We are off again, and this time we are heading towards Istanbul. When I say that name it conjures up mystery, noise, romance, colour, the drifting scent of spice, and Indiana Jones lurking in a bar waiting for a terse and sexually-charged encounter with an exotic temptress.
Our rough plan is to whizz up through Belgium and off across southern Germany, into Austria, Romania, the Bulgarian coast, and down to Istanbul. For the return journey we’ll cross Greece and head up to Dubrovnik for Christmas. Lastly, into Slovenia, across the top of Italy, and back up to the UK, via France.
It’s only a guideline to get us started – we both know this isn’t how it will end up, because it never does. We are dreading Brexit, after which we will have to make plans that we actually stick to.
Best bit of kit ever
I have insisted that we buy walkie-talkies to communicate with each other. On our first trip, Steve claimed that I could hoot or flash my lights if I needed him to stop (I drive behind, you see). But that didn’t work, and I can’t believe either of us actually thought it would. He can’t see my entire car, let alone my lights, and my horn would have to bellow like the foghorn of the QE2 in order for him to hear it over Georgie’s engine.
Next we tried the hanky method, simply because Steve owns two hankies. The idea was that if I wanted to stop soon-ish (for a tea-break or a wee) I would hang the white one out of my window and overtake him. If it was an emergency and I needed him to stop NOW, I’d do the same but with the brown one. This was only very slightly more successful in that it worked once and then Steve forgot the rules.
But now we have Walkie-talkies, which are brilliant. Apart from on the road, they are invaluable when setting up the levellers, and every time Georgie is negotiating a tight corner or a low over-hang. Steve is finally getting used to the idea that I am not going to say ‘over’, and generally sign off with ‘love ya’ instead. It is interesting to see who likes to have the last word.
Bruges
Our first stop is Bruges, because everyone says how lovely it is (including Steve). And they are all correct. It is beautiful even in the cold, wet, and miserable Spring weather.
We visit the Basilica of the Holy Blood – because who can resist a title like that? (not me). It is a fantastically ornate place. And the Holy Blood? A glass vial tipped with gold, displaying some ancient rag with stains on it. Could be blood, could be Jesus’s … also might not be either of those things.
My money says this is the blood of a savvy little fella who spotted a good opportunity. And I like that. Good for him. So, we both queue up, pay a donation, and touch the Holy Blood whilst saying a prayer. Or rather, we touch the glass case, over the glass vial, containing the blood thing. Good enough.
Antwerp
The next day we drive to Antwerp, which we both find really interesting: not as pretty as Bruges, admittedly, but still impressive, and with some wonderful buildings.
The best can be seen down a street called Cogels-Oyslei – blocks and blocks of perfect Art Nouveau mansions.
And there is always the diamond district for things even more interesting than diamonds: check out these funky looking tools.
After fifteen seasons of Project Runway, we just have to visit the Fashion Museum. It is around the corner from Diane Von Furstenberg’s shop: Steve has a moment of silence as we pass.
The current exhibition is the work of a designer called Martin Margiela. Absolutely wonderful. He worked for Hermes in the 80’s. He made coats that turn into capes, and have slits under the sleeves so your arms can come out. Basically, everything he designed can be worn in multiple ways. It is all fabulous.
He also did his own, more punky stuff. There are silk dresses that have all the seams and darts on the outside, to show off the craftsmanship.
over a white shirt, over leggings.
We also pop in to Dries Van Noten’s shop to see what designer frocks look like now. Steve doesn’t like any of it, but you know, I could cope with some of it – if I had the odd five grand lying around.
The M HKA is another must-see for us: the Museum of Contemporary Art. They currently have a Futurist’s collection that is compelling, witty, and intriguing.
Our favourite exhibit is this automatic baby rocker, or Nurture Pod, as it’s now called. The rocker already exists – it’s the way the artist has re-made the packaging, and added to the device, that is so brilliant. The strap line is now, You make the babies: we make them awesome.
The piece explores a future where ‘our busy lifestyles’ mean we don’t even have to touch the babies, let alone get our hands dirty – whilst still raising little Einsteins. Notice that the ‘Waste/feed management module’ is sold separately.
On our last day we have lunch in the lee of the Cathedral, in a restaurant called The Eleventh Commandment. Holy shit, this place is extraordinary. I don’t know how many churches they had to pillage at night, but the place is crammed from floor to ceiling with plaster saints and plenty of Last Suppers.
Apparently, the eleventh commandment was when Jesus told his disciples that ‘above all things’ they were to ‘love one another as I have loved you’. Forgot that. Steve had to Google it. That’s fifteen years of enforced Sunday School down the drain then.
Does my bum look big in this?
Well yes it does, because you are a Belgian Blue cow.
As we drive along, Steve notices that all the cows we pass in the fields are sitting down. And when we finally see them standing up, it is a bit of a shocker – never seen such arses! And they look barrel shaped – that’s not right. I hail from Devon: I know what a cow is supposed to look like, and this isn’t it.
It turns out that they have a genetic mutation that causes them to be ‘double-muscled’, or big-arsed, barrel-shaped freaks of nature. Extra muscle, extra lean and tender, but weird to look at. No wonder they prefer to sit down.
Sue-Ellen
We meet a lovely couple called Claire and Nick whilst we are camping in Antwerp. They have an almost identical motorhome to Georgie, but theirs is called Sue Ellen – because she is American, and drinks a lot. They first spotted Georgie when we were down in Almerimar, but had no chance to say hello. They live in France, south of Poitiers, and travel whenever they can.
‘I saw an otter’, I say, excitedly, ‘just by the side of the road as we drove towards Poitiers.’
They exchange looks. ‘No you didn’t. That would have been a Coypu.’
Wait, what?
‘Yeah, a Coypu. Basically, a huge rat. Nasty buggers, big teeth, bite your arm off.’
I am momentarily disappointed, but then I think anyone can see an otter, right? Scotland is teeming with them, and all the zoos. Sod bloody otters. But a Coypu – don’t get many of them around Sevenoaks, do you!
‘I saw a Coypu,’ I say, excitedly. I like people to know what kind of idiot they’re dealing with right from the get-go.
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