The French capital of Flanders is fantastic for the fun-loving, frugal and food-fanatical tourist

The Autumn sun reflected off his puffing cheeks creating the unmistakable notes of a tune from his wrap-around-the-body sousaphone style tuba. The tune was the tip of my tongue.

As the sound of drums approached and it was obvious something was afoot. A cowbell cut through any conversations, and a crowd quickly formed.

"Da, da-da-da-da-da-dat!" The sousaphone player had not stopped, but within minutes he was surrounded by more fellow band members. A perma-tanned conductor entered the fray, whose glistening smile forced those in his line of sight to reach for their sunglasses as they clapped along to Bruno Mars Uptown Funk.

Milking the applause and reciprocating winks and smiles they took a collective deep breath and switched genres from R&B pop to heavy metal. "Thunder" by ACDC was given the brass band treatment, and then as quickly as the arrived they disappeared leaving us with a feeling we had been lucky to saunter past at the perfect time.

Lille town square was packed with friends, families, couples, straight, gay, young, old and everything in between, some super-chic and dressed immaculately, others not. Like me, a tourist but who wore a smile from the moment Eurostar delivered me and the lady into this underrated city on a Thursday evening until returning us back to train chaos across the channel on the Sunday morning.

The Saturday afternoon impromptu brass off was the perfect snapshot of French society enjoying the capital of Flanders, the crowd all split in different directions.

Some towards the exclusive shops and salons, which have history and the names on Paris' famous boulevards but not the prices, others headed towards Westfield EuroLille, a giant shopping mall with names familiar to Merry Hill Centre, from Primark to Burger King and JD Sports. Sadly we missed the renowned flea market as its days are Thursdays and Sundays, which was a shame for the lady as I'd have felt generous and splashed the Euros.

Others walked a few yards and plonked themselves on the outside seating of restaurants which have served French and Flemish dishes for over 150 years. Try as we might we never did find the road with a plethora of restaurants either side. So we sat down in the main square, which in most cities, especially Paris, would be a tourist trap serving overpriced fare bested by places those in the know, know.

We both had a couple of drinks, and their version of Steak and Frittes, which was everything I wanted it to be, simple, made from great ingredients and even better, had change from 50euros. Which was a nice surprise, as were the many times we turned a corner and found a street with a unique blend of stores, architecture, or street art.

The sheer size of Lille was the biggest eye-opener, its centre, seemed to go on and on, and on. We never found the separation from urban to suburban just neighbourhoods with different vibes.

Why Lille? The lady spotted a Eurostar sale in June with bargain return tickets from St Pancras International to Lille for £70 each. However, any money saved travelling to the continent could easily be undone by eye-watering prices between Birmingham to London. A month previously a trip to London started with a two hour, 20 minute journey on the London Midland Service between New Street and Euston.

A local service train, without tables, anywhere to get any refreshments and one working toilet. Packed with farting football fans and no-chance of a moment's peace and quiet, it was a proper ordeal.

So we decided to go on Avanti West Coast, which takes just one hour 20 minutes. Passengers, like us whose Eurostar tickets were booked months before, can get massively reduced prices compared to those who leave it to the last minute, and on their booking website it is worth checking First Class prices, as they can be as little as £20 more unlike the £100 on the day. Enjoying the luxury and complimentary drinks and food, we arrived into London refreshed and relaxed.

We disembarked Eurostar at 10pm after an hour and a half ready to dump our bags and explore a new city.

There are places to stay for every budget and taste, from the landmark Hotel Carlton and L'Hermitage Gantois, Autograph Collection, to super modern apartments in Mothus Hotel to Frederick renting out his lower floor for 40euro a night on AirBnB.

We walked from Euro Lille station into Lille Old Town, our home for the next three nights, the 3* Brueghel Hotel, was easy to find as it is in the shadow of the city's cathedral. It's neo-Flemmish facade, stretching up into the night sky was both welcoming and imposing. Obviously built to last, and to impress the cathedral's gargoyles who have stared at it without blinking since its inception.

After a day of travel, the last thing I want is touchscreen self check-ins and electronic passes for lifts, rooms and the electricity. Thankfully, we had none of that. we had a human waiting behind a desk, Jasper, who might even have been reading a book, to add to the retro feel.

