A girl came over to dish out some leaflets and provide more information. There was a lot of fuss surrounding a place called La Houppe, the neighbouring woods and a company called Fort-Labiau which had been engaged in some controversial and possibly illegal activities at the site, allegedly causing environmental damage. A protest camp was occupying the woods and demanding immediate action be taken, but the bitter twist in the saga was the apparently widespread knowledge that the man responsible, Mr Fort, paid large sums of money to the authorities. The suggestion was one of regional governors hypocritically lining their pockets and turning a blind eye to the law-breaking antics of Mr Fort. I wasn't sure what support I could give to the protestors' cause, but I promised that I would highlight their plight should I ever decide to write a report about my travels, the chances of which were decidedly slim. After all, why would anybody want to read about me? I gave the group my attention for some time, but after a while I felt a bit of a ninny standing in the middle of the square alone, and they seemed intent on becoming resident all afternoon, playing the same monotonous executioner's drum beat whilst a man with an axe stood motionless over a hunched victim on the ground. I wandered and admired the views around the square which was, ingeniously, triangular. From every angle it looked perfect, and had a charming, unspoilt character (above). The Romanesque cathedral looked magnificent, although it was undergoing extensive restoration and a quick peek inside the visitor entrance revealed an interior almost wholly hidden behind scaffolding. This was a shame as it would have been a fantastic place to explore, but complementing this giant edifice a short distance away was another glorious monument - the belfry. Clad in beautiful grey-blue stone, it watched over the central square (above and below) and from its commanding position, guarded the town from any invasions of bad architecture.
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So this was it, my last night away from home and it looked destined to be spent, unexpectedly, in Tournai. Was I supposed to have a grand party, some big finale with balloons, streamers, plenty of booze and rock 'n' roll? I couldn't quite see it happening here. The city was lovely but rather sedate, and I didn't want to feel any undue pressure to have a lavish time, which seemed near impossible under the circumstances. Unless I hit lucky with some lively residents at the hostel, there wasn't much on offer party-wise. I had seen a banner hung across the road announcing a pyjama party, but later investigation uncovered that this was just a gimmick cinema event. I had no pyjamas anyway. The most I could manage was a hostellers' sheet liner party, which if universally adopted would shock the residents of Tournai into thinking the Ku-Klux-Klan had come to town. The hostel hadn't even been open when I checked it out earlier, and I had no guarantee that I would get a place there if some large group had made a booking. Whilst standing atop the belfry, I had the perfect observation post from which to do some supermarket-spotting, and at the very least I would ensure that I had a feast for the evening. I bought some stuffed marinated olives, a luxury salad, a bottle of wine, cakes and various other goodies. When I returned to the hostel, I was greeted by a friendly man who showed me around the large, plush building. It was a hostel quite unlike any other, occupying a richly decorated set of chambers which appeared to have once been home to a council or other important department. My only disappointment was that once again, there was barely anybody in it. Friday night, my final night, and the place was dead. I hadn't expected anything else really. Birthdays, Christmases and New Years were the bane of my life. I could never stand any such occasions which were trumped up to be big and meaningful, but invariably turned out to be a disappointment. So I hadn't hoped for anything special to occur on my last night away. Avoiding the high season, which had barely got underway in this first week of July, was generally a boon, but it did have its down sides in the less touristy locations, where prospects of social activities were sometimes slim. Having settled as the only guest in room 201, which also confirmed that I was probably the only occupant of the second floor, I took my meal down to the dining room in the basement. It doubled up as a kitchen and nightclub, complete with glitter ball and disco lights, but it was dead and gloomy this evening. It could have been easy to have let my spirits go down, but instead I chose to let the beer go down, and I joined the friendly man who had welcomed me into the hostel for a few drinks at the bar, which doubled as the reception. He was a bit of an eccentric; a forty-seven-year-old rock music fan with thinning grey hair, who had a penchant for English bands. I had heard Arthur Brown's 'Fire' blaring out of the speakers earlier, and we had a chat about his Crazy World and the Hammond organ groovers of previous decades. He stood behind the bar welcoming a small trickle of guests and headbutting to an assortment of CDs, playing me endless highlights and lowlights from his collection, which unfortunately ventured into Genesis territory amongst other horrors. He was a laugh though, and I had another opportunity to practise my French, which he assured me was unnecessary because English was 'the best language in the world.' He spoke it very well, but I was determined to have one last fling at another lingo before going home, so we changed places and spoke opposite languages. Perhaps English was a beautiful language, but I would feel forever inadequate speaking it on its own. I relaxed over a couple of drinks, but unfortunately he had to lock the bar early and cash up, just as I was getting comfortable on the bar stool. The hostel was still lifeless, and I didn't know where the new arrivals had vanished to. The place had the potential to be a swinging little venue if a good crowd of people were booked in on a summer weekend, and the cheery barman-receptionist was such a refreshing change from the many moody miseries who had inhabited several of the other hostels thus far. Alas, it wasn't to be my night, and I retired to the dormitory with my bottle of wine. Over the next three hours I gulped it down glass after glass whilst studying my European travel guide, little use that it would be from here on. I checked and double checked the rail timetable, carefully constructing a plan for tomorrow which would take me to Dieppe in four stages. I had phoned the ferry company, Transmanche, earlier in the day to check on sailings back to Newhaven. It was the weekend of the Armada display through Rouen, and I had been advised when booking my ticket the previous month that services may be disrupted by flotillas of historic vessels around Dieppe harbour. Damned pirates, how dare they scupper my plans! Fortunately, I was told there would be a departure in the evening, so I had all day to take my time travelling to the port. I could afford a lie-in tomorrow morning, which I felt sure I would need because the bottle of wine had knocked me out. I had been sick through alcohol over one hundred times during my life, often violently, but for some reason I would never learn my lesson and would come back begging for more. I stood no chance of seeing the night through uninterrupted by mad vomit dashes to the toilets. It would be one final, lasting reminder of the joys of Interrailing. HOSTEL REPORT: Tournai - 7500 Tournai,
Rue Saint-Martin 64 |