Antwerp - London: The final leg

I woke up with a start, the cold light of dawn searing into my retinas. I stretched my legs, rubbed my eyes and uttered the first of several primeval yawns.

It was hardly surprising: the bus clock read 5.40am.

Cursing the hour I looked out the bus window.

Pubs. A post office. Pigeons.


Hmmm that’s odd – looks vaguely familiar…doesn’t look like Belgium….hadn’t I been here before? Where was I?

This was soon answered – shop signs seeming to suggest we were in some kind of place by the name of Camberwell. Camberwell…hmmm…it was starting to come back to me.

Six hours earlier, in an Antwerp backstreet we’d boarded this bus, heading for London. It seemed a remarkably short period of time to cross three countries, travelling across Flanders before dropping down into France, catching a ferry from Calais across the Straits of Dover, back to England.

We’d piled into the bus, searching out seats amongst the passengers already on board. They’d started back in Amsterdam and many were sprawled about like lifeless corpses.

A couple of students with thick Northern accents occupied the entire back seat, an large Somali family took up the middle and furtive-looking chaps in leather jackets stared miserably at us from the front.

I picked a seat at the back, next to a monosyllabic, pale-faced young Londoner. He grunted at me and went back to sleep, his bowed head edging towards my shoulder.

He looked spaced out and distant: had he indulged a little too much back in Amsterdam?

Just in case we were entertaining the notion of sleeping the dozy Dutch driver had chosen to share his choice of Belgium radio with his passengers.

‘Fame, I’m going to liiiive forever…’

Lara chose to try and overcome this by nullifying all her senses - a well-practiced and often-successful technique which involved blocking her ears and eyes with earplugs and eyemask before topping it off with a good thick hood.

She sat there, trying to block out the world around her. It only needed an orange boiler suit and she might have found herself heading out to Guantanamo Bay.

Somehow we dozed and two hours later found ourselves waking up in France. Never have I been gladder to enter the port of Calais.

We whisked through French immigration before entering a little office entitled UK Border Agency – the first of many new changes back home? – and being greeted by possibly the cheeriest bunch of immigration officials all trip.

Perhaps the chubby English blokes standing about were bored at this ungodly hour but we found them polite, friendly and genuinely interested in our trip. All hail the new border bobbies.

We joined the queue at the terminal and found ourselves amongst hundreds of our fellow countrymen. Yellow British car number plates with their bold, simple lettering, a variety of strong British regional accents, orderly queuing.

It was all vaguely familiar and each little reminder, each little rediscovery came so quickly after each other that it was almost overwhelming. We were going home. It was sinking in now.

We boarded the P&O Pride of Calais and more déjà vu hit us – this was one of the cross channel ferries we saw from the deck of the Singapore a couple of days ago as we headed up to Antwerp.

We wandered sleepily past shops, row upon row of familiar British brands on the shelves, the smooth southern tones of the Captain washing over us in the background.

‘Abroad’ was disappearing; we were leaving the foreign, the different behind. Finally, after ten months of being bumbling foreigners in distant lands we would be back amongst our own.

Tired and confused, my head spinning with it all, I lay back against a seat and fell straight asleep.

An hour later we awoke, just in time to see the white cliffs of Dover. Or at least the base of them in the dark, the clock reading 4am.

England. We were back.

Within half an hour we were rolling through the Kent countryside, green road signs and red phone boxes flashing past in the bus’s headlights.

Sleep called once more and stuck with me right through until Camberwell.

Pubs. A post office. Pigeons. We were back in London.

There it was out there in all its glory – Oval tube station, the cricket ground and the Alec Stewart Gate, Vauxhall and the railway arches, the Thames and the Houses of Parliament.

The city looked smart, moneyed, grand. I felt emotional, until that was I found myself shivering on the cold, empty streets of Victoria.

London, where it all started all those months ago, and now where it all finishes.

The circle is complete.







Read more...

How to...get from Belgium to England

There are, of course, many ways to travel between Europe’s cities and across the English Channel, including train, ferry and bus. For us, with it being Easter week and without advance purchase, the Eurolines bus was our most economical option.

Eurolines connects city centres in about twenty-four European countries. After the mammoth bus journeys of Mexico and Laos a paltry seven hours between Antwerp and London no longer seemed an obstacle. At an equally paltry 46 Euros, the price was just too tempting to turn down.

The bus arrived early in Antwerp, but was already stuffed full of slumbering bodies and Amsterdam casualties, making inserting ourselves into the legroom-deficient seats a little challenging.

We had opted for the overnight bus departing Antwerp at 23:30 (the other service leaves at midday) and had resigned ourselves to a sleepless night. After a couple of hours the bus stops in Calais at French immigration. Here you disembark and shuffle into French immigration and out again and then into British immigration next door. The new UK Border Agency was a jolly, dapper bunch; it was nice to be welcomed home by fresh-faced chaps in crisp, navy uniforms.

