Previously: 40 Years in Beer (Book III), Part 84: Y2K and the Belgian beercycling inaugural (1).
With the foreplay at Vapeur ended, it was time to meet the Danes.
Narrow Wallonian countryside lanes brought the beercyclists back into Tournai as a clear and warm Saturday afternoon turned blustery and overcast. Cochonette-laced warm fuzzies dissipated rapidly in the face of a brisk headwind.
What’s more, the Three Danes of the Apocalypse awaited our return: Kim “Little Kim” Wiesener, Kim “Big Kim” Andersen and Allan Gamborg. Having gathered for European soccer championship matches held in Belgium and Netherlands, they conspired to include a brief Tournai stay in their itinerary.
These three cosmopolitan natives of Denmark are bosom friends of long standing, dating to 1987 when Barrie Ottersbach and I booked a tour of the USSR led by Little Kim. They’re multi-lingual, well-traveled and professionally accomplished, each in his chosen field. When a soccer match is taking place, they merrily revert with dazzling speed to adolescence, a state understood intuitively by sports-obsessed males everywhere.
We met as scheduled at the hotel, and haggling began over details. The non-negotiable idea, conveyed with a palpable wagging of Danish fingers, was to partake of the Cave a Biere’s lobster feast (tail and ale) at the precise time of the hour-long break between the evening’s games, both of which were far too important for self-respecting aficionados to miss.
Big screen televisions weren’t then common in Tournai, but one was located in a café just off the main square. The match between Turkey and Portugal was fueled by draft Hoegaarden Wit, a gentle restorative following the rigors of a long day. I stole away and walked down by the river to Cave a Biere: we’d be a bit late for lobster owing to football’s imperatives.
The owner rolled her eyes and smiled indulgently. “Let the boys be boys,” she said; there still would be enough food and beer whenever we made it back.
40 Years in Beer, Part Fifteen: A clash of titans (with Elephant Beer) in Copenhagen, 1987
Soon it became apparent that critical match-ups weren’t confined to the televised pitch. Big Kim’s initial 1987 meeting with Barrie in Copenhagen had resembled a gladiatorial marathon, and now the jovial Dane’s acquaintance with Kevin was renewed (they’d previously met in New Albany when Kim visited).
Upon our arrival at the Cave for the brief inter-match dining respite, Kevin began urging Big Kim to join him at the higher-gravity end of the Belgian brewing spectrum. Together they despoiled the café’s excellent selection of Trappist ales: Rochefort, Chimay, Westmalle and Orval.
The rest of us cautiously followed suit, and to my complete surprise, as the pub’s stock of Trappists depleted to the accompaniment of a tuneful cash register, the previously “can’t miss” second soccer contest was forgotten.
Meanwhile lobster tails, potatoes and vegetables began appearing and just as quickly disappeared. Belgian ales in 750 ml bottles were divided among the usual suspects, producing the expected tomfoolery and an escalating series of tales purporting to depict exploits of past drinking bouts.
I recall a cell phone appearing, and an attempt to call Barrie. In the general cacophony, it wasn’t clear whether the call ever went through, although our absent Musketeer later swore that not only was the call received, but (whichever) Dane’s phone was used hadn’t been shut off, and Barrie was left with twenty minutes of incoherent jocularity on his answering machine.
The otherwise stern matron of the Cave seemed much amused at our antics and presided over the gathering with grace, going so far as to pose willingly for a photo with Buddy. I made no attempt to take notes on the beers or to record what I’d sampled, seeing as all were old favorites that had treated me well before, and could be expected to be as forgiving again.
Kim W., Allan and I recalled our previous 1999 meeting in Moscow, reliving the evening of the metal detector at the brewpub, the private table dancer who wasn’t minding the mint, and shoes filled with Volga mud. Big Kim and Kevin continued knocking them back at a prodigious pace.
Eventually there was a monetary settlement and I watched as Kevin, Big Kim, Allan and Bob Reed suddenly rose from their seats and filed out with all the solemnity of a funeral procession. Perhaps they were embalmed.
Apparently it was time to leave, so Kim Wiesener and I pulled Buddy from the arms of our host, who’d just paid off her mortgage, and the three of us started weaving back to the hotel through darkened, damp streets, kicking at the litter left behind by revelers on a festive summer’s evening.
It was deep sleep, indeed. I was curious next morning, and so I asked Kevin: When you left the Cave, was it because Allan had called a taxi to take all of you back to the hotel? Kevin scratched his head and confessed to not remembering whether they had been driven or walked.
