Belgium and Jellybeans

The morning started bright and early for me. Well, in reality, it was dark and early. It was 4am, still pitch black outside and I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to get up, pop the kettle on, have a shower and pack my last few bits. I was going to be tired later, but hopefully I’d be able to have a little snooze in the car.

Not long after 8am and we were ready to go. Oscar wasn’t coming with us this time, and neither was the caravan. About four days ago, we decided we wanted — needed — some more time away.

Last-minute foreign trips during the school holidays aren’t always the best idea. August is a month we normally avoid completely. Usually, in August, we hunker down at home and get on with all the exciting things in life: doctors, dentists, car MOTs and whatever other glamorous jobs need doing.

But this August, this unusually hot and dry summer, the heat must have finally fried my brain.

We decided on a city break, but everything we looked at was coming in at around £1,000 each for about five days. We can do a two-week holiday for that sort of money outside the school holidays, so we started looking a little closer to home. “Let’s drive,” he said.

The Eurotunnel was working out at a reasonable price, and so it was decided. Destination Europe. Belgium, to be precise. A country we’ve visited many times, but one our girls had only briefly visited before. Yes, that’s right. Our little Jellybeans were coming with us. Well, not so little really. At 34 and 30, one married and one in a long-term relationship, they are hardly children anymore. But a family holiday, just the four of us, is something my dreams are made of.

You think you only get so many family holidays with your children, and then suddenly they grow up, get jobs, partners, mortgages and lives of their own. So when the opportunity comes along to bundle everyone into a car and disappear to another country together, you grab it with both hands. And so we did.

We bundled ourselves into the car, waved at a sad little Oscar through the patio doors , who had seen the bags and clearly thought he was coming too, and headed off. Not to worry, he had our son-in-law to keep him company while we were away. Although I’m not sure Oscar saw it that way.

We made the journey to the tunnel in good time. It felt strange heading down the lane for cars rather than the lane we usually take with the caravan. There was an hour’s delay on the trains today, but eventually our 11.36am booking was called and off we went, only to be held for another hour further down the line. Eventually, the queue started moving and we were off.

Just over 30 minutes later, the skies of France greeted us.

Now all we had to do was get to Ypres.

I think I managed a little snooze on the journey, waking up with a crick in my neck just as we were pulling into the beautiful city of Ypres. Clearly, sleeping in a car is a skill I still haven’t quite mastered.

We had booked an apartment in a former Carmelite monastery right in the city centre. There were lots of instructions printed out explaining how to access the old monastery, including mailboxes, lock boxes and keys for the car lift that would take us from the street down into the car park in the depths of the building.

This is where it all went wrong.

Our youngest Jellybean and I located and retrieved the keys and worked out how to operate the lift. Steve drove into the very tight lift, the doors closed and off he went along with our eldest Jellybean, into the depths of a monastery that we still hadn’t gained access to.

Leaving us stood on the street wondering what on earth we were supposed to do next. At this point, we were hoping he didn’t actually need the keys for anything as we went off in search of our home for the next few days.

And what a home it was.

We were blown away by the stained-glass windows, high ceilings and religious murals restored onto the walls.

Then my phone rang. “Where are you?” Oh yes. Steve and eldest Jellybean. We’d got so lost in the moment, admiring just how lovely the apartment was, that we had completely forgotten where they had ended up. Oops.

Through the stained-glass window of the kitchen, you could see a courtyard with a statue of the Virgin Mary. It was easy to get lost in thought and imagine monks from years gone by, with their little bald patches, brown habits and rope belts tied around their chunky waists, tending the plants in ethereal silence. I may have watched too many historical dramas. As I blinked and realised it wasn’t a monk, Steve and Eldest Jellybean were trudging through the courtyard ladened with our luggage. Best go and help them.

After a quick drink and a freshen-up, and after taking approximately 100 photographs of the beautiful accommodation, we headed out into the hustle and bustle of Ypres. We were surprised by just how quiet the apartment was inside despite being so close to the city centre.

Needing to stretch our legs we headed towards the Grote Markt, where the impressive Cloth Hall stands proudly. This medieval commercial building was used as a hospital during the First World War. It’s also a building my grandad spent time in after having his arm blown to bits. Despite looking incredibly old and very much like it has stood there for centuries, the building had the bejeezus blown out of it during both World Wars and has since been painstakingly restored.

