I had always heard the story of David and Goliath, but had never stopped to consider it from Goliath’s point of view. In the city of Ath, I was able to see a whole new side of him during the Festival of the Giants. On the fourth Friday in August, the townspeople gather in the park to burn Goliath’s trousers. Why? Because the next day he is to be married.

On Saturday he and his tall bride gather in the town square, accompanied by his personal guard – the devil Magnon, two wild men covered with ivy, and two horsemen. The giants and their entourage dance down the street to the church, accompanied by the “Bleus”, French soldiers who periodically fire blanks into the air after a dramatic drum roll.

They two giants are married in front of the church, in the language of Picard (not French) before dancing back to the town square. Suddenly, shepherd David approaches, dressed in white and red. He challenges Goliath to a duel in a dialogue (“bonimée”) that dates back to the 16th century. This dialogue has been passed down by oral tradition, and now some segments are so garbled that they have lost all meaning, even to historians. At the end of the banter, David calls on his lord to give him strength and power to bring vengeance on the villain. The young shepherd has a single attempt to throw a stone through the peephole in Goliath’s wicker frame. If he succeeds, the town will be bathed in a year of happiness.

This year, David was played by seven year old Noa Depôtre, the son of the chief carrier of Madame Goliath. Unfortunately, for the second consecutive year, the shepherd did not succeed, and Goliath lived. This meant that the giants did not perform their final dance, which is seen as a bad omen for the town. David slunk off, ashamed and disappointed. His mother said “Of course, we are very disappointed for Noa, but the festival continues. I am very proud of him because he perfectly recited his lines perfectly. We cannot blame him because the pressure was so great, especially for a child so young.”

It might have been a dark moment for Ath, but our day was bathed in beer and sunshine. Friends Grant and Michelle were visiting from Cambridge, and we were able to sit together amongst the festivities and sample special grape beers that were brewed just for the event. A short ride on the train, and we were back in Brussels to end the day with some magnificent Cuban cuisine for dinner.

On the weekend we showed our houseguests one of the quirks of living in Europe – international borders that are a little higglty pigglty. Baarle Nassau and Baarle Hertog are two towns on the Belgium/Netherlands border. In fact, the border between the two countries is so confused that the towns have to place a diagram in the main street to explain the situation – the red perspex represents Belgium and the clear perspex represents the Netherlands:

This confusion is due to centuries of sales and swaps between the lords and dukes of the region. Yet still today, these borders are considered strict international boundaries. As we strolled through Baarle, we crossed the border dozens of times, and I was careful to have my passport ready. As we explored the suburbs, we noted that most of the residents were very nonchalant about the location of their house. For the most part, the only way that we could tell which country we were in was by very carefully examining the house numbers. Dutch houses have a red stripe on the left and a blue on the right. Belgian houses have a black/yellow/red flag in the top left hand side. This apartment complex straddled the border, and had two front doors, so the residents had both a Netherlands (left) and Belgium (right) address – very useful for tax purposes:

The two cities of Baarle Hertog and Nassau have different police forces, laws tax systems, fuel costs, speed limits, alcohol licensing laws, closing times, and mobile phone rates. A letter posted from Hertog to Nassau travels via Amsterdam. And yet the border quite often cuts right through a business or home.

But best of all, in these odd tangled territories, the sun was shining and all the stores were wide open on a Sunday. So we were able to sit outside, eat chocolate and beer, and soak up the sunshine in the enclaves and exclaves of these intertwined cities (note how the border continues down the middle of the road behind us before finally crossing the street).
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Back when we were having the Montreal v Brussels debate, I contacted Woman Wandering, who is originally from New Zealand and moved to Belgium. She ran down the pros and cons of the country, and reminded me that if one loves to travel, then Brussels is best. In April when we visited Antwerp I was finally able to meet her and thank her in person. She treated us to a delicious lunch at home with her family, and then took us on a delightful walking tour of her town. My favourite spot was the t Elfde Gebod (The 11th Commandment) bar, filled with various saints that the owner bought when the churches were ridding themselves of such things.

It is fascinating to learn about saints and their symbols. Those of them who were tortured often display on a plate the body part that was severed – the head of St Denis, the breasts of St Agatha, the eyes of St Lucy, the flayed skin of St Bartholomew. St Nicolas is accompanied by the three children he restored after they were pickled in brine by an wicked innkeeper. St Jerome carries a stone in his hand with which he strikes himself in penance for his sins. St Roch has a dog who fed him by stealing food from its master’s table while he suffered from the plague. These stories are never pleasant.

In contrast to the suffering of martyrs, we were also lucky enough to watch the baby elephant frolic in the water at the zoo. It tried everything to try and convince its mum to join it in the water – using its feel to plash her with water, spraying her with its trunk, and even forcefully head-butting her towards the shore. Finally, she reluctantly joined in and the little one was overcome with joy. I’m not even sure the baby creature remembered it was an elephant, the way it attempted to clamber on top of her in the pool and to do handstands while completely submerged. I think that I would like a baby elephant of my own. I am following the progress of the latest pregnancy at www.baby-olifant.be. Maybe I could take it for weekends once it is born?

I still can’t believe it is possible for me to just pop off to Brussels for the afternoon. A few days ago, I spent the afternoon at the Cosutme and Lace Museum. Entry was 3 euros, but residents of Brussels have free entry, which is another incentive to buy a home in Brussels and not Leuven. The exhibition displayed the couture worn around the time of Expo 58, including many of Christian Dior’s creations. So many glamourous and intricate outfits, as well as some truly hideous wedding dresses. The rules of dress at the time were complex and highly regimented, and many of the hemlines had been repeatedly altered to suit the fashion of the season:

Image from brucity