Red Light Walloons

I’ve been in the habit these past twelve months of rumbling off to Holland to collect boxes of books for resale in the UK. The normal route is via Calais – Dieppe – skirt round Ostend and Bruges to Ghent – then Antwerp – Eindhoven. Plenty of long, flat motorway; plenty of lorries; and plenty of remorselessly aggressive Belgian drivers.

Last Friday I suffered Antwerp problems. It started with a serious traffic jam some thirty miles from the city. Then I diverted to an alternative motorway and found another traffic snarl up. And finally my normally trustworthy Tom Tom threw a fit and diverted me right through the crowded city centre (rather than the efficient ring road) and out in completely the wrong direction heading for Rotterdam. All the while I was bursting to relieve myself and no sign anywhere of an appropriate facility....

I was therefore pretty pleased that my pre-planned return journey avoided Antwerp and instead took me south via Maastricht to Wallonia – the French-speaking bit of Belgium. Neither Mrs Rumbling Nappa nor I had ever been to this part of Europe, so a little Walloon hunting sounded like a good idea.

Our chosen hotel was a popular four star establishment in the centre of Namur (capital of Wallonia) in a curious conversion of an old tannery. Our third floor room seemed to be on about seven levels and overlooked a narrow cobbled street that led to the scenic River Meuse near its confluence wiver the River Sambre, but it was comfortable and our dinner was excellent.

After our meal we decided to take a short walk through the town, following the narrow cobbled street towards the river. At this level we were rather startled to realise that at the back of the hotel and more or less directly under our room at street level was the town brothel. In the best traditions of the Low Countries a young lady in her underwear sat in the red-lit window (which might once have been a shop window) touting for custom.

“Non” opined Mrs Rumbling Nappa as she gripped my arm and led me away ....

Clever Marketing

Difficult to know what the Canadian doctor, Major John McCrae would have thought of Remembrance Sunday. He’d probably be both proud and surprised that his poem (written at a medical aid station at Essex Farm, near Ypres in 1915) would inspire the use of the poppy as the enduring symbol for servicemen killed in battle.

Since mid-October every newsreader, every politician, every football pundit, every guest on the “One Show” has worn a poppy. Pretentious I thought at first. Why not wait until closer to Remembrance Sunday? But then a bell started to ring in my head. It’s called good marketing, isn’t it? Some bright person within the Royal British Legion marketing department has actually had the good sense to actively encourage people appearing on TV to wear poppies. There are probably “help yourself” trays in every broadcasting studio in the land with the message that by wearing the poppy you help to make remembrance “cool” with the younger generation.

Having over the past couple of years visited many of the important World War I sites (including Essex Farm), I realise how important it is for children and school parties to visit these places and to try and understand the bravery of the troops who fought there. Only by convincing each successive generation both of the futility of war and the extraordinary courage of our soldiers can we be help to avoid repeating bloodshed on that atrocious scale, whilst at the same time continuing to honour those who lost their lives.

I, in turn, must visit the grave of Major McCrae next time I go through Wimereux, near Boulogne (which I frequently do). He died of pneumonia while still commanding No 3 Canadian Military Hospital at Boulogne in 1918, by that time a Lieutenant Colonel. Wikipedia tells how he received full military honours, the procession to the graveside being led by McCrae’s horse “Bonfire”, his master’s riding boots reversed in the stirrups.