The 3rd Battle of Mons
Mons Station. Great Design. Weird Carpark
Station. Great Design. Clown Show
(Part 3 of my Franco’s Fiesta summer Tour June 2026. Read about Rocking Out in Breda and The Banjos of Monschau if you want to see the earlier legs.)
Not to cheapen the British army, but here I am, in Mons, flying the flag. My battle is less, braving German machine guns, and more, getting that ‘la même chose’ vibe going.
There was a festival in Mons this week. Still going on but, frankly, it’s in the vinegar strokes. As there were closed streets and chaotic, horn-blaring traffic jams around La Grand Place and, advised by my ever ‘reliable’ AI, I parked at the station. The station building - BTW - is an amazing architectural piece of modern urban design - futuristic, beautiful and functional (Corbusier, hand your pedantic communist head in shame). But, like all big cities (see my Gare du Nord articles), the area around the station is a clown show of human folly, waste and grift. So, urban eyes to the fore, I adopted the head down, ‘non’ to every supplicant and headed out through the rain and into Mons.
The Mons Mount
The centre is on a goddam hill! Who tells you that? In Belgium? To reach the Grand Place, the citadel, you literally have to climb up vertiginous rain soaked cobbled streets. And me - clever me - left my bag back in the station whilst I tracked down the hotel Station. So, I did the Station. Hotel. Station. Hotel thing. Soaked with the rain. Sweating like a bitch in the sun. What’s up the weather? What’s up with the hill of Mons? Forget going over the top, getting to the top in Mons is a fucking push.
The Linguistic Divide
Everyone knows Belgium is split into two. We have the Flemish in the North who speak Dutch and we have the Wallonians (in the South, roughly) who speak French. Brussels / Bruxelles is bi-lingual by law though the lingua Franca is predominantly French. Yes, there’s a small German speaking community (around Monschau BTW) but essentially Belgium is a 50:50 split.
Hitherto (note to self: wanker) I’ve stuck to the Flemish side; Antwerp, Bruges, Gent. This is my first foray (outside Brussels) into the French part of Belgium since, I dunno, 1982? The difference? Well, they drink the same beer, they eat the same food but; how to say this? The Flemish speak English without hesitation - smiling / welcoming - whereas the Wallonians, not so much. Like their French cousins across the border, they don’t feel the need to facilitate tourists with English. That’s okay, I thought, I speak a little French. And yes, I needed it. My advice to tourists, buy a French phrase book and make the bloody effort.
The Battle of the Beer
I know there’s an age old friendly enmity between France and England. But Belgium? Wallonia? What the fuck did we do to screw them over aside from giving then their country (read some history proles)? I feel almost as though Brexit was not a declaration of UK’s independence but a fuck you to the French speaking part of Belgium. Chill, mes amis, we still love you. I’d come to this part of Belgium more often if you opened your insular arms a little more.
I get that I straying cluelessly into caverns of socio-political-linguistic minefields. Yeah, whatever.
But my glass is empty. The barman studiedly ignores this. I have money but, it’s seems there’s a performative dance going on here. Maybe he’s friends with my banjo playing friends in Monschau?
But, let’s run a split test. Two young, attractive students have just sat down. I bet beardy serves them first. As he does so I watch the dregs in my empty glass literally evaporate in front of me. I wait and I wait until I surrender all pride and wave my hands above my head like a hairdresser winning a Liza Minelli concert ticket. ‘La même chose!’
Gruff barman gives me my beer. In a way, I guess I like the Gallic ‘fuck you’ attitude. It’s one of the reasons I love France (and, by extension Rattachist Wallonia). It forces you - with good reason - to speak French.
Lest it seem I’m just a curmudgeon whining about slow service (I am! I am!) read note seven below. As with all these pieces, a cynic is just a disappointed optimist waiting to be proved wrong.
A fashion aside
Okay, it’s a student town but…. Why do ‘students’ wear their hoodies with the hood up? Guys, you ain’t gangsters. I know Wallonia is the bitch of Belgium, but really? Come on. You’re better than that. Magritte? Brel? Jean Claude van Damme (yeah, a bit dicey that one). Plastic Betrand. Put the hoods down, mecs.
Grand Place - A Sport? A Mating Ritual?
There’s a team game going on in Grand Place. A local game, clearly. Part of the festival. No one seems to know what’s going on. I asked the barman - more willingly multi lingual than the last one - and he hadn’t a scooby either. Lots of shouting, nothing making sense just a bunch of men in team colours shouting at each other. And shout and argue they do. The EU as a sport anyone?
