Another time, another plaats

We’re now back in lively Jaco, just like last year, but touch wood, no accidents this time. So plenty of opportunity to enjoy it more. I’m having trouble finding guided trips, which just leaves the many bars, the beach restaurants, the beach, the pool…

…the blue sky, the palm trees …

…the blazing sun, the drowsy afternoon heat…

…the drowsy afternoon palms, the sleepy beach…

…swaying sun, swaying sands…

…hot…

and soon we have melted away, back to a far distant land, a far distant time of magic and monsters, heroes and hands, reaching across the, ahem, six weeks, back to a trip I didn’t post on at the time and the strange tale I encountered there…

You’d better grab a coat.

In the cold, flat lands of the Belgae, as their Roman overlords call them, the people cower at the mere mention of his name. He is Druon Antigoon, and he is a giant. A nasty piece of work, he has positioned himself by the crossing point of the mighty River Scheldt, and if you want to cross it you have to pass him. Pay him some cash, and he’ll let you cross. If you don’t pay up, say goodbye to your hands instead…

It’s not clear why he chose amputation instead of just eating you like the giants do in the best stories, just as it’s not clear what he had against seminal British radio comedy from the 1950s. But let us not pass judgement. How do we deal with this monster?

Up steps a brave Roman soldier, name of Silvius Brabo. He has heard of the giant and his cruelty, and is outraged. “Antigoon! How dare he!” he bawls at his companions. “Milligan and Sellers were comedy geniuses!” There was only one thing to do. And so the brave Brabo confronted the giant. Odds were against him, he was fighting a giant after all. But then again Brabo was himself a mythological hero, so it was too close to call. If you don’t want to know the result, look away from the following photo now.

And who’s at the top of the podium? It’s our man Brabo, of course. At the bottom is Antigoon, dead, trodden all over by sea-nymphy things and statue stuff. But wait! what’s in Brabo’s hand, about to be flung into the Scheldt? Well, in a piece of poetic justice it’s Antigoon’s own hand. Good riddance. Try writing angry letters about Harry Secombe’s singing without that!

And so the good Belgae could cross the Scheldt without fear, and the little settlement grew into the maritime and trading powerhouse of Antwerp. We’re standing – shivering – in the glorious Grote Markt, one of the grandest marktplaats (market squares) that the Low Countries has to offer. But the locals have never forgotten the story and you can find Antwerp hands everywhere, from special Belgian chocolate to artwork. Especially here of course, in this statue from 1887.

It was just after New Year so it was rather chilly, but even then Antwerp is worth a stroll or two, with some spectacular Flemish-style markets places leading off into charming well-preserved streets and nooks and crannies.

From where I live it’s easy to hop onto a Eurostar from London, and after a change at Brussels I’m soon rolling into Antwerp Central station. That convenience is just one of two reasons why I go to Antwerp by train.

The other is Antwerp Central station itself.

Built in the 1890s and restored in the eighties to fix some V-2 damage from WWII, many consider this majestic concoction of architectural styles to be the most beautiful train station in the world. If it’s not I’d like to see the competition.

No wonder the locals call it the “railway cathedral”.