Moments later, I asked Bob the same question, and he couldn’t recall, either. Suspecting it would be useless to ask Big Kim, I received confirmation of the taxi order from Allan. As for me, I couldn’t remember if my own pedestrians stopped for a nightcap on the way.
On Sunday morning after breakfast, the Danes departed for their next Eurocup match, and the bikers headed west by train to Poperinge, and the second phase of Beercycling 2000.
—
From the official German account of the offensives on the Western Front in 1918, as quoted by John Keegan in his book, The First World War:
“The (German) attack had not penetrated to the decisive heights of Cassel and the Mont des Cats, the possession of which would have compelled the (British) evacuation of the Ypres salient and the Yser position. No great strategic movement had become possible, and the Channel ports had not been reached. The second great offensive had not brought about the hoped-for decision.”
When the fatigued quartet arrived by train on Sunday at lunchtime in Poperinge, Ieperstraat was jammed with shoppers, strollers and snackers. This festive atmosphere was a complete surprise; in those days most European stores and shops usually weren’t’t open on Sunday. Later we learned that it was a special annual shopping day “exception.”
Checking into the legendary Hotel/Restaurant Palace, we found our newly arrived comrade-in-spokes Kevin Lowber awaiting in the shadows of a massive slab of beef and an equally oversized bottle of red wine. He’d arrived in Poperinge from Brussels. Biking in and around the town was slated to begin on Monday, and this merited a map study and strategy and tactics session.
Adjourning across the hall to the hotel’s cozy world-class beer bar, we discussed the riding itinerary, and a plan of attack quickly fell into place.
Monday would take us to Ieper for a ride through the battlefield sites south and east of town. On Tuesday, I booked my friend (and tourism chief) Luc for a relaxing two-wheeled tour of local attractions: St. Sixtus abbey (home of the scrumptious Westvletern Trappist ales), the brewing town of Watou, the Helleketel forest, and row after row of the hop trellises that take on a life of their own each three years during the town’s hop festival.
On Wednesday we’d attempt to seize what the Kaiser’s military failed to achieve more than eight decades before: the heights of Mont des Cats and Cassel. From our Poperinge base, this projected foray into France wouldn’t be very difficult, totaling less than 30 miles roundtrip; more importantly, it would provide a glimpse of northern French beer culture, an ulterior motive of mine all along.
Riding east towards Ieper on Monday, the French hills were visible on the horizon to the south. They’re not huge summits, but the pancake flatness of Flanders magnified the strategic importance of heights in wartime.
There were constant reminders of the conflict as we passed numerous Great War monuments and cemeteries of the British Commonwealth soldiers, whose final resting places attested to the global scale of the First World War: Irish, Australian, Canadian and Indian, buried alongside lads from Manchester and Newcastle. The resting places of Belgian, French and German soldiers were just as moving (and sad).
Ieper was utterly devastated from 1914-1918, then painstakingly rebuilt in the years preceding the next world conflagration. It transpired that when the second war swept through Belgium, one youthful native resolved to escape.
Somehow he made it to Belgium’s then-colony of the Congo, and later to South Africa, enlisting in the British RAF and fighting against the German occupiers until war’s end. Later he founded a restaurant and pub, sold it, then opened another, called Ter Posterie for its location opposite Ieper’s post office.
I met this man on more than one occasion; embarrassingly, I cannot remember his name, but the beer, food and hospitality at Ter Posterie always impressed. It was another classic Belgian café, with 200 or so bottled ales, a few more on draft, savory food and an outdoor terrace, where we sat and discussed our first half-day’s ride.
By 2000, active control of Ter Posterie had long since passed to the war hero’s daughter, but the old man still frequented the establishment, and when glimpsing an English speaker, he’d amble over and spin his life story for the visitor in a narrative honed over thousands of ale-side retellings.
During subsequent visits, he was observed to be descending into Alzheimer’s disease; one time we could hear him in the rear during business hours, moaning loudly and conversing with ghosts. I suppose the family was caring for him and working, at the same time.
Tuesday’s riding schedule was light, but rich in intangibles owing to Luc and his wife Jeannine on wheels alongside us. A leisurely pace was kept on the country lanes radiating from Poperinge, never very far from the smell of manure and the sight of hop trellises.
There was Westvleteren’s 12-degree Trappist at the terrace of the (then) newly built Café de Vrede opposite the abbey, then through the woods and fields to the fabled “brewing village” of Watou and a refreshing Witbier from the small town’s Van Eecke brewery, then south and east to Poperinge via the Helleketel forest and a quick round at the Bie’s rustic brewery and tasting room (since moved to Lokor).