The sun has finally come out or maybe my beer jacket is now working as it should. I’m several Belgian beers down and, admittedly, beginning to sway in the non existent breeze. The Grand Place is, like many Belgium centres, beautiful and replete with grand medieval buildings, for example, the city hall pictured below. From my seat I observe. Well, tangentially, of course, as my main focus is the beer and failing badly with les jolies femmes.
Fucks are not being given around here and so - an embarrassing stop off in a student club aside - it’s time to collapse on my hotel room floor fully clothed and sleep uncomfortably until four am.
Yeah, Mons man. It’s a battle. Bought my book yet? Cheap on Amazon.
Bar Review
The still hazy after all these beers memorial write up:-
So many. Let’s see, on Grand Place, L'Excelsior. No wifi. So no marks. The owner seemed more interested in having an argument with some tramp who was trying to use the loos. Good old row with robust opinions stated boldly and loudly on both sides. I left. No one noticed. The floor show continued.
Onto La Vie est Belge at the corner of Grand Place. Had a paddle of four different Belgian beers, some salami, some cheese. I was under an awning outside the door as the monsoon hit which allowed me to tuck into the beer and snacks I ordered. Barman giving a fuck score, 5/10.
Onto Jekyll opposite the town hall. Stayed out on a table in the Grand Place. Nice in the sun and very busy. Frankly don’t remember much apart from that it was crowded, but waiter was more friendly than usual - well, he served me, plusieurs fois - and I think they had wifi. Gallic shrugometre: 6/10
Just down from Grand Place is Marché aux Herbes. Very lively in the evening with students everywhere. Went to Baromètre MONS. It’s a bar on the corner and very busy when I was there which meant that the service was a bit slow for the English guy with the laptop. I don’t blame them TBH, laptop guy will probably just write something bitchy. Oh, I just did.
Best bar? Two, actually.
And the winner is, a split tie between Jekyll - great in sun, probably expensive but I’d got to the state where I just flashed my card, said c’est bon and troughed away - and La Vie Est Belge which, inside seems very pretty. Only went in to the loo though. Me. The Beers. The snacks. The awning and the rain outside. La Vraie Belgique!
Hotel - Martin’s Dream Hotel
Arrived early. They let me have my room. Free breakfast (I needed it, oh did I need it!). Spoke French at the reception and in my few interactions. Martin’s Dream Hotel, is situated on Rue de la Grande Triperie which is well placed to begin your ascent to the top of Mount Mons. Apparently a spa hotel but this was neither offered nor explained. I suppose I was too busy looking for beer.
Quotidian Notes
1) The game they played in Grand Place is Doudou or something. Basically bearded men shouting at each other with little else going on. Important historical festival thing reduced to a ‘what the fuck are they doing’ semi curiosity from pissed tourists.
2) Mons = mount / mountain in Latin. That makes sense. That, Tim, is why there’s a fucking hill you dumb, no-research-before-you-arrive, twat.
3) What about da ladies I hear no-one ask? Well… There was that lady on the next table. No, no. There was that time at that bar. A stumble. Er, no. The club? Oh the embarrassment! These stories will remain untold, unlamented and soon, forgot. Which is a coy way of saying, I failed like a pro waving my shitty stick at all candidates. And you dear reader, do you care? No? Gallic shrug.
4) The tour continued with a stop off on the coast, comme d’habitude, for a supermarket top up for, fuck knows, I dunno, more beers? Mustard? Waffles? Will be added in my forecoming tour summary.
5) The station was designed by Santiago Calatrava BTW. No, me neither. I have unknowingly come across his work in the renovation of Valencia’s river district though. Maybe here in Mons he should have put beds and / or pissoires in the underground car park (cos that what it’s used for).
6) I’ll be back to Belgium. Probably not to Mons.
7) Shout out to the great guy I met in the cavernous and slightly intimidating station car park. I was trying to get out of Mons but how to pay for parking? The carpark is huge - quarter of mile long, perhaps. Sensing my frustration and bewilderment, a Belgian guy exiting the car park, stopped his car, asked if he could help, sat in my passenger seat and directed me to one, solitary pay machine, hidden away at the far end. He didn’t to do this but his help, unasked but so needed, is greatly appreciated. Thank you mate for this act of selfless kindness. We spoke in French.
Read on!
Read about a rainy night in Breda as I revived a Neil Diamond classic. Or perhaps my thoughts on the picture postcard beauty, and variable experiences, in pretty Monschau. The tour as a whole can be accessed thus, Franco’s Fiesta Tour. Enjoy!
