Take the road to Brugge. Victoria station, join a coach to Dover. Down from Doncaster with two school classes on their Easter outing. Us two boys. Fill up passengers, among all the girls, shy and straightforward, northern lassies, but smart, with plenty of elbow. Crowding round, to hear our funny English, like on the radio in Doncaster.

Dover road, see the sea from the South Downs. Tell the girls about the castle, England’s key, they listen to our accents, not caring what we say.

Belgian boat today, foot passengers boarding, wondering at the Brandkraan, the Toegang Verboten and Aleene Maatschappij. White cliffs behind us, standing in the funnel smoke, trying to look unconcerned, with England fading. Lump in the throat.

Calais coast, tell the girls that England ruled it, turn north to Gravelines roads where the Armada anchored. Dunkirk’s sand bars, Jean Bart’s roadstead, our embarkation beaches, Malo and Leffrinckouke. Bray Dunes and De Panne where the French held the ring.

Nieuwport, and at last, Oostende. Turn into the Havengeul where Vindictive sank to block the U Boots. On the quayside, goodbye girls forever, you’re going on to Blankenberge and Zeebrugge, stand on the mole and remember the Dover Patrol and St Georges day for us.

Walk on the Visserkaai eating frites with mayonnaise, time for the train, local line to Brugge, not Bruges here, where French is frowned upon.

See the Belfry from far, built tall to overlook the plain. Hump our cases through the park. Into the Zilverstraat, carillon playing Bach. Old hotel, we know you well. They’re waiting for us, the women and girls. Motherly and clean, eyes painted by Vermeer. “Hertelijk Willkommen jongens”.

Eating with the family, “Eet smaakelijk”. Empty dining room, we are between school classes. Chicken dinner especially for us. First, thin green “grass soup”, it goes down well with pepper. Small new potatoes boiled and sautéed brown in a pan with chicken fat, not soapy white, English style. Don’t know how to clean our plates, no bread on the table at home. They show us with rye bread, we soon learn.

They’re talking and smiling together, we can see they are pleased. Soft Vlaams in the firelight, the language of Flanders, that keeps our soldiers. We feel at home.

Breakfast early, always the same, round bread rolls hot from over the road. Anneke brings them in a big white cloth carried over her shoulder. Good salted butter, curled and floating in water. Quince jelly and apple cheese, home made. A big tin coffee pot. No tea. No milk, only cream. They urge us to eat more, finding us underfed.

Out in the streets, wet from the night rain. Sun coming through, going to be a hot one. Big American cars, bakers everywhere beautifully decorated. Eleven different breads to buy in one. More cakes than we can count. Gingerbread for Easter, sepia postcards. Cafés already open, locals taking breakfast. No shortages here.

Belfry’s watching everything, always has done. Use our French at the Tourist Office, learned at school. Laughing, they answer in English. Museum Card with sixteen different visits, a special stamp for each. Bring it back full, there’s an extra stamp for you. Rewarding the faithful? Keep it forever, still have mine somewhere. Don’t lose it now.

Visit the quiet Memling, the Holy Blood, Love’s lake the Minnewater, the Onze-Lieve-Vrouwekerk (the Church of our dear Lady) to see Charles the Bold. See the crossbows, borne to Bouillon to join Godefroy, then the long land way to capture Jerusalem, where Godefroy refused to wear a crown of gold where Christ had worn thorns.

Walk with the Beguines, in their old private garden. Sit on the hot stone bridge in the garden of Bonifacius, our countryman, come here before us. Winfreth (Fairface), friend to Pepin father of the Great Charles, Karl de Groote, Charlemagne. England’s scholar, slain bearing the Bible by the heathen Friesians.

Bells ringing in the tower. Ringing all together, no English changes and bobs, pushing and jumbling, falling, shouting. Fighting like cats in a sack. Shaking the stonework, telling us to go, we desecrate their garden. Tingling hands on the stone when the great bell tolls.

Slowly back through the hot streets, over bridges and bridges. Following the carillon, calling us home.

Calling us today, everyday. Still waiting our coming. Fifty years now, faithful and true.