Wednesday proved to be the highlight of the Poperinge interlude, with the group primed for climbing the aforementioned French hills and lunching in Cassell. Arriving winded at the summit of the Mont des Cats, we saw a conveniently situated Trappist monastery, which might have provided liquid incentive had it been situated a few miles north in Belgium.
Unfortunately, there were no Trappist breweries in France in 2000, and the monastery made acclaimed cheeses and butter, which we sampled at our midday feast. Since 2011, Mont des Cats has its own ale, if not its own brewery; Chimay contract brews it (consequently it isn’t “Trappist” as such because brewing isn’t conducted on the grounds).
For beer, we coasted down Mont des Cats and proceeded to St. Sylvestre Cappell, home to the brewery that produces Trois Monts, or “three mountains” (there’d be no climbing of the third one, Mont des Récollets).
Trois Monts demonstrated conclusively that excellent beer and France are not mutually exclusive concepts, although people at the time often allowed their Francophobia to hold sway at the expense of common sense.
A quarter-century later, they’re still missing biere de garde, perhaps best understood as an appellation of origin describing beers from northern France. Beyond this, there are few hard and fast rules.
Often bieres de garde are fermented warm with ale yeast, but not always. Usually they are aged in a process akin to lagering, with colors and strengths varying across the spectrum. Many, although not all, are bottled in 750 ml corked bottles.
If there is any one characteristic seemingly common among the best bieres de garde, it is a richly complex malt character; some are assertively hoppy. These are beers that taste fine alone, but seemingly calibrated to accompany food.
Having conquered the heights of Mont des Cats, we found restorative glasses of Trois Monts at a tiny roadside café where the proprietor spoke no English but was delighted to learn that we were not “English,” and seemed amused by our interest in the local ale. Temporarily sated, our final and more formidable objective lay before us: Cassel, the town straddling the hilltop of the same name.
A half-hour’s ride along the highway brought us to the foot of the hill, and we began the winding ascent that culminated in the town’s main square. A narrow lane took us further toward the top, ending in a wooded park with a large windmill situated to our left. I knew from previous research that located just beneath the windmill was our real reason for coming: Estaminet Het Kasteelhof.
The windmill was billed as the highest point in Flanders, with unobstructed views far and wide even on a hazy day, and the café just below it, clinging to the side of a steep hill, had as good a reputation as any beer bar in France. We found Estaminet Het Kasteelhof reveling in localism. Apparently it still does.
The main room was crowded, and spontaneous applause erupted at our entrance. Bowing and blushing in appreciation for this unexpected acknowledgement of our collective biking prowess, we were disappointed to learn that the many senior citizens dining there actually were responding to a speech by one of their own.
Seats on the patio were open. With the kitchen overwhelmed by the group, only cold food was being offered, so we each opted for a mixed cheese and pate plate. The portions were so large that three plates easily could have fed the five of us.
750 ml bottles of French bieres de garde were passed around: Hommelpap (four hop varieties, earthy and a moderate 7% abv), Kasteel (the house ale) and Pot Flamand, the latter two falling on the sweetly malty side of the flavor spectrum as expected.
Kasteelhof also boasted a shop for carry-out sales: bieres de garde, local honey and jam, liqueurs, post cards and souvenirs, almost more than we could carry, our rental bikes being unequipped with panniers (mine had a basket). The newly arrived Lowber drew a short straw, having made the mistake of bringing his daypack, soon filled with the bulk of the booty.
There was ground to cover from Cassell back to Poperinge, and our quintet debarked in a meandering northerly direction, enjoying the countryside and melting away the lunchtime caloric intake. We were hale and hearty, except perhaps Buddy, and therein lies another tragic story of misplaced ambition.
The night before, after benedictory drinks with Luc, we’d dined as a group in the Hotel Palace’s restaurant and enjoyed several bottles of French red wine atop uniformly excellent meats, breads and pastas. After dinner, adjourning once again to the beer-friendly bar across the hall, and enjoying inimitable service provided by owners Guy and Beatrice, Kevin Richards elected to continue drinking wine.
For reasons that remain obscure even now, Buddy felt emboldened to undertake the impossible mission of matching Kevin bottle for bottle. The rest of us were alarmed. We knew better, choosing to nurse a few mid-range Belgian ales before retiring to bed early in preparation for the big Cassell day.
