YPRES-BRUSSELS. 28th-29th August

Thursday 28th August I lie in late, then do some supermarket shopping, and there is a hiccup at the checkout because I haven't 'priced' my fruit. They have a machine at the fruit & veg, with pictures of all the items, and a description, such as 'Granny Smith Apples'. You put your apple, say, on the scale, press on the picture, and out shoots a sticker with the price. The checkout lady was intrigued that I was unfamiliar with this process, and I think was wondering what planet I had just landed from. So I explained that 'in my country' we have it done for us at the checkout. 'Ah, but here we are too lazy!' Another unfamiliar thing I have come across was a bread machine, open 24/7, with about a dozen different types of fresh loaves to choose from, once you've put your money in. One thing I really liked was in a supermarket in Dunkerque, where instead of the hand baskets that they usually have for endangering your lower back, they have a similarly-sized basket with castors and a pull-out handle, which you drag around like one of those suitcases on wheels. The basket has a flat back, but the rest is semi-circular, and they can be stacked inside each other, the same as the normal baskets.

In the afternoon I get the train to Poperinge, which in the First World War was a sort of R & R
place well behind the front lines. Had a look at the Talbot House, an 'Everyman's Club' started by a civilian cleric in 1915, as a place where soldiers could relax and feel at home. It is now a museum. A rather grim relic of the times is the town hall courtyard and adjacent town cells, where deserters who had been sentenced to death were held before execution. Apparently the executions were usually deferred until just before a 'big push', as 'an example to others'. A 'soundscape' in one of the cells recreates the procedure in the last minutes of the life of one of these unfortunates, a 17 year old boy. It is believed that about 15 British soldiers were executed like this in Poperinge, and 350 altogether in Belgium and France, plus 700 French. Apparently many of them were 'shell shock' victims - what they might call post-traumatic stress syndrome today. Interestingly, on orders of the Australian government, no members of the all-volunteer A.I.F. were court-marshalled and executed, but apparently several cases are on record where Australians were tried for 'desertion in the face of the enemy', by a 'kangaroo court' of their own comrades, and then executed.

Before getting the train back, had a couple of bowls of soup in a bar sort of place. There was only one other customer, a man probably having a beer after work, plus the girl behind the bar. There were a couple of magazines on an adjacent table, and I picked one up to read while eating, which looked a bit like the local equivalent of 'Who Weekly', and liberally sprinkled with bikinis. After a couple of minutes I look up, and both of them are looking at me intently, with amused expressions. I immediately look round behind me, thinking someone's just come in the door, but there's no-one there. After that they look anywhere except at me. Must be a local taboo against old guys looking at inappropriate reading material.

Back at the hotel, I go to do some laundry at the local 'Wassoir'. I am initially puzzled because there isn't a washing powder dispensing machine, and eventually find some in the soft drinks etc machine, numbers E4 and E5, sandwiched between the Mars bars and the Lays crisps. Early to bed tonight, as I am going to Brussels tomorrow, an unscheduled detour, for which I have no Lonely Planet notes or map, and there is no internet available in Ieper for making a hotel booking.

On Friday 29th, have the presence of mind to drop by the tourist centre and pick up a free map of Brussels, on which they mark for me the central station and nearby tourist centre in Brussels.
A two hour train ride, and arrive at Brussels Central Station, at a pokey little underground tunnel, grottier than any Paris Metro station, but am soon on my way to the Grand Markt and the tourist office. At the latter they have a dedicated desk just for people looking for accommodation, and an efficient-looking girl helps me; "60 Euros Monsieur?" ($100). 'Non - pres bon marché s'il vous plait' (no - cheaper). "Mais, n'est pas central" ' 'Rien, rien' (doesn't matter).
"49 Euros Monsieur?" 'Non - pres bon marché'. In one of his books, Bill Bryson describes how, when any large outlay of capital was suggested, his father's face would immediately take on the look of a fugitive who hears the hounds baying in the woods, and I feel somewhat similarly when discussing lodgings for the night. Finally her computer finds 36 Euro "But no breakfast!" 'Rien, rien - merci Mam'selle'. So by 2.30pm I am showered and leaving my hotel, which is about 15 minutes walk from the very centre of town.