Mini Blog

Must just do a mini post because I so enjoyed the time since the last blog a few days ago.

Met friends who were spending a few days in Gent to celebrate a birthday, to go out to lunch with them. Biting winds in Gent could not detract from the lovely feel of the place. I don't know Gent, and in a no doubt biassed way, I think it less pretty than Brugge. That said, it IS lovely with some splendid buildings and canals. What it does have which is less evident in Brugge, is a supremely youthful vitality; so many young people and trams crammed with them. The feel of a university town IS different; the energy is almost palpable and the speed of passers-by double that of citizens in an ordinary town! There's a joy, a light-heartedness around which is intoxicating. I had quite forgotten how much I love being around the young and can see how staid everyday life is here in Brugge. It being understood that Life is a trade-off, I still prefer at my age and stage, to live here. Damn! I meant never to become staid but staidness creeps up on a person unseen until some contrast throws a light and all is revealed!

 

The restaurant which my friends had found or rather been guided to find, was called Belga Queen, situated in a restored warehouse I think. The food was super but the atmosphere and the décor were very, very appealing.

I have attended two more events at the weekend of 12/13; Gastronomia in the prestigious Belfort and Dance by Jan Fabre. Gastronomia, a food festival, looked great; some super stalls with champagne, wine, beer, pate, sausages and hams, cheeses, pasta, oysters, Natural foods, jams and liqueurs. I had a great time and bought a number of products as well as sampling a new beer from a brewery set to open in central Brugge in April. All quality products but surprisingly poorly supported on the Saturday when I was there. Perhaps lacking sufficient publicity? It was certainly a delightful festival though chiefly unsung.

Later the same day, to the Concertgebouw to see a work by Jan Fabre, a famous European sculptor and choreographer. I did not enjoy it at all. Jan, co-creator, is keen on nudity and that was fine for me; one soon grows accustomed to breasts and penises moving rhythmically with the communal march. The nudity, the lack of narrative, perhaps the repetition, are all part of a certain rebelliousness against convention; the imagination, it is claimed, reigns supreme and the choreography is presented as the individual bravery of the performers who defy convention and scorn the need for a story. The first 45 minutes consisted just of lines marching and counter-marching; so boring that I had difficulty in the warm concert hall keeping awake. The accompanying thud of an insistent drum added to the drama in a way but became much more distracting as the volume increased and other huge and discordant sounds and instruments were added. For the last hour or so, my ears hurt and I felt a little nauseous; I concentrated on trying to reduce the impact of the noise while promising myself that I would never go to experimental dance performance again. I did appreciate that the pace of the action increased and changed but the huge and painful distraction of the accompanying sound took over, rather pushing any creative on-stage movement to the side-lines. I sprinted off as soon as the lights went up, amazed at the audience reaction; a standing ovation, cries of 'Bravo' and general joy unconfined expressed through wild applause. SO the good burghers of Brugge are not so staid after all and Jan Fabre's December Dance, with its 'warriors of beauty' was a success. Meanwhile, as an unelected, unknowing representative of the Old and Out Of Touch, I hurried off gratefully into the cool, quiet night to savour the joys of a solitary and silent walk home.

 

 



Looking back.

Funny old week, early part spent grappling with the mysteries of the Dutch tongue, for the last written test of this Level. I am still dumb in Dutch but the written is progressing sloooowly. This was relieved by a trip to the Lumiere to see Suffragettes which I much enjoyed. It reminded me forcefully of the poverty and deprivation of working class life a hundred years ago, endured as inevitable by my parents and grandparents. And it caused me yet again, to mourn the lack of interest in political voting by many, many young women today. Young men too no doubt, but the women's vote was won at such great cost by the bravery, foresight and endurance of the relatively few. Upper class suffragettes were chiefly regarded as a dotty embarrassment; working class girls were regarded as insane and morally unrespectable. Both layers experienced considerable societal disdain and exclusion and were treated as traitors by the police and Government. An enjoyable coda to the film was the long list of countries with the dates when each allowed the vote for women. The two most memorable were Switzerland, 1971 and Saudi Arabia 2015.

But, chiefly my mind has been on more superficial things, like illuminations! I love the 'trees' at the skating rink in the Markt and the way the real trees in Simon Stevinplein are graced with light. The Christmas market is a selling opportunity primarily but the expense and imagination involved in decking the already beautiful streets of Brugge with light, is breathtaking and imaginative. Apart from the occasional Gluhwein, I have bought nothing from the many little chalet/stalls but to walk through and among the crowds, experience the fun of so many and see the lights and sights, gives a very real sense of involvement and shared pleasure. It almost seeps in through the skin, and I return home, smiling.

 



On Friday morning, returning from a scalping by a master cutter on Gentpoortstraat to whom I had patiently and unsuccessfully explained again, exactly what 'trim' meant, I saw quite a sight. Next to the Vismarkt sat a man clad entirely in white, at a little round cloth-covered table on which sat an old-fashioned red telephone into which he was talking. There was no card of explanation nor begging bowl so he wasn't a first cousin of the living statues so beloved of tourists everywhere. Shortly after the picture below was taken, a fluttering, twittering flock of Japanese tourists descended delightedly on him, kissing him, stroking his cheek, taking off his hat and ruffling his hair while taking innumerable selfies and other photos. He seemed very happy indeed with the warm attention; his smile grew broader and his conversation into the red phone, more animated. It mattered not that the phone was unconnected. Passers-by were smiling and a grey morning was lifted.
 