Buddy began to perceive the magnitude of his error during the two hill climbs, then was overheard to remark during lunch in Cassell that a nap would feel good. Pedaling back to Poperinge, he lagged behind the peloton, but rallied to an extent, finishing the course. Back at our quarters, bikes safely returned to the shop, and with appetites stoked by the day’s long rides, Buddy went straight to bed.
Without him, we supped at the marvelous Restaurant De La Paix and adjourned to a local café for a few ales during the evening’s televised Euro Cup soccer match. Maybe the Danes were somewhere in the crowd.
Why had it taken me so long to discover the joys of beercycling in Europe? The question still haunts me. It was with grudging reluctance that we left Poperinge on Thursday morning for the Brugge (Bruges) stage of the trip, taking with us numerous ideas, many of which came delightfully to fruition during future trips.
—
A filling Hotel Palace buffet breakfast of bread, butter, jam, selected cheeses, meats, and eggs brought us to Thursday, and our transfer by rail to Kortrijk, then north to Brugge.
We executed a short forced march through Brugge and set up camp at the Hotel Europ. Beercycling would have to wait until Friday, as the genial Joe Waizmann, then of the Merchant du Vin importing company, had helpfully arranged for a Thursday afternoon tour of Huyghe, a family-owned brewery with a wide portfolio of beers, including Merchant du Vin’s Duinen abbey ales, as well as the more widely known Delirium Tremens family of strong elixirs.
From the hotel, we doubled back to the train station for a short hop to Ghent, specifically the suburb of Melle. As always, I’d taken Joe’s correspondence and initiated a dialogue with the target brewery, exchanging a couple of faxes with Alain De Laet at Huyghe, and fixing a tour time for 2:00 p.m. on Thursday.
I brought copies with me. This proved prescient, as unbeknownst to us, a long afternoon was in the making.
A switch was necessary in Ghent’s main station, and soon we were stepping off the small commuter platform in sleepy Melle. The area displayed the unmistakable signs of a one-time country village that was transformed by industrialization during the mid- to late-1800s.
Alain’s fax clearly indicated that someone from Huyghe would meet us at the station. No one arrived, and after a half-hour’s wait, it was obvious that we needed to find the brewery ourselves. This wasn’t altogether difficult. Older breweries in Europe invariably are situated by a canal or railroad, and the brewery’s street address, Brusselsesteenweg, indicated the main road in the direction of Belgium’s capital. This street was a block from the station; we lined up street numbers and began walking.
The street number affixed to an older building without an obvious entryway. Newer additions extended around a corner, so we followed the contours and eventually looked up at a huge pink elephant emblazoned on a wall. We knocked on several doors; eventually one opened and a young man smilingly pointed us to the rear of the building, where activity was humming.
Pallets of kegs and bottles were being shifted by forklifts into waiting trucks and workers were going about their tasks. We could see the train tracks leading back to the station. It wasn’t very far at all. A man in a suit intercepted us, pointing to a second-floor office.
Ominously, the receptionist was visibly confused at our presence. Phone calls of escalating intensity were made as we stood in a cramped foyer, killing time and ducking passers-by. It was far past lunch, and I ate a final apple for strength as time passed.
There were reassurances that Alain had been paged and was expected at any moment. Finally a young man appeared, introduced himself as Alain, and noted that we had come on the wrong day. I asked him to look at the fax a bit more closely, and he went into his office seemingly unconvinced. When he returned, his face was beet red. Apologizing profusely (and unnecessarily; after all, mistakes do happen), he took us into the brewery for the belated tour.
Given the misunderstandings and delays, expectations were tempered; maybe a glance at the brewery and a beer or two, which would have been fine, except that a veritable tour de force was picking up steam, proving that when like-minded beer lovers unite, the passion generated is unlike anything experienced by corporate bean-counting swillmeisters.
A dash of over-compensation never hurts, either.
Alain explained that like many family-owned Belgian brewers, Huyghe stagnated during the 1970s, producing ordinary pilsners and low-gravity table beers mostly for local consumption, and seeing those markets shrink because of increased competition from larger breweries. Huyghe faced a questionable future when Alain’s father decided something needed to change. He resolved to specialize, creating ales that reflected Belgium’s diverse brewing heritage.
It was a bold and risky strategy. Almost no one foresaw Belgium’s subsequent international brewing notoriety, and Alain’s father faced resistance from other family members. He shrugged and bought them out, proceeding with the development of a flagship ale intended to redeem the brewery’s fortunes: Delirium Tremens, given its name after a visitor remarked that two were his limit lest the “DTs” come calling in the morning.
