The glass is definitely half full

With Eurostar failing to be a star and our need to leave the country, we booked our ferry tickets to Oostend, Belgium late on Friday night. I grabbed the tube across London to Paddington, caught a many-stop train to Reading and walked quickly across the river to grab our car... to drive right back into the centre of London. As I waited in traffic at Trafalgar Square at 1am, I could wonder about the rashness that had led me to this epic 5 hour car-pick-up as the BBC announced the chunnel had been reopened and services were to resume at 6am. In other words: our train to Paris was on.

Only, we now had our car in London, had booked a ferry to Belgium, cancelled our hotel in Paris and booked another in Brugge. There was simply no going back. Besides, I was excited about the hotel I had found on the internet. I had found a standard room in a 4 star hotel in the very centre of Brugge for only 40 euros more than our basic Hotel Ibis in Paris... and, since the ferry was an incredible 150 euros cheaper than our Eurostar tickets, the indulgence seemed worth it.

The next morning, we were up early and in the car. Getting out of London can be an adventure, so we left some time. Of course, with two days of lorries backed up on the motorways, I anticipated chaos. But, as it turns out, very few use the Ramsgate to Oostend crossing... which was very good for us. We arrived with lots of time, which, while not stressful, meant entertaining kids in a parking lot. We did a lot of jumping "over" puddles and off of metal barriers amongst the lorries. Possibly not ideal. The ferry was nearly an hour late leaving, which started to wear on my jangled nerves and patience. Still, once on the ferry, I was somewhat relieved to discover a real soft-play area of small kids. Anna played hard and met some friends. Caleb watched. Mum napped. I drifted into a state of delirium from tired. Four hours later, at about 5pm, we arrived in Belgium.

We drove to the hotel. Only, I had not had the foresight to bring our map of Europe nor did I both to look up the hotel online to get a sense of where it might be in Brugge. Driving blind, I eventually phoned the hotel after being stuck in traffic for ages with both Caleb and Anna at the end of their willingness to travel. They guided us in through the maze of cobbled streets. There was no traffic in the town, but it moved slowly, as their are more horse-drawn carriages than cars. We eventually pulled into the carpark of Hotel de Tuilerieën, which was through an arch, down a cobbled lane only marginally wider than our car and then through another, gated arch. Instantly, I realised we were not like the others at this hotel. First we had kids. Second, we were not driving a Porsche. Or an Aston Martin. Or a Ferrari. Indeed, we didn't even have a Beemer or a Merc. Unsurprisingly, the valet parked our Toyota in another lot nearby.

Ange went in. It turned out that some miscommunication between her and I resulted in us failing to disclose to the hotel that we were coming with children. It turned out the room we had booked was unsuitable for children. The people at the hotel were lovely though. Indeed, they were brilliant. Entirely befitting of a place like de Tuilerieën, they suggested an alternative room, in which we would be much more comfortable. We were. It was, quite honestly, the nicest hotel room I've ever been in. It was in a 15th century building, with antique tiles on the floors. The exposed wooden beams. The fireplace. The bathroom was larger than our lounge at home. It was heaven after the past day of travel.

We lingered for a bit to enjoy the room and then went out for dinner. We ended up in a small courtyard, which was having an opera that night. Dinner was nice, the beer excellent. Despite the beauty of the square, we were all keen to get back to our hotel, which was so nice itself. When we rocked up, the bar was empty and we had it to ourselves. 20 foot high ceilings. 16 foot windows. Marble fireplace. Chandeliers. It was incredible. Anna's hot chocolate--the highlight of the whole weekend for her--came on a tray. She drank, ate (the biscuit and whipped cream) and played for nearly half an hour with it.

It wasn't until the next morning that I asked Ange how much more the room was than the original booking. "I didn't ask..." she remarked. Almost flippantly. Hmmm. I couldn't help but feel like I would have asked if put in the same situation. She continued, "... we needed a place to stay!" The logic was infallible, if not entirely reassuring. The hotel amazing. The experience lovely. And yet I felt a pang of terror. I went to reception. While waiting behind someone who was checking out, I noticed the price list. It read something like this:

Standard rooms: 135-220 euros
Superior rooms: 240-375 euros
Executive rooms: 350-580 euros
Suits: 500-900 euros

Our room was definitely superior. I don't think an executive would have been out of place in it. And, there was a strong argument that it constituted a suit. The pang of terror returned as I approached the desk.

"You're here to check out?" the lady asked. She was as lovely as everyone who worked there. I said "Yes, thank you." In my mind, however, there was the swift calculations of how much money I actually had in my account. Then the self-negotiation: "Okay, it was an amazing place. Great service. Let's put a price on that: 200. No, I could go higher. Is it 300? Maybe 250." This quickly descended into the top number I could stomach without crying in front of the lady. I'm not sure I actually arrived at that number, but I think it was in the 400 region. Then, she announced the price to me with a friendly smile. Did she just say 1275? "Excuse me?" I asked with a calmness far more assured than might otherwise be expected for the only person in the hotel who had rocked up in a sub-compact. No. Thank God, she did not say 1275. 175. And, that included the taxes, parking, drinks and booking fee.

I'm not sure if she actually saw the relief cross my face. I could have hugged her. Or, at very least, the lady who had been working the night before who had given us the most amazing room in Brugge for the cost of a basic room. I was nearly euphoric the parking the car was a mere 25 euros (20 quid).

So, with a spring in my step, we hit Brugge. Crepes on the canal. A ride in the horse-drawn buggy was Anna's request. Admiring the shops. And just generally soaking up the atmosphere. No, it wasn't Paris. Yes, the trip was epic. But really, it could not have been a nicer couple of days in a more beautiful place...