: a quick walk downhill through the 19th century elegance of the Galéries St Hubert where luxury shops vie with each other to separate the well-to-do from their euros to the stunning Grand Place, then a glance – and no more – at the iconic Manneken Pis and then finally a visit to Planète Chocolat where we would learn something about the art of producing chocolates. This was the intention but, as von Clausewitz reminds us, the first casualty of war is the plan. How right he was. No sooner had the boys scented the first of the elegant chocolate shops with the white-gloved assistants waiting to hand pick the pralines to the customer’s exacting requirements then they were inside, hands hovering over their wallets. With difficulty they were extracted – after all, we had a schedule to keep to – and promptly dived into the next one. The well-filled bags that some of them are bringing back as presents pay tribute to their zeal in this respect; a Shirburnian cannot long be kept away from chocolate.
The talk at Planète Chocolat was all that we had hoped: a film of the raw materials, a demonstration of how to fill moulds, free samples and finally the chance for two lucky volunteers, Hughie Leveson-Gower and Ollie Coombe-Tennant, to show their considerable skills at handling the gooey stuff. After such high drama, the lunch break was taken.
We reconvened at the nearest underground station to head south into the Anderlecht district for a guided tour of one of the last independent breweries in the city. What an extraordinary place. Instead of white-coated technicians pressing buttons to produce gallons of chilled Euro-fizz, this was a family firm that proudly makes a natural brew that depends on the skill of the blender and the unique micro-organisms that live in the area. Experience tells them that these creatures will kick-start the fermentation process in three to four days but, if it takes up to a month, they are quite prepared to wait – and their confidence has not been misplaced once in four hundred years. We were warned that the addition of extra hops makes for a bitter blend and the guide was right. While the sight of a generous sample is always welcome, the first and subsequent mouthfuls were accompanied with thoughtful grimaces and the silent recognition that total abstinence might well have much to be said in its favour.
Another burst of free time – no sense in letting good chocolate remain unsold – and we were back into the Brussels grid-locked traffic. We’re now on the road somewhere in southern Belgium heading into the setting sun. From time to time I try to call tonight’s restaurant to put the meal-time back by 30 minutes; not only are we going to arrive later than we expected in Lille, it has also been noticed that a football has been bought and it would be a pity if there were not time to put it to good use before dinner.
Did we all speak Flemish? Probably not. Are we more aware than we were this morning of the ease with which we can move – for leisure, study and work – between countries in continental Europe? Almost certainly. After all, we’re British people in a French coach 25 kilometres from Lille listening to music on a Dutch-language station. What will be the effect on this newly-acquired understanding of tomorrow’s trip to examine some of the cemeteries of World War I? All will be revealed in the next instalment.
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