As I explain in the first paragraph below, I want sometimes to write in French when certain ideas seem to demand it. I hope that readers who have no French will not hold it against me.

Dans ce blog je voudrais parfois écrire en français, pas pour me donner des airs – ce qui serait en tout cas stupide – mais parce que certaines de mes idées s’expriment mieux dans cette langue.

Pour ce premier essai je voudrais parler d’un sujet près mon cœur, la ville de Bruxelles. Je l’ai encontrée pour la première fois à l’âge de dix-sept ans lors d’une visite en Belgique avec ma mère. Des amis qui habitait à Charleroi nous ont hébergés pendant deux semaines au cours desquelles nous avons fait plusieurs excursions y compris celle-ci qui nous a menés à Bruxelles.

Ma mère, comme beaucoup de dames d’un certain âge, je crois, adorait se faire photographier avec des agents de police en uniforme. Peu de temps après notre arrivée en ville elle a remarqué un agent de la gendarmerie. Cette organisation a disparu maintenant mais existait encore à cette époque et les agents portait un uniforme noir et rouge assez splendide. Elle m’a tout de suite poussé à l’arborder et proposer une photo avec ma mère. Pour le jeune garçon timide que j’étais, ce n’était pas peu à demander. Mais j’y suis arrivé et il a accepté de le faire bien que d’assez mauvaise grâce.

Nous avons ensuite encontré un vieux monsieur qui a tenu absoluement à nous montrer une certaine chose bien que je n’avais pas compris de quoi il s’agissait. Nous avons parcouru plusieurs rues à ses trousses avant de nous trouver, subitement, en face du Manneken Pis! Devinez l’expression de ma mère qui ne savait même pas que cet object existait et qui n’était pas du tout sûre que des gens bien comme elle devraient le regarder sans protester!

Beaucoup d’années ont passé avant que je revienne à Bruxelles, cette fois-ci avec Tigger. J’ai redécouvert la ville et j’ai appris à l’aimer de nouveau.

En France, quand on parlait de la capitale de la Belgique, on le prononçait “Brukselles” et c’est comme cela que j’ai appris à le dire. Mais ce n’est pas correct. Tout comme dans les mots “six” et “dix”, le ‘x’ se prononce comme ‘ss’. Donc on dit “Brusselles” (comme on dit “siss” pour 6 et “diss” pour 10). Néanmoins, Ixelles, la commune de Bruxelles, se prononce “Ikselles”! Confus? Eh, oui, mais en cas de doute, demander à un Belge!

I once saw a strip cartoon in which a man is walking in the street carying two suitcases when he meets a friend. He explains that he is just back from a holiday abroad. He shows his friend the watch he bought while away. It is a marvel: it tells the time, acts as an alarm clock, has a GPS display, sends messages to other phones, etc. etc. He offers to give it to his friend. His friend grabs the watch and runs off in glee with it to show his friends.

“Wait!” calls the man. Pointing down at the two suitcases, he says “Don’t you want the batteries?”

This cartoon will rub a sore point in the minds of most of us with regard to that other essential of modern life, our mobile phones. Powerful as these remarkable devices are, they suffer from a tragic weakness: inadequate batteries.

Even with “normal” usage, an otherwise highly developed machine like the iPhone can hardly make it through the day without recharging at least once. I take “normal usage” to be something like receiving or making a couple of phone calls, sending a few texts and emails and perhaps checking the diary a few times. Even then, by the end of the day, the device will be gasping for a recharge. Someone jokingly remarked that his mobile spent so much time connected to a power point that he might as well use a landline!

When I started this blog, usage of my iPhone soared from”normal” to “exorbitant”. Writing and editing text as well as taking and processing photos exhausts the battery wonderfully well. The iPhone’s battery is quite incapable of lasting out the morning, never mind the day, at this rate of usage.

Fortunately, I had acquired the solution before the problem had even occurred. When out and about, I carry a shoulder bag in which there are a few essential items such as an umbrella, a yellow duster for rescuing bees or wasps trapped behind bus or cafe windows and a backup battery for my phone, together with appropriate cables for its use.

The power bank, as manufacturers of these devices like to call them, is big and heavy. I bought it online and when it arrived, I regretted that I hadn’t bought the smaller version. Events, however, made me glad that I had it. For example, when I was unexpectedly hospitalized back in May, I used my iPhone connected to the powerbank for three days without exhausting it. It takes a day of blogging and photography with the phone in its stride.

It is an Anker PowerCore 20100, rated at 20,000 mAh. Here is a picture of it with a 50p coin to give an idea of its size (16.8 X 6.0 X 2.0 cm). Amazon UK is currently selling it for £25.99.

The only disadvantage of using a power bank is that if you take power out, you of course have to put power back in and the more you take out, the longer it takes to recharge. The Anker, however, lasts me all day and can be charged overnight.

When out and about, I have my iPhone on a neck loop and the power bank in my hand bag. When the iPhone’s battery shows signs of exhgaustion I connect it to the power bank with a cable and carry on regardless. Don’t the neck loop, the cable and the straps of my hand bag and shoulder bag get into a tangle? Yes, they do! But this is nothing that a bit of swearing and untangling cannot sort out!

These days, too, one finds recharging points here and there. Typically you will find them in coffee shops, on trains and even on some buses. There are two sorts of public rechargers. Firstly, there are those which provide electric power points taking a three-pin plug and, secondly, those offering a USB socket into which you can plug your recharger cable directly.

