All tacky on the western front
Imagine Strasbourg as a pretty little girl with pigtails (bear with me) and the border between Germany and France as a skipping rope. Now imagine two bigger girls, who don't get on, spinning this rope and making poor little Strasbourg jump from one side to the other. Since 1870 it has had to skip this border at least four times – the poor sausage must be very confused. She currently resides in France, right on the border, but there are still plenty of German road signs and place names to be spotted. I think, due to it being so hotly contested over the centuries, I was expecting a sort of war-scarred, 1960s concrete rebuild of a city, a bit like Coventry. Thankfully the years have been kind to Strasbourg and it has somehow survived almost
like a 17th century time capsule. There are still pretty canals criss-crossed by adorable little bridges and narrow streets lined with original half-timbered buildings – it's so picturesque that you feel like you're actually in a 500-piece jigsaw. At the centre is a massive and unfathomably intricate cathedral that seems to exist purely so people can get their bearings and without which it would be easy to get lost in the labyrinthine streets and alleys.
The weather in Strasbourg was mental. We had a lovely sunny day in the town centre that was followed by a night cowering under our tarpaulin "van-cosy" while, judging by the loudness and ferocity of it, a thunderstorm raged about 10 feet above the van. It was like somebody had let off a grenade on the roof and then machine-gunned rain directly at the bit over our heads. The next day, as if nothing was amiss, the sun came out again and shone innocently upon our battered and dripping hovel. Then, for no reason at all, it became unbearably hot. This led to me being thrown out of a supermarket for not having a shirt on. In France! Seeing nipples is surely an everyday occurrence for them.
We spent the next few uneventful but very pleasant days trundling across France, enjoying the countryside and heading gradually towards Dunkirk and our ferry home. We were enjoying being in France so much that we weren't really concentrating and before we knew it we found ourselves accidentally in Belgium. Not the sort of surprise you'd wish on anyone. We decided that it was a good thing to be in Belgium (like when you fall over but get up
quickly, trying to pretend you hadn't) and chose to head for Ypres. The area is of course synonymous with some of the bloodiest battles of the First World War and we visited a couple of the immaculately kept war cemeteries nearby before heading to the town itself. Belgium is a very neat and tidy place – from the uniform tree-lined avenues in the country to the meticulous topiary in the town's gardens – and it looked like Ypres might be a bit characterless. Once through the mighty Menin Gate into the walled old town, however, you are confronted by an 
enormous piazza, the majestic Cloth Hall, beautiful cathedral and loads of really nice bars and restaurants. It is a lovely town. But the spectre of the war looms large – most distressingly in the form of souvenir shops. I might be being a bit over-sensitive here but I found the idea of shell casings, bullets, military caps, uniforms and helmets for sale all a bit tasteless – there was an actual machine gun in the window of one
bookshop. And then there's the mugs, thimbles and ashtrays adorned with poppies… there was even a Poppy Pizza Parlour! It didn't sit right with me I'm afraid.
Maybe it was the tacky souvenirs, maybe it was the fact that the European leg of our "World Tour" was coming to an end, maybe it was the rain seeping into the Ebay van again, but there was definitely a sadness in the air. We decided to go out and have a "last supper" to cheer ourselves up, which we did with aplomb – and a nice bottle of 2008 Pomerol.
like a 17th century time capsule. There are still pretty canals criss-crossed by adorable little bridges and narrow streets lined with original half-timbered buildings – it's so picturesque that you feel like you're actually in a 500-piece jigsaw. At the centre is a massive and unfathomably intricate cathedral that seems to exist purely so people can get their bearings and without which it would be easy to get lost in the labyrinthine streets and alleys. The weather in Strasbourg was mental. We had a lovely sunny day in the town centre that was followed by a night cowering under our tarpaulin "van-cosy" while, judging by the loudness and ferocity of it, a thunderstorm raged about 10 feet above the van. It was like somebody had let off a grenade on the roof and then machine-gunned rain directly at the bit over our heads. The next day, as if nothing was amiss, the sun came out again and shone innocently upon our battered and dripping hovel. Then, for no reason at all, it became unbearably hot. This led to me being thrown out of a supermarket for not having a shirt on. In France! Seeing nipples is surely an everyday occurrence for them.
We spent the next few uneventful but very pleasant days trundling across France, enjoying the countryside and heading gradually towards Dunkirk and our ferry home. We were enjoying being in France so much that we weren't really concentrating and before we knew it we found ourselves accidentally in Belgium. Not the sort of surprise you'd wish on anyone. We decided that it was a good thing to be in Belgium (like when you fall over but get up
quickly, trying to pretend you hadn't) and chose to head for Ypres. The area is of course synonymous with some of the bloodiest battles of the First World War and we visited a couple of the immaculately kept war cemeteries nearby before heading to the town itself. Belgium is a very neat and tidy place – from the uniform tree-lined avenues in the country to the meticulous topiary in the town's gardens – and it looked like Ypres might be a bit characterless. Once through the mighty Menin Gate into the walled old town, however, you are confronted by an 
enormous piazza, the majestic Cloth Hall, beautiful cathedral and loads of really nice bars and restaurants. It is a lovely town. But the spectre of the war looms large – most distressingly in the form of souvenir shops. I might be being a bit over-sensitive here but I found the idea of shell casings, bullets, military caps, uniforms and helmets for sale all a bit tasteless – there was an actual machine gun in the window of one
bookshop. And then there's the mugs, thimbles and ashtrays adorned with poppies… there was even a Poppy Pizza Parlour! It didn't sit right with me I'm afraid. Maybe it was the tacky souvenirs, maybe it was the fact that the European leg of our "World Tour" was coming to an end, maybe it was the rain seeping into the Ebay van again, but there was definitely a sadness in the air. We decided to go out and have a "last supper" to cheer ourselves up, which we did with aplomb – and a nice bottle of 2008 Pomerol.
Comments
Post a Comment