"Bom . . . bash . . . bom . . . bash . . ." The savage thud of big drums echoed off the alley walls, shook the cobbles and rattled the wonky Belgian shutters.
"Nazi rally!" I thought. The thump had that visceral Nuremburg throb. That tromp it, stomp it, pack the alleys with drums and torches, medieval bom . . . bash . . . bom . . .
A timid advance up the alley, a peek into the decaying town square, and Belgium (which had been distinctly weird from the day of our arrival) continued its slide into the Twilight Zone.