You then wait on the bus until it drives onto the ferry to Dover. You have to get off the bus for the hour and a half ferry crossing across the English Channel. Time enough to settle down for a sleep, or get something to eat or drink. Make sure you remember how to get back to the bus, for once boarding is called the bus doesn’t wait for stragglers.

Then it’s just another couple of hours from Dover to Victoria Coach Station in Central London from where onward buses are plentiful.









Read more...

Parsnips, bicycles and knitting: Antwerp

Fully laden with our gear we sheltered from the rain, hunched under a sagging tarpaulin as a group of large, heavy-set Belgium stevedores puffed up the ladder.

It was time to leave the Rickmers Singapore and step on our first European soil for nine months.


The weather was foul but the stevedores didn’t seem to notice as they boarded the ship. Sporting dirty old orange boiler suits and grimy helmets, each had a pudgy, weatherbeaten face, a smoldering dog-end poking out from it, clamped between yellowing teeth.

They looked like miners setting off to face down the Maggie Thatcher in the 1980s, and we let them pass before it was our turn to totter down the slippery ladder to the waiting taxi below.

The cab was soon speeding us away from the quay, weaving between piles of split timbers, rotting ropes and all the other detritus of the dockside.

A large crane swung low, its cargo swooping in front of us causing the cabbie to swerve. Health and safety didn’t seem to be of great importance around here.

Neither did security, as we zipped about the enormous port apparently at will before finally exiting onto a highway, no barrier, no officials, no anything.

I looked back at the forest of cranes receding into the distance, the mountains of heavy containers, the little trucks with their flashing lights and the little workers in their dayglo jackets scuttling about under the heavy sky.

Perhaps China didn’t have it all – this port was just as big as those we’d seen back in Yantian and Hong Kong.

It's vital to Belgium – the country wouldn’t exist without Antwerp we were told by a local – and to Europe as a whole.

Along with Rotterdam, just over the Dutch border, and Hamburg, this port is one of Europes’s arteries, a lifeline between the continent and the rest of the planet.

Heading into town, soaking in new sights and sounds, we started to adjust once more to new surroundings.

There were red car number plates, imposing and timeworn buildings, strange and unpronounceable Flemish words.

The grid-patterned streets on the map have been replaced by a mess of wonky angles and confusing dead-ends; the broad, confident American voices have been usurped by a odd combination of European tongues.

There’s Flemish, heavy, awkward-sounding and, well phlegmy; Dutch, similarly impenetrable and unwelcoming; French, language of their Walloon compatriots and even English, a reminder that England lies just over the water.

Even people’s faces seem to be different, and far more interesting too. There’s not so many flat round faces here, instead there’s more angles, more dark shapes under the eyes.

Faces look more lived-in, as if they have been outdoors more, weathering the elements on their bicycles rather than opting for the air-conditioned comfort of a large SUV.

Perhaps the greatest difference though only became apparent when we spoke to people. I was amazed by the difference in attitudes and the general outlook which people seemed to hold.

We were back amongst ancient European enmities, built upon centuries of fractious relationships between tribes, kingdoms and nation states.

It didn’t take long to hear what Belgiums thought of the Dutch (and vice versa), nor did it take much persuasion to learn what the average Flemish Belgian made of their Walloon neighbours.

After two months in the US, that great melting pot of cultures where everyone pulls together under one flag it seemed very strange, almost petty.

There was little of that hearty American welcome here either, the smiley, friendly can-I-help-you American service was replaced by haughtiness, in some places almost barely disguised dislike.

Perhaps it was our dishevelled appearances after ten days at sea and ten months on the road, but I’ve never visited a town where more waiters turned their noses up at us.

At least we found a warm welcome with our couchsurfing hosts, Walter and Vera, an entertaining Belgium couple who are keen on cycling and absolutely obsessed with knitting.

Whilst the former hobby was no great surprise in a country such as this the latter was more curious.

Wool lay around the place in great heaps, there were huge scarfs galore and we couldn’t leave without stuffing several of their products into our backpacks.

What is it about wool? Surely it can’t be very practical in all this rain.

I wondered about this as Walter lent me a bike and peddled to their nearby allotment in search of dinner.

Their plot was muddy, given a good soaking in a recent downpour, and I enthusiastically joined him in harvesting parsnips.

Walter told me Belgians consider parsnips to be rather old-fashioned. I was shocked – surely not, how could they attach such an appellation to the mighty, immortal parsnip, the King of the vegetable world?

Parsnips, bicycles, allotments: It all felt strangely like home.

The next morning we found that the miserable drizzle had given way to beautiful sunny weather.

We rode the tram into town and made for the huge cathedral, standing proud in the centre. It’s a massive edifice, which took two hundred year to build, funded entirely by voluntary donation, I was told.