The wooden panelled, art imbued reception, lobby and downstairs bar was delightfully quaint and distinctively Flanders. As the vast majority of people we met, Jasper spoke English, within minutes we had been given a reassuringly heavy key and sent on our way. The hotel' opened in the late 19th Century, and its ironclad, wooden interior lift was a stunning engineering contraption. OK, it was a struggle to fit ourselves and bags in, but we were only on the first floor so its quirkiness never wore out.

Our simple, high ceilinged room, with a huge window we could open and sit watch world go by, was home for three nights. There was a large TV set back into an enclave, but only seemed to have French channels, so did not go back on again. Tres-bon!

Maybe it was lost in translation but when we asked Jasper to send us to some bars, he gave us a map, and sent us on his way. but he might have misjudged our mood, and age, and sent us to a heaving part of town, with bars, Irish, English and Scottish, as well as pumping music. Lille FC are currently in the Champions League and I'm guessing visiting fans will have a great time on Rue Solférino this season.

But, during a romantic getaway, thanks, but no thanks, we wandered back to a neighbourhood bar. Locals laughed, smoked and mostly drank beer, which this region bordering Belgium is famous for. But I am a cider drinker, so after my mangled attempt to ask for Cidres, I got a bottle of Normandy Sassy cider, and the lady had a local beer which went down nicely.

On the tram, 20 minutes from the centre of Lille is Cavrois, where there is proper money, old and new. Mansion after mansion rose above gates and walls, many surrounding one the greatest houses I have ever stepped into.

Villa Cavrois was completed in 1932 for an incredibly wealthy textile magnate who hired renowned French architect Robert Mason-Stevens to build his family, and servants the most modern house the 1920s could create.

Though nearly 100 years old, inside it still bordered futuristic.

Less than a decade after creating his forever home, the Nazis marched into France and turfed him out, I bet they could not believe their luck. The family returned after the war and lived happily ever after, well until his family sold it in the 1980s to someone who ultimately could not afford it. It was abandoned to looters, who again probably could not believe their luck.

Thankfully this century the French Government got their act together, took control and over a decade painstakingly renovated it, using the architects blueprints and photos from the Hello magazines of the day. The gardens came last with the finished article taking our breath away as we stood by the reflecting pool realising the natural amphitheatre which Mason-Stevens created.

A few stops from Cavrois is Roubaix, a city within greater Lille with impressive boulevards and 19th Century municipal buildings which would be the centrepiece of any UK city.

A short walk from Roubaix's impressive central boulevard is an old swimming pool, without any swimmers. But it not just any swimming pool, it is the centrepiece of La Piscine Museum, which is the world's only art gallery in a lovingly restored Art Deco swimming baths. At either end of where generations used to dive bomb and splash about are stunning sunrise stained glass windows, flanked by intricate tiling and packed with sculptures and frescos from local and international artists.

Around the sunken pool are pieces by Rodin, Picasso, Maillol and Giacometti and adjoining rooms have a plethora of sculptures created over centuries, including my favourite room, a job lot of local sculptor 's work. Greek gods, French farmers, cows, horses, little girls and giant heads all stared back at me. All interspersed with the artists tools and contraptions needed to turn stone, brass and whatever else he could get his hands on into the human, or animal form.

In a country which values its culture, Lille has got plenty to boast about, hence why its parks and squares are full of statues of poets, painters, composers and philosophers. The French socialist anthem sang across the world by the good, bad and plenty in between - The Internationale - was fist sang in a Lille cafe and the lullaby associated with the city P'tit Quinquin can be heard on the hour chiming over the city.

Named European City of Culture in 2004, instead of its legacy being arguments about wasted opportunities and developers coining in, Lille (find out more about Lille here) has super-charged its artistic output. Lille3000 was launched two years later and ensured every artist in Europe and beyond was put on notice a new living canvas was open to them.

Giant frescos, murals, paintings and street art adorn the sides of buildings, many of which have the power to stop you in your tracks, take your breath away or even just inspire the "what on earth is that all about?" question modern art can create.

Lille has a history which would take ten books to explain, its mythic origin is from two giants, but in reality it has been invaded more times than even the locals can remember, they have all been through here - the Austrians left behind some cannonballs which are still lodged in buildings, the Spanish ran the the town for over 150 years until one of the pre-guillotined Louis won it back for France. And the Germans, and those nasty Nazi Germans too.

