Ieper Postcript

Over the weekend of Remembrance Sunday, several of Southern Car Club's finest - finest what, we're not sure of - went to the land of strong beer, chocolate and rally fanatics. Our steamed - sorry, esteemed - reporter, Ian Harden, went along for the ride.

It was a Honda Civic DX, in silver, and the driver had one of those strange narrow-brimmed trilby hats on. The reason I mention this is that I got to know the back of the bloke's head quite well. Very well, in fact, all the way from just outside Richmond until Kingston Hospital where he turned off, completely oblivious to the efforts I had been making to get past. At no time did he go over 25 m.p.h. His lack of progress was made all the more frustrating as every time I pulled out to overtake, something else came the other way. And this before 7 a.m. on a Friday with a ferry to catch at about 9.

The situation at Chez Phillipson was not good when I arrived. Richard had offered me a lift the week before but was now faced with having to go into work, leaving Catherine to drive to Dover, organise the party, then pick husband up from Lille in the evening. As the song goes, things can only get better. And, lo and behold, things did, although understandably the organisation for the rest of the trip was rather like a swan, i.e. serenity above the surface whilst paddling like buggery beneath.

Having negotiated the M25/M2 at somewhere approaching Mach 2 we arrived at Dover docks, ran around like headless chickens accumulating travel tickets and then found that our departure was delayed. However, it gave Catherine the opportunity to marshal the troops and we congregated in the breakfast bar on the ship. Fortunately the crossing was smooth and I managed to scoff not only my own meal but various parts of everybody else's as well. Growing lad, you see. Got to keep the strength up.

Catching sight of the French coast, it still amazes me that it's so different when you're sober - I never realised there's only one of everything. Frightened the life out of me last December when I saw the place for the first time without having a booze up on the ferry beforehand. However, back to the story.

Leaving the main body of the party to visit the hypermarket, Catherine and myself, in company with Roger Binyon, played a very pleasant game of 'dodge the 40 tonner' on the French motorways, then crossed into Belgium at the most terminally closed Customs post I've ever seen. All that was needed to complete the scene would have been some tumbleweed bowling along in a dust cloud.

The journey to Ypres takes a little over an hour and once everybody was booked into the hotel our introduction to the town came in the form of a treasure hunt on foot. Vanessa Linley, sensible girl that she is, decided to wear high heeled shoes and later wondered why her legs hurt. Someone really should explain...

The hunt went on a route through the centre of the town, several clues being found in and around the very impressive main church (Question: What is the difference between a flying buttress and a flying fortress? Answer: About twenty thousand feet and several hundred tons. I include this gem to indicate the level of intelligence that Richard and Catherine had to cope with). It then progressed past the cloth hall which dominates the town square and then into the back streets via the Menin Gate war memorial. Incidentally, a bit of rally trivia here. I'm told that the whole of the town square becomes one massive service area when the 24 Hours of Ypres runs. Impressed, huh?

Into the evening and the party, now replete with Richard, trooped off to a restaurant called Den Anker. This elicited several cheap jokes about putting an additional letter in front of the name. Not that I joined in, of course. Perish the thought. Three or four of our diners coped manfully - or in Chrissie Chorley's case, womanfully - with what amounted to a bucketful of mussels cooked in wine, and Lesley Stapleton did a very passable impression of a JCB excavator, wading her way steadily through an enormous meal. A lot of laughter in very good company. T'riffic Stuff.

And so to Saturday where everyone did their own thing. Richard and Catherine, myself and Roger Binyon wended our way up country to see some stages of the Rally Condroz. Amazing atmosphere, large crowds and none of the feeling of criminal activity that pervades all suggestions of closed roads rallying in this country. Also, more eating! This time sampling the coronary-inducing delights of chips with mayonnaise. Main memories of the rally were of Bruno Thiry in the Belgacom sponsored Escort Cosworth - his anti lag system sounded rather like me after ten pints and a hot curry. Also, the new Citroen Saxo kit car is one of the prettiest and best sounding cars on the market, and a worthy successor to the Visa Mille Pistes of the 1980s. I believe Richard is currently trying to sell Catherine into slavery in order to finance the purchase of one.

The rest of the party split themselves between a visit to the market, then to the war museum at Hill 62 (I'm told it was drizzling and misty when they arrived - very emotive), whilst Nick, Jo, Dave and Lesley trotted off to Bruges for lunch and a look round. After returning to Ypres, Nick and Jo had to trudge back to Bruges to retrieve Jo's handbag. Fortunately things turned out alright in the end.

Saturday evening. 8 p.m. Mennin Gate. Complete silence. Four buglers from the local fire brigade march to the middle of the road. The air is rent by the shrill strains of 'The Last Post'. Silence again. An old boy, well into his 70s, lays a wreath somewhere up out of my sight in the side of the mausoleum. More footsteps as he returns. No other sound. The walls now vibrate as the buglers play 'Reveille'. The notes cut through my brain like a knife. The hair on the back of my neck stands up so hard it hurts. Silence again. The 'pompiers' make a smart right turn and march off. No jokes. Let nobody ever forget what this dignified little nightly ceremony signifies. Please God, let us all learn from this awful, awful tragedy.

Sunday morning. I have a headache, occasioned by another visit to Den Anker. More mountains of nosh, more excellent company. As I couldn't sleep, I spent a certain portion of the night watching 'Kojak' dubbed into German. My knowledge of the language is only half reasonable, and I think Detective Crocker was accosted by a homosexual in a toilet "Achtung, Herr Leutnant. Ich kopped ein kockengroper seshen vrom der naszty boggenlurker". Today we will make our way back to Calais via the Belgian coutryside. Richard and Catherine have organised a car treasure hunt. I'm teamed with Roger Binyon in his BMW M5.

Several clues are at one of the cemeteries, and seeing Nick Jenkinson walking between the rows of graves reminds me of Eli Wallach looking for the grave of Arch Stanton in 'The Good, The Bad and The Ugly'. We also take in the aforementioned war museum at hill 62. The trenches where so many existed (you can't really say lived) and died are still largely intact. I hope they act as a warning to future generations. On a brighter note, the highlight for me was to be driven through two of the stages used on the 24 hours of Ypres. Gave me a first chance to have a go on pace notes. Thanks, Roger, you're an extremely good driver.

Lunch is taken at the restaurant at Kemmelberg before returning to Calais. On the ferry Scuderia Phillipson hand out the prizes for various deeds of derring do, cunning and lying - the results of the foot and car treasure hunts - whilst some of us try to cope with the Force 5 to 6 conditions outside. An uneventful trip in heavy rain sees us back in London late Sunday evening.

And those, in a nutshell, are my impressions of the club's foray to Belgium. My thanks go to Richard and Catherine for organising the whole thing and hopefully another similar trip will be on the cards for next year. One small thing though. I suspect I now know why some of the Belgian Trappist monks take a vow of silence. That beer they brew is so bloody strong they're probably incapable of speech.

Okay, roll the credits:

Those who laboured for the good of others - Richard and Catherine Phillipson.

Those who didn't have to labour to have a damn good time - Rick and Pat Smith, Chrissie Chorley, Vanessa Linley, Lesley Stapleton, Jo Bell, Nick Jenkinson, Dave LLoyd, Roger Binyon, Ian Harden.

Special guests - Graham and Brenda Pink. A pleasure to know you both, and thanks for your company.