 

Almost inadvertently, today I visited the Ice Sculptures near the Station. There was a long wait for a bus, Sundays being leisurely here, bus-wise, and so I took the opportunity to cross the few metres of cobblestones to go and look at Snow and Ice. Apparently forty artists have been involved in its creation, even more impressive given that the temperature is -5 Celsius. 300 tonnes of ice and 400 tonnes of snow were used to make the display and I have not the imagination to begin to understand how it was all accomplished. The thermal wooden tent, as it were, was full of excited families and even the ice bar in the middle of the coldest trail ever, had crowds around it. I hit a slack time I think as I only queued to enter for about then minutes and ....

 

then possibly achieved the fastest observer status as I sped through, desperate to exit for a large coffee in the station. It was seriously cold. The exhibition was and is, impressive.... but difficult to photograph! I have reduced the size of the two pics here as they look so unspeakably lurid though I don't think the original sculptures did! To be fair, my photographs don't do them justice. The time I spent in ice-gazing was so short that I was especially pleased that I now have my ID card and am old. These two attractive features reduced the entrance fee considerably, rather more in line with the time I spent in refrigerated viewing.

But I have been looking back also over earlier days after a significant death in the family a few days ago. It is good to live, as children do, in the here-and-now but memories, when stirred, also offer joys and reassurance as well as regret and pleasure. I have spoken to people, some of whom I hadn't spoken to for several years; distant relatives and near, reminiscing and laughing, sighing and reflecting, swapping memories redolent of the past with added resolutions to stay in future touch. But soon enough, the ripples on the water will widen and vanish, and the memories will be put back in store for occasional private reflection again.

So no blog for a few weeks; back, earlier than intended, to the UK on December 15th for the funeral and nearly three weeks in Britain, without my computer. I won't be going Ipad-less into that good night but don't think I can blog on that!

Robin Hood in Italy?

Went, as part of the Dutch course I am attending, to see Brabanconne, on Wednesday evening. It is a 'feel good' kind of film, not a great one but funny, slightly laughing at the Belgians [ the eternal Flemish v Walloon rivalry] and with a light-hearted script which slopes off into song from time to time. Charming. SNT, the educational group which organises lots of different language courses, plus special interests like photography, funds an annual week's film festival at the Lumiere cinema in town and a visit to one film is part of the Dutch course. Tried to understand the almost impenetrable Dutch dialogue but the French, spoken by the Walloon characters, plus sub-titles in both languages, were a great help.


While standing around waiting for the group to assemble to walk to the cinema some distance away, I was totally amused to spot a flyer labelled Robin Hood. As I was born in Robin Hood country and indeed, lived in Notts for about the first 34 years of my life, I have a certain proprietorial attitude towards this noble outlaw.  The flyer was entitled: Una Leggenda Veneziana: Robin Hood. I didn't recognise many of the cast but yes, there were Marianna, Frate Tuck and Zanni il Piccolo who, just possibly, might be Little John. A magical evening to remember is promised with ironia, gioia and musicalita. In the narrative on the reverse side of the publicity material, I see that Robin is described as 'nacque a Venezia' [born in Venice] and as Principe dei Ladri [Chief of the Robbers] but also as Il Salvatore dei Poveri, the Saviour of the Poor. The show [Lo Spettacolo], by Teatroimmagine will be in the Commedia dell'Arte style. Possibly this production is the result of some Italian course at SNT because its name is on the publicity but there are also the names of L'Incontro [the meeting], a group of 'amici dell'Italia a Bruges' plus 'Teatro Immagine'. I love the idea of the whole thing; so many little Italian eccentricities are endearingly dotty and it is a bonusissimo to find this in Beloved Bruges of all places! The images above show the Italian interpretation and the statue outside Nottingham Castle which depicts the more traditional view of the Outlaw in Lincoln Green who Did Good unto the Poor and frequently did battle with Alan Rickman, the evil Sheriff of Nottingham.

I went to see Brussels Jazz Orchestra on Friday evening not knowing what to expect. Was stunned by the size of the outfit; I don't think ALL the members of the orchestra were on stage but there must have been between 80 and 90 musicians; there were, for instance, at least eight of the listed ten cellists playing. The energy and expertise were impressive and the music, by

Ades, Ravel and Peter Maxwell Davies, was vigorous but [ did you feel a 'but' coming on?] it was just too overwhelmingly loud and not my [conservative] idea of Jazz. The music was described as being between Klassiek and Jazz and the audience certainly loved it. For the first time ever, I left in the interval, feeling a bit of a
Philistine.

The photograph above from the BJO website is chosen, not for its close-up clarity but in an endeavour to suggest the sheer size of the outfit!

The following evening, back to the super Concertgebouw to hear Le Banquet Celeste, unknown to me but impeccably Early Music. The leader of the group, Damian Guillon, is a counter-tenor and he and the guest soprano, Celine Scheen, were delightful. There was Vivaldi and Scarlatti and in the second half came Pergolesi's Stabat Mater which was exquisite. The Pergolesi was recently voted top of the
 favourites list by the audience of Radio Klara pushing aside Bach, the perennial choice.

