Back in the 19th century, things were tough in the North Sea fishing. Gravelines was, and still is a bit, a fishing port near Dunkirk. One enterprising fisherman organised expeditions to the cod banks off Iceland: small open fishing smacks would sail their way across the northern sea, and spend six months at at time fishing the cod, and sending back consignments to their home port. This dangerous trade lasted a hundred years or so; there are still one or two old folk around who remember it from their childhood. The bond between the town, and the small fishing community of Fáskrúdsfjorður, on the east coast of Iceland. Every year, the Icelanders are invited to a celebration of the link. The twinning, along with Biblis, on the Rhine in Germany, includes my home town of Dartford; I’m now proud to say I was part of the delegation.
For three days our delegation of eleven, along with the others, has been feted, wined and dined to within an inch our lives. There have been guided walks, print workshops, literature and art talks; a ‘potluck supper’ where we tried delicacies from each others’ countries, and heard a presentation from a school trip to Iceland. Biblis is renowned for its gherkin production, and brought their annual Gherkin Queen and Princess. I couldn’t help commenting to a French neighbour that there was no fear of a double entendre there. Then worried that that might not mean the same thing either. The British delegation’s beer hadn’t travelled well, sadly; Michel brewed his own, in batches of 80l, so knew whereof he spoke.
I made contact with a lovely French couple, who both had worked in the UK and helped when my French foundered. They had the same humour; I realised the next day that they were a writer/photographer couple, who along with Michel, who was a watercolourist, were responsible for a rather beautiful collection of poems and prints. I have a signed copy, of which I am rather proud; we did an exchange of cards. I made my way back to the campsite, just before eleven: I had the gate code, and snuck in on side lights.
We assembled in the Town Hall square for a promised tour of the ramparts, lead by Helène, who did most of the organising for the visit. The tour turned out to be so much more: apart from the only intact set of fortifications by Vauban, Louis XIV’s famous military architect, also responsible for Cambrai and a dozen others, the former gunpowder store had been renovated and repurposed into a museum of printing. In its collection were over 25000 individual pieces: on display were works by Goya; Dürer; and Hogarth, and many others less well-known. They also have work by Gustav Doré and Picasso. The current exhibition is showing angry prints by Diane Victor, and there are working examples of old engraving and lithograph presses. Blown away! Then a visit to the themed market. There may have been a beer involved; buying a saussisson de canard, managed to lose my glasses; a hunt by the twinning committee managed to locate them in the lost property box, prompted by the sausage seller who’d found them!
Lunch was, by French standards, a simple affair, about the size of my normal main meal: chicken in a mushroom sauce with a generous side of chips. Then went to see a print workshop, to find Dominique busy signing books, while Michel tried his hand at printing, for the first time.
He later gave me his effort, duly signed, after I’d said he should frame it and hang it at home.
But in the end was the formal dinner, at what turned out to be a rather gastronomic restaurant, Au Retour d’Islande, on the riverbank near where the Aa reaches the sea. It’s pronounced Ah-Ah apparently. I’d already told Dominique, who’s something of a joker, that the river gets a mention in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. He said he’d listen out for it next time. After a generous starter of salmon mousse with pink peppercorns, the main course was, perhaps, halibut, with associated bits and bobs. I couldn’t do it full justice: I felt as if I’d already had two main meals already. This was turning into the Vicar of Dibley Christmas special. I was very glad to claim diabetes kept me from dessert, but I did have a coffee.
On my way back to the campsite, at something like 11:15, was pulled over by a squad of Gendarmes, forage caps, boots, guns. Is this your vehicle?” “Where are you going?” “I’d like to look in the back.” “And Under the bed.” “Thank you, you may go.” Obviously dangerous English radical looking for migrants to smuggle.
This morning, 7deg and somewhat chilly. At least the showers warm up quickly. Then off to Church, Saint Thomas à Becket. This, to be honest, went on a bit. The music was good, quite jolly; quite enjoyed the call and response stuff, but the sermon went on too long. And there was lots of messing about with the body and blood of Christ; and quite a lot of holy smoke. It confirmed my opinion that Karl Marx nailed it: “Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the anaesthetic of the people.” (paraphrase for contemporary meaning). Then another procession round the town, ending at a huge bean feast of every voluntary association in the town. Mussels and chips this time, well, we are in Flanders.
My other new best friend works with Helène at the town hall, with voluntary associations. This is Sghair (his parents were from Tunisia), and we shared the table last night. His English isn’t strong; and I’ve discovered there are big holes in my French too; but with the occasional help of Google translate (his and mine) I found out he’s a marathon runner and has an ambition to do the London Marathon; he and his girlfriend had a wet holiday in Brittany; so are going next, or have been, to Montpellier; as a runner, he’s good, but at the age of 48 keeps getting injured in the run-up to major events. He’s offered me a place to stay next year, and I’ve reciprocated. Helène says he’s a good guy. Today he presented me with a bottle of Breton cider as a present!
The grand ball was a wonderful, raucous affair, with local singers and dancers; lots of mingling with Germans, Icelanders, and our friends. The British delegation left around 4pm, but I was scooped up by the Treasurer of the French twinning, who seemed to be taken by my charm, or naïvety, or poor language skills. By the end of the afternoon, it was bisous all the way round. I left at five, and it looked as if the party was just starting.
Willma’s travels 