The latter pose a small but non-zero risk. It is just possible that the socket is rigged to read data from your phone. That is why we bought a data blocker each. This is a 4.5 cm dongle with a USB input socket at one end and an output socket at the other. You simply plug it on the end of your usual recharging cable. This disconects the data line from the power source preventing the latter from reading your data or inserting a virus onto your device.

The ones we have are PortaPow Data Block + Smart Charge (£4.49 from Amazon UK). They have the side-effect of speeding up recharging so we use them even when connecting to an electric power point.

I mentioned in a previous post that on our last day in Brussels, the end of the tube of my left hearing aid snapped off. It was lucky that it didn’t break inside my ear. Since then, I have been unbalanced aurally, hearing well with my right ear and not so well with the left.

To have the tube replaced I need to visit the Audiology Department of the Whittington Hospital and as yesterday was a bank holiday, today is my first opportunity.

Accordingly, I take the tube from Angel to Archway and walk from there to the hospital.

Archway is named after the bridge that carries Hornsey Lane (now a major road rather than a lane) over Archway Road, or rather, it was named after the original brick-built bridge of 1813 which this cast-iron bridge replaced in 1900.

My path lies through a housing estate. As the day heats up, I am walking in the shade wherever possible.

I have photographed the hospital from this awkward angle in the hope the it allows you to see the cat on the roof of the lowest building. (Look in the centre if the photo.)

The cat is the symbol of the hospital, itself named after Dick Whittington, sometime Mayor of London, who, according to legend, had a clever cat as companion.

At the hospital, I usually walk up the 66-step staircase to the Audiology Department on the 4th floor but today, with the heat (the hospital has no air conditioning) I am taking the lift.

I was expecting a long wait but in fact I was seen to after only a short wait. Both tubes have been replaced and I have been given a fresh supply of batteries.

Shall I say it again? Yes, I will: What a wonderful institution is the NHS!

For the journey home, I have chosen to take the bus. The number 4 stops opposite the hospital and goes to the Angel. It takes it takes longer but avoids the walk in the sun.

I have a front seat upstairs, the one all we small boys like so we can pretend to drive!

Having threaded a path through the suburbs, the number 4 deposited me at Angel tube station where I started out. I reached home to find a pot of tea waiting for me. Tigger knows me so well!

I have created a page entitled Etymology of Place Names to which I will add the more interesting etymologies of the places we visit, both in the UK and abroad. At this writing, the page contains only two names (Islington and Angel) but I hope to add to it as time goes by.

As stated in the Preface to the page, I do not claim any originality for the etymologies. I will distill each entry from whatever information I can obtain from books and from online sites.

Each entry will be fairly short (“succinct” might be a good word to use!) and if they encourage the reader to research the names and places further, then that will be a pleasing outcome.

Having spun out our stay in Häagen-Dazs as long as was decent, we trundled our luggage to the Eurostar Terminal.

We compacted our belongings into as few discrete packages as possible and packed them into the plastic trays provided. Then we passed through the metal detector gate. When Tigger went through, the light flashed red but she was waved on.

Eurostar departure hall

Having recuperated our possessions, all that was left to do was to sit on those hard plastic seats in the departure hall until our train was announced. At least it was fairly cool in there, unlike the stifling conditions in the station concourse.

As I write this, it is about half an hour to train time.

Just before 8 pm there was an announcement followed by a general movement of people in the same direction. I asked a member of staff what the announcement had said and she confirmed that boarding had begun for our train.

Sending hundreds of people through a none-too-wide gate causes a bottle neck effect such that people are squeezed together then released on the other side. This must be how the sand grains feel as they pass through the neck of the hour glass.

Once on the platform, movement is easier because we all have assigned seats and the crowd disperses along the whole length of the train. We are in coach 6, seats 45 and 46.

Racks for large items of luggage are at either end of the carriage but our small bags fit easily on the overhead shelf.

We have seats at a table and so far the facing seats have remained unoccupied. Let’s hope they stay that way.

The train departs 5 minutes late but may make up the delay.

Sunset viewed from the train – photo by Tigger

Tigger draws my attention to a bright orange sun hovering on the horizon. (Photo by Tigger.)

The temperature in the carriage is cool, a pleasant change from the heat we have endured during the day. What will it be like in London? A comparison of weather forecasts indicates that it is 2 degrees hotter in London than in Brussels!

At 20:56 the map on our mobiles show us to have crossed the border into France. Belgium is behind us and our Belgian chapter is concluded.

I can begin to reflect on the experience and will continue to do so in days to come. Travelling around so much on tram, bus and metro has given me a more intimate view of Brussels and its area than on previous visits. You cannot come to know a city and its region in only 4 days, even building on previous visits, and I have more questions than answers. Nonetheless, I feel that I know Brussels a little better.

Travelling through France, separated from the country and its people by a pane of glass that might as well be an impenetrable wall is a strange sequel to Brussels. France has been very kind to me in the years I have known her and has given me inestimable gifts. France is part of me in a way that Belgium is not – at least, not yet.

From the train window at Calais – photo by Tigger

We have stopped Calais to take on more passengers before plunging under the sea and emerging at Dover, in that Albion rendered perfidious by Brexit. I feel as though we are about to leave civilisation for an island recently conquered by barbarians.

Once upon British soil, the train sped on north, stopping briefly at Ebbsfleet, then continued on into London to finish where we started our journey on Thursday, at St Pancras International.

And there, to all intents and purposes, our story ends. At least, until next time…