I USUALLY get lost when driving in foreign places.

Occasionally with literary overtones. Just the other day I was taking the good news from Ghent to Aix by accident.

You may be familiar with the poem by Robert Browning about three blokes on horseback riding their steeds to death in a Grand National kind of way. And we never do find out what the urgent news is.

The bad news for me: I was on the E17 in Belgium heading to Ghent when I should have been going to Charleroi airport. The Google map directions I had printed were left in the B&B.

The only thing I was sure about was that the Oudenaarde I passed was the site of an important battle in 1708 during the War of the Spanish Succession. Interesting but no help in catching the flight home.

My error was explained by a friendly lorry driver when I stopped in Nazareth. Not the birthplace of Christ but a service station on the outskirts of Ghent.

I had been looking for a turn-off for Tournai but could only see directions to Dornink. It turns out Dornink is what the Flemish call Tournai. And Tournai is what the Walloons call Dornink.

Belgium is separated by two languages. But you think they might compromise on road signs. The Flemish need to be more phlegmatic and the Walloons less like balloons.

If the Belgians cannot agree on a simple matter like getting me to the airport, they should split into two countries. A velvet divorce like in Czechoslovakia. The French-speaking Walloons in Bel and the Flemish in Gium.

Since Spain used to rule most of the Netherlands, they might all speak Spanish. This would make it easier for me. But I would still get lost. My final question to the lorry-driver saviour at Nazareth was: "Now, how do I get out of this car park."

All this Low Country history leaves little room to describe the literary loss of direction when I was going to Cornwall and ended up in Stratford-upon-Avon. On being questioned as to this diversion, I replied: "Prithee, hold thy tongue." Which is Shakespearean for shut up. At least we got to see Anne Hathaway's cottage.

Or the time I took mother to Edinburgh and was on the road to Stirling by mistake. En route the aged parent asked: "What's this place called?" Then answered the question herself upon seeing a road sign. Which, I believe, was the first usage of the new town slogan: "What's it called? Cumbernauld."

tom shields Lost in literature

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