It was a wonderful performance and my evening was made when I bumped into friends in the interval who also gave me a lift home. Rare treat to be in a car these days and able to escape the longish walk home in the cold and rain. I had done that the previous evening, thoroughly enjoying the Christmas lights and stopping off in the Markt, to buy a Gluhwein. The Markt was crowded but less than normal as sadly, many tourists have cancelled bookings for late November and December because of the Paris attacks and the strong Brussels connection and subsequent four day lock-down there. A friend who rang this week from Wye said the British papers all say how dangerous Belgium is. Such absurdity; it is no more dangerous than the UK and less so than London of course. Bruges in particular always feels so intimate a space and so safe; nothing has changed since the dreadful carnage in Paris.

Many thanks for this lovely photograph sent by my grandson Dan, taken when he was here last weekend. The three of us had been wandering among stalls of the Christmas market and were having a drink of Gluhwein I think, when he spotted an impeccable gentleman walking his equally dazzlingly sartorial dogs in the rain. He quickly photographed them with the ever-ready phone, my efforts with camera being much too slow. The dainty doglets were dressed with superb colour co-ordination and care and were quite unaware of the impact they had on the observer!

Turkey; the country not the Christmas

Lovely, just great, to be back home again; such a pleasure to enter the apartment last Thursday Nov 12th after the journey back from Antalya. Unlike the rest of the holiday group it took me longer to return. An overnighter in London where I found a modest but really good hotel near Paddington, traditional area for the weary traveller, dipping in and out of the metropolis. The price was reasonable for London and the breakfast was extravagantly generous; the one drawback was no lift and I was on the top floor. I was so tired on arrival that when I realised, I had a mini-strop and fell back [this is a first!] on my great age. Really could not have carried the small case up three flights. Result! Charming Chinese boy on reception took it up for me thus enabling me to retain enough energy to go out to the nearby Mughals, an Indian restaurant on London Road where I ate food fit for a nabob.

I just loved Turkey with all its differences and must go back. As other people's holiday stories and photographs are always, as a matter of principle, best avoided, I will only foist two pics on you; both taken on a memorable balloon flight above Cappadocia.

To the left, sunrise over Cappadocia and below, dozens of balloons blooming in the Cappadocian sky-garden. Both were unforgettable sights and the flowering of the numerous hot air balloons reminded one that the man-made visual spectacles which occur without an aesthetic intention can be superb in their choreography and impact.

More than one third of our travelling group did not take up this hot air invitation; perhaps the 4.30 alarm call was too much; perhaps the thought of ascending to 1500 metres with no parachute or engine or joystick as it were, was uncomfortable. Whatever, those who did go up, perhaps with limited imaginations, or carefully controlled fears, were repaid a hundredfold for their mid-night efforts. One of the best bits was to be in the wicker basket below the huge balloon as it landed, ever so carefully, on the back of a truck! Impressive or what?!

It is about a week since I rhapsodised above about balloons and alarm calls and I have just not finished this post. Cannot believe my tardiness but somehow I have been either too tired or too busy. Dutch klas test for me on the Monday after my return as I had missed  an exam because of Turkey. Another tomorrow for us all so must spend precious time learning irregular perfect participles. And I now know that I have become sloooooow in the memorising department. Sat next to Arieta last week, a super Albanian girl who defies all the Western stereotypes about her country; she is slender, beautiful, happily married with a toddler and a baby girl due to emerge in April; clever; conscientious; kind. My complaint about her is that she learns new grammar effortlessly thus pointing up my deficiencies which I am reluctant to accept. I forgive her as she is so delightful and thoughtful. Meanwhile my Monday must be spent largely in whipping the brain into activity. Cheering note is that this sort of language-learning is Good For The Aged Brain, [ I read it somewhere] though it doesn't feel like that!!

I noticed with a shock as I approached the Crowne Plaza hotel earlier this week, that its large terrace of smart black and red tables and chairs had disappeared. Concerned enquiry elicited the news that by City diktat, all terraces in the centre must go by November 15th. Astounding but true as I gradually observed in the Markt, at Tom Pouce in the Burg etc. All stripped of their inviting terraces, many under awnings. The Christmas Market has opened this weekend and certainly space is needed in the Markt for the dozens of little shed-like structures housing commercial enterprises selling cheese, Gluhwein, beer, sweetmeats, sausages and so on. My middle grandson and his girl are here this weekend and we were exploring yesterday in spite of cold and rain. The Gluhwein was great and I was astonished to discover a new little ice rink in the Markt, almost at the foot of the Belfort tower. There are stalls filling Simon Stevinplein too and, as yet unexplored, a display of ice sculptures in front of the station I hear. This is my first time here in the Christmas season and it looks great fun.
To the right, an example of the ice sculpture show, this year entitled Land of the Hobbits with over 40 artists involved. As I mentioned, as yet unvisited by me, but the fact that the ambient temperature is kept at -5 Celsius, does not invite. The Ice Sculpture Festival is obviously timed to coincide with the Christmas Market but appears to be completely separate from it. It is, I hear, really, really popular so I will be braving the temperature, despite aged disinclination, to explore!