A recipe was created, and work on a label began. The now-familiar pink elephant logo was drawn by a summer brewery intern in return for liquid remuneration. A quarter-century later, it is one of Belgium’s most immediately recognizable trademarks.
Comparisons with Duvel were inevitable, and there were other Belgian strong golden ales (Lucifer, Satan), yet Delirium Tremens was always its own beer, decidedly sleek and clean with subdued top-fermenting esters, and boasting a deceptive, medium-weight body. Hints of alcohol peek through to remind the drinker of its 8.5% abv.
Over time, the Delirium Tremens was extended to include Nocturnum, a dark corollary, and for the first time in 2000, Noel. Huyghe’s yuletide offering was stronger (10%) and tawnier; we were told at the time that Noel wasn’t spiced.
As we walked through the brewery, Alain suddenly asked if we’d like to try Noel, which as yet was unreleased (and not even finished), dispensed straight from the bright tank into DT logo glasses that suddenly materialized from a helper as Alain tottered on a ladder to reach the valve.
In one of the older parts of the original labyrinthine brewhouse (the brewery had a whole, newer wing), Huyghe installed a charming beer and brewing exhibit, including a replica of a traditional Belgian café, complete with archaic cash register and bar games. Nearby were cases displaying old glassware and advertising signs. After a cursory examination, we all adjourned to the contemporary, half-circle bar for a post-tour tasting.
At the time Huyghe was questioned in certain quarters for releasing so many beers, doubters suspecting the same basic recipe (by style) was constantly repeated with a different label attached. Alain bristled at this, particularly as the critiques emanated from Great Britain’s Campaign for Real Ale (CAMRA), arguing forcefully that with the exception of a few beers bearing export labels, all beers made at Huyghe were distinct recipes.
This matters primarily because Alain was seemingly determined to give us a chance to judge for ourselves, producing one Huyghe brand after another for sampling: St. Idelsbald Blonde, Bruin and Tripel, Campus, Golden Kenia (the pilsner mentioned previously), Vielle Villers Dubbel and Tripel, a few new fruit-flavored ales, and eventually a bottle of Artvelde Grand Cru that had been cellared since 1988.
Only a few of the latter remained extant, but Alain excitedly opened one, and it was so delicious that soon he phoned the brewers, inviting them to the bar for a taste (they came). A dense thicket of glasses and empty bottles multiplied atop the bar, and frankly, the afternoon was becoming foggy.
Alain proposed a toast (paraphrased), a class gesture that I’ve never forgotten: To all the beer-loving Americans who have done so much to support the Belgian brewing industry, the ones who know quality, who appreciate the best, and who share in the universal love of beer.
It was one of the most memorable moments from all our European beer excursions. Equally affecting was Bob Reed’s impromptu assessment of our Huyghe visit: A guy can get fucked up in a place like this.
Indeed, he can.
Yes, we did.
When the alarm sounded, we’d been inside the brewery for almost three hours, and Alain proposed to drive us to the rail station, no more than a quarter-mile down the alley. This wasn’t necessary. We thanked him profusely and gathered our generous gifts (t-shirts, pink elephant suspenders, DT glassware) and stumbled into a late Melle afternoon.
Speaking personally, I was very intoxicated and just as hungry. The weight of ale was heavy on an empty stomach, and I recalled there being an eatery or two opposite the rail station. We were almost there when the hum of a car was heard behind us. We heard Alain’s voice.
Screeching to a halt, he emerged with stacks of beer coasters, which Bob had requested earlier, and in the process, cemented his legacy as the perfect host for one of the best brewery tours I’ve ever experienced.
Then the neighborhood “frituur/friterie” came into view. Discard everything you’ve assumed about carbonade, mussels and other gems of indigenous beer cuisine, because the words frituur (Flemish) and friterie (French) translate into glorious fast food, Belgian-style.
It is the domain of the deep fryer, not only for fries, which are parboiled before deep frying, and served with mayonnaise or one of several sauces, but also for any foodstuff, including salad, that will fit into a Euro-standard fry basket and benefit from a high-temperature lard bath.
Behaving like the 3:00 a.m. crowd at White Castle, we crowded into mom’s and pop’s frittur, the former taking our orders as each of us in turn pointed at a breaded object behind the counter, while the latter expertly deep-fried our selections.
The market was cornered on saturated fat, and the containers dripped grease as we climbed the steps to the platform, shoveling with our fingers while awaiting the train.
