We had a festival of rugby here in the village a few weeks ago. Yes, you read correctly...rugby. In Flanders. The place where the bicycle is king and a woman called Kim is the biggest sporting star in the country. To be fair, we are close to the Wallonian border and I guess it's inevitable that a certain amount of Gallic influence abounds in these parts; I've seen more than one person wearing a beret since I've been here.
What really intrested me was that 2 English teams had been lined up to play in the tournament. I'm afraid that I'm one of those dreadful people that become ultra patriotic the moment I leave the port of Dover. The merest glimpse of an Eddie Stobart lorry on Belgian roads is enough to start my bottom lip wobbling. I do like rugby. For a few years it took over from football as my favourite sport. I like the commitment from the players. Unlike football there's nowhere to hide on a rugby field...unless it's at the bottom of a collapsed scrum. So, the appearence of the English teams was an added bonus, as was the fact that the festival was taking place at the end of our street.
Here's a fact about Belgium that I've always found curious. They hide things.
I was stopped a few months ago and asked for directions to the vis winkel. The fish shop is so fiendishly positioned that I wondered if it was a secret. Would I be breaking any local customs by imparting the knowledge to outsiders? After all, when the wife and I asked for directions to the vis winkel we ended up sitting in a field surrounded by cows 20 Kms aways.
In Belgium there are very few shopping centres outside of the bigger towns. This means that you can be driving down a country lane surrounded by farm land on either side and suddenly come across a shop selling beds or computers. It's always struck me as odd. How do people make a living? The fish mongers isn't sign posted from the main road. If you didn't know it was there you would happily drive past the road in which it is situated, which is probably what happened to the people I gave directions to as I actually gave them directions to the place we buy our wood from, a 30 minutes drive away.
Ok, I admit that there's a thin line between hiding something and something being hard to find; almost the same but not quite. So maybe my accusation of hiding things is wrong, maybe Belgians, rather than thinking:
"Hmm, this is a prime spot for my business, lots of houses and other shops, good amount of traffic passing and there's even enough parking space for a few cars!"
They think:
"Yay cows!"
My point being that the stadium...yes, remember that?The stadium is hidden behind the convenience shop at the end of the street.
( Now despite being a convenience shop, the convenience shop is not
that convenient because it closes on tuesday, exactly the same day as every other shop in the village. In my opinion, the convenience shop would be a damn sight more convenient if it opened on tuesday and closed on wednesday.)
A stadium hidden behind a shop? Makes it sound pretty impressive doesn't it? Actually it is pretty impressive. It has two playing fields and a stand that would put most amatuer football and rugby clubs in the UK to shame.
There was an English coach parked next to the convenience shop. I saluted it as we walked past.
As we approached the stadium the sound of Englishmen wafted on the late summer breeze.
Barking laughter and incoherent shouts.
On the field, rather confusingly, were two teams wearing almost identical kit. Off the field, a string of pot bellied Englishmen, hugging the touchline and shouting encouragement and advice to their team mates.
We felt strangely drawn to the bar. At the bar, two English players, both older and fatter than me. Both drinking the local brew.
Shouldn't they be playing? I wondered.
"They're giving us a hard game!" one said to the other.
It was true. The local team were mostly young men in their 20's. The English, as I said, were mostly men who looked like me. Those that weren't balding were grey. Stomachs protuded above their shorts. Obviously men in the prime of life!
We found out that some of the teams hadn't turned up. A shame, because some of those teams were local, or at least more local than the one English team that turned up. Because of this the festival ended early and we only got to see about twenty minutes play. I say play, but it was mostly lots of fat blokes trying to catch lots of skinny ones. Surprisingly, the English won. I think. There was no score board. But they got a trophy. It could have been a 'thanks for coming' trophy for all I know.
We found ourselves left with a sheet of beer tokens that we had to use up...damn!
Where do we go from here? I couldn't post this blog without bringing to everyone's attention that this is the first post for a few weeks...ok months...ok 7 months!
I was going to start a new blog but then I saw that In Flanders is still getting a regular trickle of people visiting the page and whilst 99.9% come here by accident maybe that .1 % sticks around long enough to read something. Feed back is very important to this blogger. If I feel that no one is reading then I lose interest in writing for it. From now on I shall post at least once a week. I shall continue with the music videos and I will be starting a regular feature called ' The Duvel Made Me Do It!' which I hope will be a weekly post. There may even be the odd book review in there as well.