Dan, Emily and I went to see the Michelangelo in Onze Lieve Vrouw, at Dan's request. I was delighted and intrigued that a 21 year old, not, I think, especially into art, should suggest that. Turns out it is thanks to the George Clooney film, Monuments Man, in which the Bruges Madonna and Child featured as stolen by the Nazis etc. Great, and also yet another tick in the G. Clooney box though presumably he didn't write the script! Nice too for me to be able to swan into the museums here, free of charge now that I have my ID card. Definitely each time I produce my card, there is a tiny frisson of satisfaction at this state of affairs.

Just this moment, Sunday 21st November, have seen through the glass door to the terrace; it is covered with snow I think. The square in front of the building is just wet with sniw on top of some cars but definitely the terrace on the third floor has visible snow cloaking it. And it's still November. I heard somewhere it was to be a hard winter!

European culture and Belgian beer and canals!

Marvellous skies from my windows and I do try NOT to keep photographing them compulsively as they are so delicious. Instead, an image of a lovely Renoir seen at the Picasso exhibition; see below!

Another busy week but a free weekend in which to catch up though this morning, Saturday 31st October, a member of the English-speaking group which meets nearby on a Thursday evening for a few Bruggelings taking the opportunity to practise their English while drinking the occasional Belgian beer, did me a great favour. One of the the group had recounted details of a new beer he had tried and which he warmly recommended; a map was drawn for me as a dedicated beer lover, especially of the Belgian kind. The only sale point he knew was in the garden and pet shop belonging to the mother of the boy wonder who had created the beer and really, a car was needed if one were to purchase the box of 24 bottles. And why would one make the effort to go there [to Sint Kruis, a suburb of Brugge] just to buy six? So John did the great favour by offering to run me there this morning.

I found the whole experience delightful; John commented on various parts of the city en route, often pointing to boyhood houses, and scenes, and the shop proved to be really large and full of garden, pet and household stuff so that we wondered if this were the right place for a beer outlet. Indeed it was and the proud mother pointed to the large display near the entrance. Her son designs brewery installations and is passionate about beer; his aunt suggested he think of creating one for her to sell in her B & B and voila, after some long months in the act of creation, the blonde Spijker bier [ pronounced Speyka beer] was born. Bless him, there is even a Spijker bier glass, in the honourable Belgian tradition. Most impressive and the beer I had, in the special glass, with lunch, later, proved to be excellent. I just love these unexpected little trails which lead to good things!

With friends who were staying, yesterday to my favourite chocolate shop in Simon Stevinplein, Dumon, which combines its chocolate sales with four smart tables and chic stools where customers can order a hot chocolate from a number of chocolate varieties, or, indeed, coffee. A made-in-Heaven combination and incidentally, good commercial practice because it is difficult indeed to resist buying something from the sumptuous chocolates on display after having sampled the free chocolates that accompanies the drinks.

And this was after a lovely hour or two at the permanent Picasso exhibition which boasts 100 wonderful Picasso drawings, engravings, lithographs and some ceramics. There is one early room with a continuous loop showing a film of Picasso at work. The huge exhibition begins with a pleasing display of Impressionist prints, engravings,  drawings, letters and photos by Corot, Renoir, Degas, Rodin, Toulouse-Lautrec and goes on to display works by Chagall, Braque and Matisse with a large corridor of work by the Surrealist artist, Joan Miro before the splendid richness of the Picasso section which deals with Picasso’s beginnings, the Spanish tradition, cubism, the African influence, surrealism, ceramics, portraits, simplicity and his commitment to Peace.

 As one left, exhausted, but also exhilarated, the feeling of delight underlined a feeling of being part of Europe, with these marvellous artists, of different nationalities, all belonging to the greater Europe. Their works were highly individual and their nationalities had shaped their development but as artists, they were, and are, also important pieces in the European cultural patchwork. The wonderful Picasso drawing to the right, is somewhat marred by the reflection of light blighting one eye. One could no doubt airbrush that imperfection out if one only knew how to use Photoshop!

Today, Sunday, a blissful 'do nothing' day which took in a visit to Sint Paulus, the bakery, coffee and a pink grapefruit pastry break at the newly-reopened patisserie on Vlamingstraat nearby; e-mailing; and a long walk to take advantage of the wonderful warm weather this afternoon. I followed the canals from Jan Van Eyckplein and walked for an hour and a half, enjoying being part of the throng, on foot and bike, doing the same. The Autumn leaves carpeting the paths and grass along the route enhanced the beauty of the day and the experience. I finished by returning home to sit on the terrace and read yesterday's Telegraph. Perfection!

I think I must also try to stop photographing reflections in canals; surely a world-wide cliche of Brugge. But, hard to desist from so doing when the results are seriously enchanting.!

A short blog this time; I leave for a holiday in Turkey in a couple of days and lots to do before then!

