14February1996

Saturday morning:
We are back on the Eurostar. This time, the train is full. Ahead of us sits a four-member Belgian family who would weigh in collectively at close on half a ton. They are huge. For the past hour we have been cantering through south-western Belgium. Neither Belgium nor Britain has the cambered track which the train needs to stretch its legs. Only France has made the necessary investment. The "train manager" has introduced himself & the train's facilities in French, Flemish, German & English. The refreshment trolley has been past & we have bought cups of coffee which we have reinforced with a few drops of liquid amber from within Jones's bag.

We have also extracted the morning's breakfast croissants & our travelling butter & jam & are taking an early lunch. After the briefest stop at Lille, we work up speed for the first time, tucking into the corners & hurtling through the fields on either side. The conductor informs us that (he has been informed by the train driver that) we have reached the maximum speed of 300kph. There is no sense of exhilaration, no whistling wind through the hair. Just an effortless, economic covering of distance. Once again, I’m impressed. This is just such a quick & easy way to travel between countries. Surely, it’s is the way transport must go, rather than via congested roads & cluttered airports.

We walked to the station from our “hotel”, a brisk & invigorating 45 minute hike featuring many of the landmarks we’d noted the previous two days. We were pleased with our backpack travelling. It is not elegant but it is efficient, particularly if one wants to avoid the use of cars & taxis. You see lots & you get plenty of exercise. Our departure was from Brussels’ South Station, one the more depressing places in the city - a proper dump in fact. It was only after navigating the station’s yobby areas that we discovered the elegant Eurostar departure terminal at the far end, a world apart. There’s no need to check in. One’s tickets are automatically recorded at the turnstiles & one takes the long escalator up the platform where each coach is clearly numbered.

London:
We’re home. Five hours from door to door. Mavis promptly parked himself on Jones’s feet for a long backscratch. We’ve been through the mail and, far more interesting, the faxes. Thank you Cathy and Bren. This evening we dine with neighbours who are about to move from their flat to a house in a smart area. If you can afford to move upmarket, it’s the place to go.

I work Sun, Mon and Tues nights. Wed a.m. 21 February, we fly to Portugal. I get back on March 2, work a few days, and then fly to Canada on March 9 for a week. I’ve lots of apartment affairs to attend to between times. It will be a busy period.

Blessings ever