Inside the vast vaulted interior rang with sombre organ music; visitors and the faithful spoke in low voices and admired the Rubens hanging above the altar.

A local lad, Peter Paul, along with other Flemish masters (surely this is the name of a darts tournament?) cropped up several times in our visits to various churches and cathedrals.

I tried my best but found them all a bit grim. Give me one of the many fine Belgium comics or graphic novels anyday.

A couple of hours later we found ourselves at the Groot Markt, an impressive square surrounded by fine mercantile buildings all squashed together.

I craned my neck up at their crow-stepped steps, topped off with golden statues denoting their specific trade.

They couldn’t speak louder about how vital the port is to Antwerp, a city built on trade. “Without the port”, Walter told us, “Antwerp would not exist.’

And it would be considerably duller as well. The port has given the city, alongside many other things, a very interesting ethnic mix.

Besides the Flems and the Walloons, there’s a Chinatown (like in many ports), plus a sizeable community of Orthodox Jews (many here for the diamond business) and more recent immigrants, such as Moroccans and Congolese (a former colony).

All this sightseeing had given us a thirst and it seemed a fine time to sample the local fare.

This being Belgium we were keen to try their famous beers and soon we were supping on bollekes (those wide-bottom Belgian beer glasses) of De Koninck, one of the many local ales.

A large stag party of Dutch fellows larked about in the square, apparently touring the hostelries on scooters – it all seemed very European.

Suitably oiled up we stopped by a chip stand for another Belgium speciality – pommes frites, deep-fried twice (to give them an added crispiness) and drowned in mayonnaise.

I don’t know who thought of this idea but it works a treat. Can’t see it catching on back home though.

Maybe we should try it with parsnips…







Read more...

Rocking and rolling on the MV Rickmers Singapore

“Don’t worry, those ships are so big you won’t feel a thing!” Well Dad, I’m feeling every movement of this one. We are rocking and rolling our way across the Atlantic Ocean.

The MV Rickmers Singapore is a much smaller ship than our Pacific vessel, the CMA-CGM Hugo , at a mere 193 metres and 30,000 dead weight tonnage in comparison to 334m and 101,000 tdw, and boy does it make a difference.

I’m no ocean expert, but looking out from the porthole the waves look about the same as the Pacific to me. Yesterday there was a three metre swell. We got up to a five metre swell on the Hugo. So why do I feel so dizzy and queasy on this crossing?

It must be because she is a smaller ship in length and breadth and is carrying a lighter load. Indeed, there’s not a lot of cargo to see from the deck, she's only thirty percent full. The shipping industry has been hit hard by the global economic crisis. Apparently there is some ‘general cargo’ in the hold below (steel plates, machines, yachts) but I can only see some precariously lashed old wooden planks and a rusty metal tub of a river dredger from Louisiana.

In my turbulent rock and roll sleep I have had plenty of time to come to understand the finer points of the Singapore’s moves on the ocean. In my delirium I categorised these moves as follows:

The rattle: Default background movement whenever the engine is running. Causes doors and fittings to rattle continuously. Often not noticeable over the ship’s other moves. On it’s own, for example when being piloted up a river, can gently rock you to sleep as on a train.

The roll: This is the standard ship move, rocking gently from side to side. There is a sliding scale of roll, like a marine Richter scale, which requires various levels of falling-over prevention, from the wide leg stance (the higher the scale of roll, the wider the stance) to the grab (especially useful in the shower).

The rolley roll: This is a horizontal version of ‘the roll’, usually experienced in bed, and involves a whole body roll from one side to the other, often knocking into your loved one on route. Can cause sleep loss and a sore back.

The poltergeist: This occurs at the higher end of the scale of roll and can cause things to fall off shelves, cutlery and food to slide off the plate and cupboard doors to open.

The phat air: This one is more of a pitch and fall than a roll. The ship suddenly feels light, it sounds like the engine has come out of the water and that the boat is flying. It then reconnects with the water with a thud. It lurches your stomach and brain into the air at the same time, giving a momentary head-rush followed by light-headedness and nausea.

The washing machine: Is a combination off ‘the roll’ and ‘the phat air’. It starts off as a roll, then develops into a weightless phat air followed by another roll to complete a 360° revolution, taking your stomach with it and leaving you feeling all washed up.

The fact that I am able to look at words on a computer screen to write this is an vast improvement on my condition yesterday. Yesterday mainly consisted of staring at the horizon, reading a book in-between, lying down to watch a film and lining my stomach to help prevent nausea. The Atlantic forecast is peppered with STORMS (always written in capitals on the chart), which we will have to dodge. I hope today’s improvement means that I’m finding my sea legs and will be able to dance the merry MV Rickmers Singapore dance all the way to Antwerp.







Read more...