Music is the solace

After a busy and lovely weekend with friends over from Kent, am reminded of a little jewel of a free performance that visitors and residents alike can enjoy in Brugge. I write of Luc Vanlaere and his harps. Luc gives three free concerts several days a week in the area behind Sint Janshospitaal Museum, and the Pharmacy. He is obviously well-known to many tourists from entries on Trip Advisor and the audience is usually to capacity in the intimate concert room. His current concert is amazing; he plays a variety of instruments; the grand Concert Harp, the Celtic harp, a traditional Japanese harp, Steelharp inspired by the Trinidadian steel drums, and an instrument, built by Luc, which he has christened, the Chromachord, in a series of boxes with the most marvellous resonance. All this and a brass gong from Wuhan in China and several singing bowls. The music is composed by Luc and my friends judged the concert 'magical'. I have heard it several times now and agree!

In fact, quite a musical week to follow the Luc Vanlaere experience. Friday evening [23 rd Oct] to the Concertgebouw to hear the Orchestre des Champs-Elysees and the Collegium Vocale Gent play Schumann to a full and appreciative house. I understood hardly any of the Dutch electronic summary displayed but knew it was described as an oriental folk tale. It showed Schumann's love of literature allied to his narrative skills and in a form which was operatic and often thrilling. I saw Lebanon and Syria  appear on the display board and I think there was a fallen angel and Paradise was mentioned! Quite a magesterial theme and the standard of the Collegium Vocale Gent was superb as were the soloists. The Orchestre des Champs-Elysees and the conductor, Philippe Herreweghe produced the most lyrical and often stirring music. It was a night to remember.

But before that, to Brussels to find .... Marks and Spencers. Unexpected but true. I need to find jeans that will look right with the orthopaedic walking shoes I now have to wear and suddenly I remembered the virtues of M&S which opened in Brussels in May. It was located, situated alongside high fashion shops on the Boulevard Waterloo, and looking more chic than any branch in the UK. Discovered that my faith had not been misplaced; there were nine jeans styles, each in three lengths. Impressive, as was the wonderful girl who helped me track down what I needed. The fatigue of the chase meant no energy to find somewhere else for lunch so the escalator bore me aloft to the delights of fish and chips [in dainty portion!] in the M&S restaurant. A first. 

En route to the next item on my list, saw a splendid Apple Store abuzz with mainly young men in animated discussions and at least one young assistant who  said how much he loved working there; his dream job. Really admire the mixture of pzazz and mercantile cunning of Apple; haven't seen such collective male eager enthusiasm since the attack on the birthday spread at five years old parties. Only the huge, lightest of light, chicest of spaces was new.

After which to locate Bozar on, I think, the  Rue Ravenstein, to sample the fab exhibition, Imagine Istanbul,  with photos by the Turkish–Armenian Magnum photographer Ara Güler -the ‘Eye of Istanbul’.There are also works by Henri Cartier-Bresson and the Turkish-Dutch ‘Photographer of the Fatherlands’ Ahmet Polat. Europalia sent the Belgian Magnum photographer Bieke Depoorter to Istanbul. She returned with powerful images of the legendary city on the Bosporus. The exhibition itself is laid out in the form of a photographic circuit, with new compositions by the French musician Débruit, films, interviews with, amongst others, Orhan Pamuk and installations by contemporary artists such as Ayşe Erkmen, Sophie Calle and Kasper Bosmans. The photographs were wonderfully evocative, especially those of Ara Guler; works of black and white art.

 Two of the numerous works of black and white art by Ara Guler.


Oh dear, have abandoned this entry because of time pressures so now it is rather out of date. No matter; will close with a photo of one of the marvellous Art Deco buildings in Brussels which I passed en route to the Gare Central and home. Loved it; Brussels is really worth time spent in looking; so different from Brugge  but a handsome international city.

Autumn in Everything

Took this photograph from the guest bedroom a couple of days ago; it signals the gradual entry of a favourite season; Autumn grows, Autumn in everything. In the cold nip in the darkness as I walk to go for an early swim and when I return an hour later; for the sunny but coooool inhospitality of the terrace; for the sudden need for a quick shot of heated radiators around 18.00. But, as this picture shows, the smiles of autumnal weather are warm indeed and glorious to receive. I'm busy retrieving gloves and boots and sweaters to exchange for the linens and the short-sleeved T shirts. Time to think 'quilted jackets' and scarves and put away summer fripperies. I look forward to Autumn in Brugge, never personally experienced before. Perhaps little difference from the UK but there must be local diversions and small disparities.

Walking near the Beguinage on Sunday, two days ago, with my son and his wife. we saw a majestic leaf turn flaming among a group of still verdant trees. And in my sitting room, voila, a splendid gourd from the local florist which cost all of two euros recently and which seems to contain all the colours and promise of this season. It reminds me of the friends who bought it for me as we walked wearily home, when I exclaimed with delight at the sight. So this is a gourd to herald cooler days and remind of warmer friendships.


.

And, looking around the apartment, I saw an Autumnal display from the bright Chinese lanterns I bought a couple of weeks ago, and dried simply by hanging in the warm utility room. Plus, the plate of ripening Persimmon fruits just on the Brugge market. When this photo is on the computer screen, the foliage of the three trees beyond can be seen beginning to turn. Indeed, Autumn in everything, including the last two days' temperatures.