—
For a final day of rental beercycling on a sunny Friday in Brugge, we chose to spend a few spare Dutch guilders in the Netherlands.
The Netherlands is closer to Brugge than you might think. A detached slice of Dutch territory lies on the south side of the waterway known as the Westerschelde, or the mouth of the Schelde River as it passes Antwerp to the ocean.
It was easily accessible by bicycle paths aimed east and north from Brugge, passing through the popular tourist village of Damme, along idyllic tree lined canals and landscape reminiscent of Breughel paintings.
The perfectly flat nature of the terrain in northernmost Flanders did wonders for endurance. Hills and grades were almost non-existent, and the route was strewn so thickly with directional signs that we briefly became lost anyway, perhaps stemming from the Huyghe maelstrom, which had been followed by restoratives at t’Brugs Beertje.
At a café in the Dutch town of Sluis, I extracted a handful of colorful leftover guilders from my 1998 Amsterdam visit and paid for the best deal we could find under the circumstances: Heinekens and nibbles. But fresh, domestic Heineken can be satisfying, and since the food included herring, my day was complete.
After lunch, the ride continued to the northwest. It was a revelatory opportunity to experience the fabled infrastructure available to cyclists in the Netherlands. Paved bicycle paths followed alongside all roads, and clearly delineated lanes guided cyclists through urban areas. Some intersections were for cyclists alone, shadowing the automotive lanes, complete with their own sets of stop lights.
Circling back into Belgium past an invisible border, we skirted Knokke-Heist and came to the second objective: sea and sand. Zeebrugge’s beach allowed for the feel of ocean spray before returning to Brugge via an industrial canal. Another session at Beertje was the post-ride bonus.
On Saturday the rental bikes went back, and the first-timers were turned loose to sightsee and shop. Except for Kevin Lowber, who joined us in Poperinge, the group tallied roughly 125 miles, with perhaps half of that coming during the Cassel and Sluis rides.
During the beercycling decade to come, there were times when I approached 100 clicks in a day, fully laden with panniers, but in 2000 the beercyclists were neophytes and the rental bikes varied; when you’re 6’ 4”, frame sizes make a huge difference in comfort.
The others went their way, and on Sunday morning, Kevin Richards, Buddy and I set out by rail for Leuven, an old university city on the eastern side of Brussels that is near the airport. Kevin and Buddy were departing for home on Monday morning, while I was in route to Biaritz, via Paris.
(Look for a future “40 Years” France, Spain and Portugal sidebar.)
The final night was booked for Leuven because the airport is near, and we originally hoped to attend Pearl Jam’s gig at the Werchter rock festival. Alas, the band cancelled following the tragedy at Roskilde a few days earlier. The final day would be relaxed.
The nondescript rail commute from Brugge to Leuven was immeasurably enlivened by Buddy’s eyes becoming somewhat larger than his luggage.
He’d spent the last day in Brugge frantically scrounging rare Belgian ales, resolutely breaking away from the closing ceremonies at Beertje to return to the hotel and devise ways of packing them, so there he was, after midnight, with bottles, toiletries and underwear heaped in the corridor, agonizing over the best way protect his investments on the flight home.
Somehow Buddy managed to fit most of the bottles into his suitcase, an improvisation that left little sleeping time. He awoke to the realization that a stupendous weight gain had occurred, and recommended we splurge on cab fare to the station.
A fresh challenge awaited him upon exiting the train in Leuven. The station’s archaic configuration compelled him to schlepp those heavily ale-laden bags up the stairs to an overpass above the tracks. With the assistance of two passers-by who evidently took pity at Buddy’s plight (or more likely, were eager to move him along so they didn’t miss their own train), he made it up, over and back down.
Another taxi took us to the hotel, and with his bounty thus preserved, Buddy fell into a trance-like, hours-long sleep. Meanwhile Kevin and I explored Leuven, visited a brewpub, acknowledged the industrial Stella Artois beer factory, looked around a chateau originally belonging to Leuven’s local aristocrats, and eventually settled into handy café chairs to recap the first beercycling trip with accompanying Belgian ales.
We’d hatched the Belgian beercycling scheme with ice cream at Polly’s Freeze in Edwardsville, and offered post-game benedictions over Chimay and beefsteak in Leuven. Bob Reed’s toast to cycling togetherness masterfully brings this chapter to a close.
Here’s to us.
May we never quarrel or fuss.
But if by chance we should disagree,
#%@* you, and here’s to me.
