QUIET HAVEN

Wairarapa Times-Age, 21 September 1942, Page 4

QUIET HAVEN

BELGIUM IN ENGLAND COLONY OF FISHER FOLK. HAPPY AND WELL-ORGANISED COMMUNITY. Today I stepped ashore in a Belgian harbour, John Allan May wrote in the “Christian Science Monitor” recently. There were no German guards on the quay to halt me. Instead, there were 'just groups of peaceful Belgian fishermen, discussing in Flemish and French the prospects of the war’s end or the more immediate prospects of a good catch. There was no Gestapo to listen in to their talk. They were alone, except fox’ the gulls that wheeled hungrily above the waiting fishing port. For this was Belgium-in-England, a southern fishing port that has changed its nationality and in sheltering the I good fishermen of Belgium has become more Flemish than British. It was a strange experience to come suddenly upon this colorful and peaceful harbour. It was a crowded and a vivid canvas. There were fishing boats everywhere of every size and colour, anchored in almost military rows in the outer harbour, moored together in trots by either side of the quay, waiting in tight groups on the hard for the tide to rise. Green boats, blue boats, orangecoloured boats, red and white boats, ( green and yellow boats, boats with my-' riad strking assortment of colour. The British fisherman is inclined to be conservative about the use of paint. But it was not only the merry colours splashed around the harbour that made this an unusual scene for England. There were unexpected names on all the boats. On the transoms of all the boats were written names in French and Flemish, and underneath the names were the ports of registry, Ostende, Zeebrugge, Nieuport. “For Wife and Children” was the name in Flemish inscribed on one trawler. As one gazed at the strange fleet it seemed somehow a significant name.

MANY DANGERS BRAVED. The fisherfolk have braved many dangers to transfer their homes to England and to carry on their tradenow more hazardous than ever —father than stay at home and work as servants of the Third Reich. Some have left near relatives behind them. All have left friends, all have left homes. Most of them, of course, before they left the waters they knew, called upon as many of their friends and relatives as they could and hastily filled their holds with unusual cargo for an unusual journey. They sailed and chugged away, whereto they did not know. Many were attacked from the air. Some suffered great hardship. But now they have found a new home. And it is a home, not just a place in someone else’s house. They have found new friends, too, and they have not lost freedom. One does not get told about this town. One finds out about it gradually. And if you do not know about it already it can be quite a shock to find how thoroughly Belgian it is. I approached a group of fishermen who were chatting on the quay, in order to inquire the way. They shrugged their shoulders apologetically. For they could not speak English. There was no one on the quay at the time who could speak English. SCHOOL OF FISHING. On the other side of the street there was a building that had formerly been the headquarters of a British fishing concern. It now had an official-look-ing coat of arms over the doorway and the legend “Belgian School of Fishing” on a scroll above and beneath. Here the youngsters are taught the technicalities of their father’s trade, gaduating as expert seamen as well as finished fishermen. The Belgian citizens have their own town council as well. The council is elected, not appointed, and works in conjunction with the local residents’ town council. The Belgian youths and girls are avid patrons of the weekly Town Hall dances. These popular shows have a distinctly continental atmosphere. Maman comes along too, and as likely as not brings the younger children with her. The kiddies sit in the back of the hall on raised rows of wooden benches and watch proceedings with great interest while sucking lemonade through a straw. Between dances they take the opportunity to scamper on the floor. It is all very friendly. But, then, it is a friendly little port. The Belgians are not merely adding to the allied friendship in a real and tangible way by their presence on the South Coast; they are also bringing a splash of extra colour to the English scene. They are fond of paint, not just for the paint’s sake. The harbour is filled with bold blues and reds, cherry greens, orange, gold, cream, so that when the sun comes out the water of the harbour dances, with light and colour as the breeze ruffles its smooth surface.

But, then, everyone who has been to Belgium knows that. -