On Sunday, 18th October, this Sunday, the eighteen or so exhibits in the Triennale 2015 will be deemed to be over. A pity; I have enjoyed passing many of them, become almost part of the landscape, wondering at the philosophy of each; tourists have clearly been intrigued and entertained; many of the local residents have not appreciated these modern interlopers. I hear that the nuns in the Beguinage really don't like the dozen or so complicated tree houses perched high above the grass and the numerous visitors. One can see the abrupt interruption of modernity in the time-worn rhythms of the religious life and the incongruity of the little aerial houses [built without nails or screws not to harm the tree hosts] which no one can reach or enter, in direct contrast to the modest, traditional rows of Beguine cottages and the mediaeval architecture of the soaring church. Such things challenge and offend: strange houses out of reach to the passers-by, some of whom may be homeless, set among the beauty and the traditions of ecclesiastical retreat. The Japanese artist who designed and installed these little houses, was thinking of serenity, imagination, private spaces, private sanctuary.

Oh dear, still not published because of other things pressing. Now a week after it was begun so time to go!

Of Things Mundane But Nectar Too

Oh dear; I am temporarily confined to barracks with a heavy cold on top of ten day old conjunctivitis. After around eight months of excellent health and vitality, this is a bit of a blow! However, looking around the apartment I can see that life could be worse. 

Farrow and Ball-coloured walls, lots of space, seven huge front windows with the sun streaming through; pretty sunlit terrace the other side of the glass door; a sufficient stock of Duvel and Leffe Blond, the current beer favourites, to indulge, perhaps ... But a drop in energy is not welcome. Missed a concert [Scarlatti]; drinks at someone's house on Sunday [first invitation in Brugge]; Dutch class Monday and Wednesday evenings;. While the latter is welcome in one way, I don't want to miss next steps as it were, the present ones being precarious. I still cannot understand virtually any spoken Dutch though the written is progressing. Fingers are still crossed for a visit with a girl friend to Brussels. [Aborted!]

I cannot remember if I have mentioned an annoying health development; I have had, since May, LisFranc arthritis in the left foot which has already progressed in pain volume, to causing a limp. After seeing an orthopaedic surgeon I am having nine sessions of physio which are marvellous and by UK standards, marvellously cheap. In addition I have to wear MBT shoes which, if any reader is so inclined, can be seen online; they are ugly and expensive. The  wearer has, furthermore, to learn to walk a little differently in them as the soles are curved and I shall go to Ghent to investigate. In the meantime, to an orthopaedic shop on the outskirts of Brugge where only two pairs of shoes were appropriate for my problem. Result, bought one pair for 200 euros and they are walking shoes. 

Fab for the Yorkshire Dales and the Lakes but obviously, as the only shoes suitable for me at present, they obviate about 90% on my wardrobe!! The sunny side of this scenario is that ..... my walking is strong, confident and pain-free. The photo to the left  however, underlines the aesthetic pain I continue to feel!

I was amused as I walked across the Burg the other day, to see the nth bride and groom having wedding pictures taken with a lovely backdrop in situ. I think these bridal photographs are taken, as in China, before the wedding day itself. Bride and groom get togged up and trip off with photographer to a scenic spot, of which there is a multitude in Brugge. I must check; it may be done on The Day but the relaxed approach suggests otherwise and there is never a bridal party. 

The couple I saw were soon enjoying the occasion and a small crowd gathered in time to see the groom Struggling to Pick up Bride and Pose. I was toooooo slow to catch a super shot of her hooped underskirt but did take a picture of the mutual high spirits and enjoyment of an hilarious moment.

I had the unexpected offer of a lift to Lissewege where I had wanted to look at a place selling South African wine, a bottle of which I had bought from the Cheese Market [Kaasmarkt] in August or September. It was unexpected; outside the prettiest village on a commercial estate perhaps. Met the owner by appointment and dived immediately into an extended tasting of Eerste Hoop wines, even though I stressed that I wasn't a restaurant owner. Restaurants in West Flanders form the bulk of his customers.

The owner, Lodewijk , spends around eight months of the year in South Africa and the rest in West Flanders where he has a house and restaurant in Dudzele. Amiable, generous, unpretentious, obviously brilliant at wine-making but to my amazement, with very little English. I had supposed that all South Africans spoke English almost automatically, but what the English always refer to as the Boers [not knowing the word means Farmers] obviously do not.  So the Dutch-speaking South Africans must live, to an extent, separate lives or is much of life conducted in Dutch [Afrikaans] in present-day South Africa. This is an interesting and challenging discovery and I must research further! The wines were marvellous.

Rommelmarkt and Kookeet

Had a lovely Saturday morning, wandelen, as the Flemish say, in the warm September sun. But it was nothing compared to a super sunny Sunday when there was just too much to do. A cold start it was, on the stretch beyond 't Zand where the main Rommelmarkt always is. I strolled down Hauwerstraat towards the Beurshalle to check out the countless stalls on this, the third and final major Flea Market for Brugge in 2015. I think it was the best and largest yet; so many interesting antiques and flea market finds just waiting to be found. The crowds were quite thin at this end of the fair, at 8.30 am, [see photo left] and I resisted much but had to buy two Leffe goblets as I have to drink my Leffe beer from a Duvel glass; a Belgian solecism if ever there was one. So I bought them, loved a small Studio bowl for 45 euros but left it, unwillingly but virtuously. One of my nieces, a collector, would have bought it!

