by Hilary, Karen & Sioban
Rain during the night and the forecast is for thunderstorms - oh dear! It’s Sunday morning and the day gets off to a conventional start – breakfast. Stuffed full of croissants, cereals, baguettes and coffee, we embark for today’s excursion. The bus is loaded with sundry red jackets, uniforms and instruments, cagoules and umbrellas, and off we go to Antwerp after being counted in carefully by Owen. On the way out of Ghent we pass the Flower Market bandstand (missed a trick there Owen ...oh no...two tricks actually as we find a second further along).
Owen ensures we have maps – a grown up one and a student one which helpfully points out the best places to have chips and a hotel that offers aspirin with breakfast. Hold on to that...who knows when it could be useful. First stop: the diamond museum. As they haven’t warned us that we can’t turn right to reach them due to road works, we enter a narrow one-way system followed by a hairy spell on the cobbles before finally arriving at the Astridplein and the Museum. After pooling euros for the lockers we enter the Museum equipped with our audio guides. Some members only last five minutes before retreating for coffee and beer - but the rest find parts to interest them, especially as we go down the floors. The sparkling stones are a pre-cursor to what will no doubt be a glittering performance this afternoon!
Bling trip over, we head to the stunning train station and enjoy the awesome architecture before heading off to the bandstand in the Groeenplats. Outside it is still dull, gloomy and overcast but now, just to make life interesting, it is raining. We are wet. We lurk along the shop fronts trying to find some shelter from the increasingly torrential downpour. Sensible British people go on holiday with waterproof hooded coats or at least an umbrella or risk a soaking.
Rain-drenched but not disheartened, we arrive at the bandstand. "Will we still play?" "Of course we will" - but it does look a bit bleak. Martin is suffering from major anxiety at the thought of his drums getting wet, but not as bad as Karen who says that Bad Hair Day doesn’t even begin to describe it. Immy predicts good weather - and she’s right! The rain eases and instruments are carried out by the men while the ladies change into band uniforms huddled behind the drawn curtains of the coach. After the men’s turn in the coach, we set up and wait for the chairs. And wait...and wait...
Have they forgotten? Yes. Brandishing a letter from the council promising the aforementioned seats, Owen, Gregor and Mike set off to the Tourist Board for help. Sadly none is forthcoming. Gregor and Mike circle the square eyeing up restaurant chairs, eventually finding some suitable options at the Hilton. Lars the manager had to ring his manager but eventually permission is granted for us to have the use of two for an hour and a half (bureaucracy is obviously rife in Belgium as well as the UK!).
Meanwhile, bang on time, the performance is under way! Having to stand doesn’t deter the band and a superb performance is on the cards (plus one happy conductor), even if we do have to compete with the Cathedral bells every 7½ minutes. The music floats over the square and even filters into the side streets and down to the river Scheldt. An appreciative audience of tourists, locals and WAGs gathers, in particular the group of girls who loved Abba Gold – they clap, they whoop and they sing Mamma Mia - John doesn't often get a screaming response at the end of a piece!
With Malaguena we come to a conclusion. Instruments away and we find chips, coffee and ice-creams, then back to the coach and hey, Owen is counting us again.
Cleaned up back at the hotel and dinner is uppermost in our minds. So, a hungry group arrive at an inn and are ushered in, up crooked stairs to a long table which sports giant bottles of wine and battered empty tins. This is a big, fat clue.
Waiter: “ Are you ready to order?”
Ian: “We haven’t had the menu.”
Waiter (with incredulous look on his face): “There is no menu. We serve ribs!”
So the giant sticky ribs are served, washed down with dubious wine and the battered tins fill with bones. This is a red-ginghamed kitsch-fest. And it is great. Cath may never forget her battle to consume whole prawns with eyes, feelers and long leggy things - a battle she wins convincingly.
A jazz bar rounds off the whole evening in a smoky surreal room full of young music lovers who kindly ignored the oldest swingers in town who were entranced and deeply envious of the pure talent of the musicians. Round the corner, meanwhile, a number of the party are discovering the joys of Belgian beer and flavoured gins. Heads may be sore in the morning...
I was the one worried about the bad hair day! Martin P ( Whoops, should have been anon!)
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