So I'm finally nearly arriving in Belgium, or Brussels to be precise.

My near arrival is very different from my arrival in Paris nearly 14 years ago.

I remember arriving far from fresh off the boat in Calais after crossing the stormy channel from Dover - this was before the Euro-tunnel had been hewn out - to lug my suitcase-without-wheels (I hadn't upgraded from an old battered model I'd borrowed from my mother) onto the train which chugged, it felt like hours later, into Gare du Nord.

There I was in the early hours of the morning, standing on a street corner with high heels and heavy suitcase, trying to flag down a taxi. A cruising police car spotted me, pulled in, and the impression I got was they were asking me to move on. Although I didn't understand any French at the time, I deduced they imagined I was trying to pick up clients, and indicated the hulk of my suitcase in the shop doorway behind me. Their attitude changed immediately and they smiled and pointed back towards the station. I understood they were pointing me in the direction of the taxi rank which I hadn't spotted earlier.

Despite this rude encounter, the attraction was immediate - I was mesmerised by the 'grandeur' of the place, the beautiful old stone buildings of the streets I had wandered into. I stayed for another seven years.

During my time in Paris, I encountered the French's attitude to the Belgians. I learned that grudgingly they are given the title of the 'best cooks'. But they are 'strange' and speak French with a 'funny' accent.

While I lived in France, I never visited Belgium. My only view of this country was the rather grey passage the train passes on the way to Amsterdam. Not impressive either that one of the streets clearly visible from the train is like a run-down version of Amsterdam's red light district.

Then my destiny took me to Amsterdam, but this time I did take the opportunity to visit Belgium. I went to Antwerp, and the Ardennes and Brussels and was pleasantly surprised.

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