I was meeting a friend at 11.30 for coffee so worked my way down half of the mass of stalls on the actual, main 't Zand toward the Concertgebouw, then stopped, bewitched by a display of mixed Oriental and African items. There were three beautiful Buddhist hangings at the back over which two young Tibetans were agonising when I arrived, and who were still at it when I left. 50 euros is a Lot to pay for something even if it would have been much more expensive in a shop. I saw two wooden masks, from the Congo apparently, and eventually decided to buy both because they are so lovely and primitive. Not ancient; about 50/60 years old, but simple and beautifully peeled and aged. The price might just possibly have come down more than the 10 euros I managed but the old boy selling was re-arranging stuff in his house where the two masks had hung for years and he so clearly loved the items on his stall. I keep in mind, when buying antiques and junk, an admonition from a collector friend years ago. 'Always leave something in it for the other person.' In other words, don't grind the price down to the lowest because you can; leave a little profit for the seller and enhance his accompanying good feelings that come from a sale to someone who clearly loves, and wants to buy, your erstwhile object. Whatever, I left with good feelings too!

We found a table nearby in the sun, the day being still cool, and gradually thawed as we talked until another friend unexpectedly popped up with a German friend who had left his husband nearby guarding a tall column which I would have loved to have examined and will at some point. The two young Germans were flushed with that particular pride which comes to the authentic Rommelmarkt enthusiast who has made A Satisfying Purchase. The feeling is thrilling, quite different from the joy experienced when buying a shirt in a regular shop, for example. It is a mixed sensation of conquest, re the price and the resistance to the lowering of the same; delight at the beauty purchased and, I suppose, the ultimate pleasure of possession! It is the authentication, the validation, the affirmation of one's taste. Ooer, and you thought it was just people buying rubbish!

After that, friend and I wandered towards the station, looking at goods on stalls and grass as we passed, pouncing occasionally when something of real interest was noticed. She tried on several period [Thirties] hats, several of which looked bewitching on her. I dithered, then bought a black wire basket on feet beneath a black and white tiled top. Ostensibly for the terrace but it will stay inside to be used as it looks great on the black tiled dining area floor. Ten euros worth of heaven in fact!

We were on our way to beyond the station to a large area at the back, the beginning of Sint Michiels, for Kookeet, the third, and judging by the huge crowds, popular celebration of food, cooked by named excellent local chefs and restaurants. [Peter Goosens, right, guest chef from Hof Van Cleve restaurant] It was a Tasting Bonanza and it was utterly delicious. One could choose where to spend the tokens purchased on entry so we bought wine then small dishes of food to sample from several well-known restaurants. It was delightful to see the many, many hundreds of people, catching the late Autumn sun, chatting in family and friendship groups and relishing the gourmet fare offered. The workers sustained a rapid processing of eager customers in long queues while managing to stay calm and  friendly; customers seemed to reciprocate; the communal good humour was palpable and the whole affair seemed to be the embodiment of Good Capitalism At Work for the employers/sellers and A Great Day Out for everyone else.

On the wander back from the station, we re-joined the crowd of eagle-eyed bargain hunters nearby; [the flea market stretches down virtually to the train station] and I felt we had finished shopping but were 'just looking'. Contrary to expectations, Katie bought a gorgeous Art Deco decanter and glass set, and I acquired a set of five wine glasses with black 'feet' and design plus a sixth, almost the same! Also a large, austere large brown jug for which I had to borrow ten euros as my entire war chest had mysteriously disappeared. Such a Good Day was had by all, or at least, by Us Two though everyone else also appeared to be coasting happily along, looking and purchasing and dithering.

I now have to show off the other mask as it is SO elegant. I had originally thought of them for the terrace which I am slowly, and often tentatively, decorating with beautiful furniture and some plants. I am unused to a garden with only pots and on the third floor of a building; quite different from the small shady garden and courtyard in Wye which I knew well. So, one pot of a beautiful grass died within three weeks of the effects of heat and wind. Thus, after examining the two Congolese masks, I have decided to keep them indoors for the winter at least; they are of a light-weight wood, quite frail and weather-worn already so think they must be treasured inside the apartment for now. I am now considering how one displays them. I could do with a small, heavy base of metal or wood, with a thin column like a stick on which to perch the face/mask. That would work but where to find?

Before I close, Luc has enquired and told me where I should find small display stands from a shop in Sint Andries so off I go to catch the No 15 bus on Saturday morning, to explore Sint Andries which I don't know at all. 

Emblems of Identity

A record of a lovely shopping morning to begin this week's effort. Tuesday last, set off to beat the imminent rain, to go to Kruidvat, a cheap shop selling all manner of cosmetics and shampoos etc plus a ghastly section of sweets. Boots it isn't [how occasionally I yearn for Boots] but it is the ideal place to go to top up on certain heavy items like John Frieda stuff, toothpaste etc. There is a phalanx of private chemists here selling perfectly ordinary necessities like Listerine at eye-watering prices. I had not noticed before I came to live in Brugge, that private chemists are virtually non-existent in the UK, Boots having, over the years, made that impossible, I suppose. Life sans Boots certainly changes the landscape for the British shopper.

