Double Damme – Sunday

Both Belgium’s appeal and its drawbacks are root wrapped in its immediate charming domesticity: unkempt little fields with black and white cows separate mini-brick built houses whose windows are shrouded with thick lace-curtained windows and gardens display close-shaved, excruciatingly tidy topiary.

This Sunday of the May Day weekend Belgium thoroughly merits the oft-repeated, clichéd description of “flat, smells of cow shit and closed”. Along the whole of the 70 kilometres between Velzeke and Damme the only shops open were patisseries, every one with a most mouth-wateringly seductive range of cakes – chocolate and fruit confections in pleated white paper - all regrettably untransportable in either tool-stuffed panniers or dirty-washing packed tank bag.

So we arrived in Damme again, with four hours to spare and the restaurant we chose had battleship grey walls hung with a variety of prints, each with its own strip light above. The floor was black tiled, tables black wood and high-backed chairs black leather – all cool and modern in an old, old room – and behind a pewter-topped bar, on white painted shelves were rows of gleaming wineglasses and whisky bottles with tawny orange labels.

Coffees, then lunch, then more coffees, then musical chairs to the luxurious loo, then a paying of the ‘rekening’; having watched the hail torrent down we made sure to collect up our economically-used blanket-thick serviettes to wipe down wet bike saddles. Returning to the square we discovered that Damme is a ‘book town’ with an event on the second Sunday of every month – on this first Sunday the one and only secondhand bookshop open yielded up A. S. Byatt’s ‘The Matisse Stories’, of which I’ve read one so far.

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.