Napoleon seems to be the hero of Waterloo, though we know better

Battlefields are tough places to appreciate. You know something significant took place there, but without a guide capable of spinning a descriptive story, the fields of Bosworth or the beaches at Normandy are just attractive and protected natural landscapes with a sprinkling of monuments. Fortunately for me, I surveyed the fields of Waterloo with a man so well-versed in the dramatic events of this place that I sometimes swear he fought there in a former life. (Saving the day as part of the Prussian forces, I'd guess.)

Waterloo was hugely significant in European history; its outcome determined much of the direction of our modern world. Sadly, these days, many modern Brits are more likely to identify it as a train station or an Abba song than the place just south of Brussels at which Wellington and his allied forces brought Napoleon to his final defeat. It is exactly half way between the port of Calais and our destination in Luxembourg, thus made an excellent interlude on our first day of holiday.

I have four enduring impressions of Waterloo. First, the Butte de Lion. Second, my surprise at how small the combat zone was. Third, an adventure over atrocious roads. And fourth, the long-term victory of Napoleon.

The largest monument at Waterloo is the grass-covered, conical hill called the Butte de Lion. Its 141 feet tower over everything else in this gently sloping landscape, and indeed the Butte is so dominant that we could follow it, rather than signposts, once spotted from the nearby village of Waterloo. It's topped by a mammoth statue of an aristocratic lion who, I'd always assumed, was the beast of British symbolism. Wrong. Turns out it's a Dutch Lion, and the spot marks a relatively unimportant (except to his family) moment in the battle when Prince William II of the Netherlands was knocked from his horse after taking a musket ball in the shoulder.

Still, Daddy ruled the territory where the battle was fought, so he organised the movement of tonnes of earth to set up his son's monument. My tour guide (and, history reports, the Duke of Wellington himself) considers the mound's construction to be a desecration, as it required the removal of so much earth than it leveled out the ridge that was instrumental in the Anglo-Allied victory. (Wellington's hiding masses of troops behind it was a critical factor in the battle.) It is, however, a brilliant vantage point. After climbing its 226 steps, you're treated to a sweeping view that encompasses all the major points of action. Which led to my second lasting impression.

This is a small place. A pleasant walk on a fine day. A few minutes to cross over on horseback. It is almost inconceivable that more than 200,000 men with their horses, cannon and weapons could have fit here, much less maneuvered and fought. The horror of it ... the blood, the bodies, the smoke, the mud ... must have been beyond belief. Indeed, Wellington wrote a letter from the field in which he said "nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won". For me, the compact size of the place amplified that dramatically.

After our climb on the Butte, atop which my guide talked me through the whole day with a detail-spiked drama that had many of our fellow tourists eavesdropping, we set off to check out some of the lesser known elements on the east side of the battlefield. Should you be tempted, don't do this. The roads are deplorable. I swear some of those cobblestones haven't been replaced since the battle itself. We were scraping through potholes, reversing for long distances down blocked, one-way lanes and narrowly avoiding perils that had me convinced we'd leave half my car's undercarriage on the battlefield along with the honour of the French Imperial guard. It was a nerve-wracking bit of the day, though it did make it feel like a bit of an adventure.

And finally, just who won the battle? In fact, the combined forces of the English and their allies under Wellington's command. Napoleon left the battlefield, soon to be taken into English custody and sent to his final, ignominious incarceration on St. Helena. But to anyone landing on this site with no knowledge of history, you'd swear the Frenchman took the day. His image is everywhere. His statue dominates the car park. The retail and restaurant complex is called the Bivouac de l'Empereur. Staff re-enacting elements of the battle wear French uniforms. The gift shop is a memorial to the world's most famous Corsican, where you can pick up tee shirts with his image, books about him, models of his hat and weapons or his bust for your desk in a variety of sizes. It was Napoleon, after all, who said "history is a set of lies agreed upon". Those who designed the experience at Waterloo seem to agree that Napoleon's is the history worth remembering.

Poor Wellington. At least he got boots and a nice beef dish. Such are the ironies of history.