We've just returned from a trip to Belgium and the Netherlands, repeating the route we took two years ago when husband first did the Amstel Gold cycle challenge. Last time the weather was glorious; unfortunately this time it was cool most cloudy and he cycled his 125km in the rain on Saturday morning. This time we didn't stay in the luxury apartment we booked last time but all three of us squeezed into a rather grotty and overpriced hotel room where Kate and I spent the damp Saturday morning, her revising for AS exams and me marking mock papers.
But, despite the weather, it was a good trip. En route we caught up with relations, calling with youngest sister and catching up with my aunt and uncle who now, by chance, live in the same area. We also had Easter Sunday lunch with my cousin and her family who live outside Brussels in a beautiful spot with a fabulous garden, conveniently situated just off the motorway.
On the way to Valkenburg, where the cycle event took place, we had a day in Bruges. Or Brugge its official name, as the town, in the Flemish part of Belgium, now seems to have left its French identity behind and all signs are in Dutch. I've been here five times in total and love this city - the Venice of the North they call it - with all the canals and beautiful buildings. It's nearly as busy as Venice now too. This time there were many parties of Japanese tourists.
We visited Bruges 13 years ago and at the time I had joined a creative writing group. For the class I wrote a description of Burg Square in Bruges. I'm trying again with creative writing: next weekend I'm going to Co. Clare in Ireland for a weekend writing course with Niall Williams who wrote 'History of the Rain'. I'm excited and terrified in equal measure.
This time we eat in the same café on Burg Square, admiring the building which looks like Sleeping Beauty's castle, which is apparently the Old Town Hall, while sitting on the enclosed heated terrace to avoid the cold wind. Kate was 4 when we sat here last; she's now 17, dressed in denim and Converse, black eyeliner flicks like quotation marks at the corner of each eye and a square paper bag from Mango at her feet containing her latest purchase. In our family of three, alliances often shift. Her father dares to ask what she has bought - we'd left him behind to visit the shops. She cuts him dead; I answer for her, 'A black cold-shoulder top'. The irony only strikes me later. Then outside a dog they admire walks past and allegiances shift again. We revisit the new puppy conversation. It had been selected in secret one day when I was at work. A female German Shepherd. She's even given it a name: Luna. They are trying to wear down my objections. I stand firm, turn my back and return to watching the people in the square.
Blinkered Black Beauties trot across the cobbles, their drivers carrying knotted whips we hope they won't use. Cyclists weave around the tourists on foot who glance briefly at the buildings and then turn their back to take selfies. Some carry their phones on sticks like weapons. The sun is shining and the shadow which divided the square into equal rectangles when we arrived is advancing towards the other side as evening approaches. A family group of orthodox Jews in traditional dress, black and white with hats adorned with fur cross the square. They look striking among the other tourists in their dull uniform of brown and black quilted jackets. Back inside Kate is checking her phone to see how many likes she has on Instagram for her picture of the Sleeping Beauty building. She eats goats' cheese salad and drinks iced tea, her tastes now more sophisticated than the four year old we brought here in 2004 who just wanted chips.
I'm reminded of a poem by W. B. Yeats 'The Wild Swans at Coole'. He revisited the swans nineteen years after the first time and reflects on how his life has changed. 'All's changed' for us too since we first sat in Burg Square 13 years ago. Though I'm not quite so gloomy about change as Yeats is...