Double Damme – Friday

Despite its name Damme was haven, not hell, on two occasions.

In just ten miles riding from Zeebrugge, in fine misted rain which blurred a landscape of dyke ditched horizontals crossed by verticals of poplar and pollarded willow and inculcated an appreciation of the horrors of WWI trench warfare, waterproofs of all qualities, from Tony’s top of the range Hein Gericke all-in-one to Den’s bright orange, nicked-from-British-Rail over-trousers were thoroughly tested, and all found wanting.

So having all day in which to cover just 80 kilometres we crossed the canal and parked in Damme’s cobbled main square as the bells on the town hall tinkled out ten o’clock thus alerting apparently closed cafes to our coffee-desperate presence, since doors opened and waiters appeared to sweep the pavements and vigorously wipe down tables and chairs.

The place we chose, for the flaming wood fire we could see through the window, led me to wonder, not for the first time, why it is that the British so often seem to be the only nation totally lacking any appreciation, enthusiasm or taste of colour and of what makes an ordinary room beautiful.

This one had high ceilings above battered wooden beams, painted in a cracked and peeling cream, faintly green-tinged as if under water, and a tiled floor in squares and medallions of dusty pink with Cobalt blue and white. The plain painted walls were matt and earthy cocoa, tables and chairs mismatched and worn varnished wooden; coffee was served in plain white cups, each with a piece of sponge cake foil-wrapped in vivid green alongside sugar lumps and silver spoon, and by the time we’d finished our gloves and scarves had dried on the hot radiators and the sun was shining.