These days, as well as housing the Flanders Fields Museum, it also has a café serving a rather lovely croque at lunchtime. So, it seemed fitting that in one lunchtime we try the famous Belgian Croque in the building I felt a connection to. It was busy. Of course it was busy. It’s August. People were everywhere and languages from far-flung corners of the globe filled our ears. Sitting in the courtyard out of the sun we chomp on a rather large Croque, cheese and ham toasty to me and you, whilst listening to the bells in the Belfry ring out. Sometimes it’s the simplest things that make you happy and looking round the table at my brood made me smile.

We headed towards the Menin Gate. Here, things suddenly became very quiet and peaceful as we stared up at the names of the fallen soldiers.

Heading up the steps, we found ourselves wandering along the Ramparts path through the shade of the trees. At the end of the path, the hustle and bustle of civilisation returned. We make a mental note to come back and do the walk in full on another day.

And then, almost as if illuminated by sunbeams, there it was. A Frituur. A Belgian passion of mine. Frites, mayonnaise, curry ketchup and a side of whatever meat takes your fancy from the counter. I decided this was tea tonight. None of the family were brave enough to disagree with me. So in we went for a feast. Blooming good it was too.

Back towards the Menin Gate with 45 minutes to go before the Last Post, we were surprised by the number of people already in place to witness this daily act of remembrance.

We opted to stand towards the back. I wasn’t going to see much anyway and, with the crowd packing itself in, I’d rather not be shoulder-to-shoulder with complete strangers. As long as I could hear the bugle, I’d be more than happy. And what a moving experience it was. The silence of the crowd and the haunting melody of the bugle made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

The following morning, after a restful night and Steve’s obligatory morning bike ride, he loves riding over here, we braved the car lift and headed towards Bruges. On the way there we parked up at the Yorkshire dug outs and trenches. Very sobering and somber to think that even though we are in the middle of a big industrial estate these trenches are actually real and have been excavated and returned to their former selves.

Bruges is a favourite of ours. We’ve visited a few times over the years, but the Jellybeans had only been once before, when they were much younger, and neither of them could really remember it.

We parked in the free street parking we’d discovered years ago and wandered slowly into the city. The crowds gradually built as we got nearer to the Grote Markt Square. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves on the cobbles is a sound to behold as they pull tourists around in their carriages. Smells of waffles, fresh coffee, perfume and sweat send your senses into overdrive.

There were people everywhere, and slowly some divine being appeared to be cranking the temperature up. The amount of people, noise and smells and the heat of an August afternoon can all get a bit overwhelming. After mooching around the very touristy streets, passing shops selling chocolate willies, postcards, Belgian lace and waffles, we retreated to a bar on the square and secured ourselves a table under a huge canopy. Time for some serious people-watching. At the end of the smallest bottle of Coke Zero known to mankind, we were slapped with the biggest bill.

I might have enjoyed it a little more if I’d realised how expensive it was before drinking it. Still, you live and learn.

A waffle shop visit was firmly on my agenda today, and Dukes Waffles did not disappoint. It probably sent my pre-diabetic blood sugar levels into a state of complete panic, but it was absolutely delicious. Sometimes you have to live dangerously.

Diksmuide was totally different.

Very quiet, very peaceful and very pretty, but without the crowds. The beautiful town square had a stage being set up at one end for some event taking place over the next couple of days. We homed in on a building that Google said served good barbecue food. In we went, hoping to be shown to a table. It was definitely lacking in staff, so we lingered for a while before noticing the huge McDonald’s-style screens in the window. You order yourself on the screen, take a seat, wait for your little box to beep and then collect your food. Sounds easy, right? Not when the screens don’t have an English option and every word appears to contain about ten letters.

With a little guidance from a member of staff who was laden down with boxes, we eventually managed to secure ourselves a very good plate of barbecue meats and frites. Sitting on a terrace table overlooking the town square as the heat began to drop, everything seemed perfect. If only the Europeans didn’t smoke so much.

Another lunchtime saw us enter Mary’s Bar, just behind the monastery. This also came highly recommended as somewhere to visit in Ypres. It’s an Irish bar that has only been open for about a year, but the interior décor makes it feel much older. A real Belgian horse, like those used during the war, standing rearing up on its hind legs, preserved for years to come by a local taxidermist takes centre stage in the pub whilst behind him were bottles and bottles of Irish whiskey, each labelled with the name of an Irish soldier killed on the same day during the Great War.