Leader of the Free French and founder of the Fifth Republic, and the 20th Century's most famous Frenchman - General De Gaulle - was born, christened and grew up in Lille. His birthplace is classed as an historic monument and is nestled within an apartment block near the Old Town.

In the fields of Flanders, mankind's most miserable episode of industrial-scale slaughter, occurred in the First World War. The mincing machine of death where millions of men were sacrificed to move the frontline a few miles might seem like history, and nothing to do with our generations of friendly Europeans. But when you get on the EuroStar to return to Blighty there is a man with a sign telling passengers it is illegal to take wartime weapons and collectables out of the country.

The fields and farms which whizzed past the train window are still full of shells, bullets, bones and heartbreak. So naturally, there are men with metal detectors trying to dig up the past for a quick profit on Ebay.

But those same farms, whose outhouses hosted massacres, also have for 100s of years perfected the art of using the land to create a cuisine which has yet to be destroyed by omnipresent supermarkets and chain restaurants.

In France, each town, village and even hamlet will have a speciality, and its totally normal, not even celebrated, whereas a double fried orange chip creates a cultural phenomenon where we are from.

The no-frills supermarket Omniprix near the hotel, would not make a Frenchman's heart swell with pride, but it made this Englishman wild with envy. I know how those Russian athletes must have felt when they first saw the rows and rows of choice in an American hypermarket for the first time. The cheese counter, as in the counter, in the entire cheese section had more smelly stuff than next year's Oasis reunion. Smoked, goats, soft, hard, fair-to-middling, and everything possibly made from churning milk was there.

And cheap, we got brie for under two euros and a cream cheese for a euro, as well as a stick, surely a French stick is not a French stick, in France. And that was before we saw the wine.

Ah the wine. Their measures are not as big as ours, and that is the only pro-UK point in any wine debate. A red Bordeaux for £3.50? "Ah, shall we try and more upmarket one?"

Nope, lets try the cheap plonk. It went down so well so our suitcases were weighed down with bottles of the stuff. On the Friday evening, we opened the huge windows of our room and had a moment of bliss which cost less than a tenner.

We took a bus tour around the city. The English voice in our earphones smoothly over-described buildings we passed, we drove down the street packed full of restaurants, one of the most renowned in the North, and will be a reason to return because despite maps, asking people, and using GoogleMaps we still could not find.

What did look fantastic from the back seat was the riverside park which housed The Citidel, built from a million plus bricks after the French recaptured the city in the 17th Century and decided they did not want to give it back to anyone. Still a working garrison, it now is home to the quasi-military rapid response force. It is also home to painstakingly rebuilt memorial bridge to the militaristic brilliance of Napoleon, who rose from nothing to run a continent due his talent not his birthright.

But for the vast majority of visitors, they go to the Citidel park for pleasure not ammunition, as the giant fairground proves. After walking through the university section of the city, which has five universities within debating distance, we found the park. From the bus we could see people sipping drinks on boat restaurants, permanently moored for fun, and the perfect place to look down on those paddling by in their pleasure boats.

However, our boat crawl came to an end when a private party and the over popularity of another meant there was no room on the vessels. Which left the Magic Bus. Which was not very magic, nor a bus. But had hippy charm which still remained after we were forced to sign up to be a member to circumnavigate French hospitality laws.

Their cider was local and their wine was corked, which of course, was replaced without question. The food was vegetarian and the dogs on board had CND collars. But beware when in France, lets just say they are not as regimented with the allergy dangers, the lady's head could have exploded if she had not noticed the Brazil nuts in the "nut free" chocolate cake.

But, thanks to the Magic Bus, we got our afternoon drink in the sun. The stage downstairs revealed a roster of comedians and musicians, which was more varied than the Bob Dylan albums played back to back on deck. But bravo to people who care, about, well I dunno because I cannot read French, something besides capitalist consumption.

Fast forward six hours and we are at the polar-opposite of the Magic Bus, Nu rooftop bar. House music pumped as the beautiful people sipped cocktails, it was great for a few cocktails but my wallet frog-marched me out of there when we saw the menu. Back to the square and another massive steak, and then back to Blighty in the morning.

Au Revior Lille, we shall meet again.