We chose from the menu, a portion of dirty fries each. Hoping it was going to be a nice little lunchtime portion, we were once again very wrong. The portions over here are generous. Very generous. Picky tea later, I think, back at the apartment. We aren’t going to want much.

Tyne Cot Cemetery was another trip out. This part of Belgium is absolutely steeped in history, and whilst recently delving into our family tree again, we had become aware of a Ludford buried here. We located the grave as the sun beat down on us. Photos taken, we aren’t quite sure where he slots into the family tree, we just hope he’s pleased that over a hundred years later someone thought to seek him out and visit his grave.

There isn’t an awful lot of shade, but we managed to find a tiny corner and sat for a while, contemplating just how many stories are contained within these cemeteries.

Until a couple of coaches pulled into the car park. Our peace was about to be disrupted. Time to head back to the car and it’s glorious air conditioning.

Back into Ypres for another bit of exploration and of course another military cemetery, we headed off on a walk, aiming to make the most of the Ramparts Walk and the shelter provided by it’s trees.

The walk followed a winding, dusty path, giving us views of the city walls and moat as we made our way around, eventually arriving at Ramparts Cemetery, where British servicemen rest with the most beautiful view out over the water. There is something incredibly humbling about these places.

The trip was now coming to an end.

One final morning to nip out and buy some huge balls of wool I’d spotted earlier in the week.

Because obviously, no holiday is complete without returning home with something you didn’t need but absolutely had to have.

One last walk to the Menin Gate. Just after 9am, it was lovely and quiet, and we could finally take it all in without feeling rushed or surrounded by the crowds.

A quick dash into the local chocolatier resulted in a couple of bars of sweet, chocolatey goodness, and then it was time to pack our last few bits and bid farewell to our monastery apartment.

One last cemetery to visit on the way home. DuHallow Cemetery. Again, another potential distant relative to locate and potentially slot into the family tree.

This cemetery wasn’t as large as some of the others we’d visited. Located just off a main road and surrounded by houses we found this Ludford much more quickly. It does make you wonder how long, if ever, it has been since some of these graves had a visitor who actually knew the person lying beneath them.

And then it was time to head home.

The French side of the tunnel was proving to be in full school-holiday mode. It was busy, with families everywhere.

Despite the crowds, we managed to grab a sarnie and sit to a table to eat it before boarding our train relatively quickly.

And then, just like that, our little adventure was over.

But there is one thing I’ve taken from this trip.

How incredibly happy it made me to be away on holiday as a family again.

You spend years taking your children on holiday. You build sandcastles, carry buckets and spades, deal with tantrums, forgotten swimming costumes, arguments over who gets the window seat and the inevitable “Are we nearly there yet?”

Then, almost without noticing, they grow up.

Suddenly they have jobs, partners, houses, husbands, responsibilities and their own busy lives.

And you realise that those family holidays you thought you had forever are actually rather precious and sadly, you are never aware that you are on your last family holiday, it just happens. One year they are with you the next year they aren’t.

So yes, I know they’re not little anymore. They are my grown-up jellybeans. One is 34, married and very much an adult. The other is 30 and in a long-term relationship and more concerned about my ability to trip over than I am, neither live at home. But when the four of us are squeezed into a car, eating frites, laughing at daft things, getting lost in old buildings, arguing over where to eat and exploring another country together, somehow they’re still our girls, our babies.

Just considerably taller, more expensive and with their own bank accounts.

This holiday hadn’t even entered our minds just over a week ago. It wasn’t planned months in advance. There was no meticulous itinerary. We simply thought, we need to get away, found a reasonably priced tunnel crossing and decided to go.

And what a decision it turned out to be. We made memories that didn’t exist a week before.

We laughed, ate far too much, walked miles, got lost, sweated in the Belgian sunshine, drank overpriced Coke Zero, ate waffles that probably needed a health warning and stood quietly remembering those who never made it home.

But most importantly, we were together. Just the four of us. A proper family holiday. I’m not sure there is much in life that could make me happier.Because perhaps the best thing about having grown-up children is discovering that family holidays don’t have to end when they grow up. And, whilst I’ve more years behind me than ahead of me I’m going to encourage more family time.

They just become a little harder to organise and considerably more expensive. But I’ll take every single one I can get.

My grown-up jellybeans, my favourite travel companions, and one very happy mum.