I strolled along Steenstraat, pulling the old-lady-bag-on-wheels, now heavy with purchases, to try to remember which shop had sold me the best shoes which I have worn for months. I now know that, despite the picturesque quality of the cobblestones everywhere, they are uncomfortable to walk on and my Maruti sneakers are cushioned to aid the weary elderly totter across the same. Found the shop, with almost no other shoes by the same Italian maker but I did find another manufacturer's smart flat [important] black ankle boots though the cushion within the soles is thinner. The dark grey/black animal print at the toe end, was irresistible!

On something of a shopping high I then bought some warm pyjamas which can only be described as 'cute' [oh dear] and a fab black T shirt which reads My Favourite Princess is ME in silver across the chest. Intended for Genevieve who will applaud the sentiment but it was the last one and is for an eight year old while she is four and a half, or nearly five as she insists. As she has recently gone to California to live and is big for her age, I am hoping it will be almost fine by next February/March when I visit.

In Etam, now French-owned apparently, the chirpy blonde who served me was great; full of bounce and self-belief, she 

insisted that the cartoon cat-face on my new pyjamas was NOT juvenile; 'It's joyful' she said, and confided that coming to live in Brugge in 2000 with her husband, had awakened her soul as she described it, and she now paints naif pictures. She has to work as a sales assistant to contribute to the family budget, and paints when she can, feeling sure that, in the future, she will sell and make a living from her painting. One of Life's Enhancers, I decided as I left, admiring, and cheered beyond belief.

This blog tends not to aim to be a diary but to highlight places and people I have come across who are interesting or eccentric or historically noteworthy in some way. It is an exercise in idiosyncratic self-indulgence I suppose. That written, the paragraphs above are slightly diary-like but no apologies for that!

Off to find Sint Janshospitaal last Wednesday, the hospital not the museum, and reflected on the bus, on the pluses of life in Bruges. Passing a crowd of swans on the canal along Gulden Vlieslaan, I admired and vowed again, to find out why there are so many here. There is bound to be some legend about, or even a reason for, their presence. They do add grace and elegance and somehow, an aura of permanence. The orthopaedic consultant enlightened me about my arthritic foot, which only appeared in May. It is called Lis-Franc arthritis, is the hardest to treat and the most painful to have. Ironically given my triumphant find of the chic black boots the day before, I discovered that I have to wear MBT shoes to restrict flexibility in the foot, thus reducing the pain. The doctor told me that ladies did not like them which I subsequently discover means that they are ugly and expensive. I go in search to Ghent next week!!

Although this blog is a tribute to my adopted city, sometimes I leave Brugge briefly and on Sunday 20th September, with a friend, I set off for Krakow on a mission, long overdue, to experience Auschwitz. Krakow proved to be an appealing city with some wonderful period buildings, numerous enormous churches, beautiful tree-lined streets and park areas BUT an unappealing wealth of graffiti everywhere and with many large buildings in a state of gentle decay. Auschwitz was an effort, to reach by bus after one and a half hour journey; to queue for and to almost enter; to be turned back because the handbag was too large for the specifications.

But the place itself was an amazing experience. First, it was unexpected to see the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of pilgrims, as it were, milling around, queueing, reading the many information boards. Once the guided tour [excellent] had begun,

it was the long, long room with the glass down 
one long side, behind which was an extended mountain of shoes and boots, all worn, with a few more dainty, flirty pairs arranged along the front edge, which made one catch the breath. Similar silent testimonies to long-dead, long-murdered owners were evidenced in huge heaps of cooking pots and utensils, luggage marked with owners' names, children's shoes, hair, prayer shawls. It was not only the intimacy of the formerly treasured possessions which shocked, it was the countless numbers of these, the sheer multitudinous display bearing eloquent testimony to the barbaric fate of the owners. There were myriad photographs of a small proportion of the victims in striped uniforms, and information panels to further enlighten and depress. The sheer scale and ingenuity of the sustained attempt to kill all European Jewry, was unimaginable. It was a draining, but valuable experience.


I normally assume that virtually no one reads this blog. Even so, I received two comments last week; one offering information on Louis Reckelbus, the artist whose home I visited during the Open Monuments weekend recently, which I would love to have and the other commenting on a place featured in the blog several weeks ago. The second read: 'Frou Frou; seriously the best hat shop in Europe if not the whole planet'. I took a copy over today to Mardy who owns Frou Frou which is almost next door to me, and she was Seriously Thrilled, so thank you Mary! A copy of your most welcome comment is now in [another] window of Frou Frou!  

In case anyone from Brugge happens to read this, Frou Frou needs new premises; fairly central, inexpensive, if such be available, attractive windows awaiting fabulous displays!

Secrets of Brugge

Another very busy week; yet another hour in the dentist's chair; two evenings of Dutch classes, three and a half hours an evening [which feels a little excessive, given the slow pace of progress!]; a thank you lunch with a friend who gave lots of help earlier in August at a brunch for ten which I did; coffee at Hotel Martin with the English-speaking 'ladies'! And so on.

But, best of all, two Jane Austen Kent Branch friends came for a couple of days and I had lots of fun showing them a few of the interesting features of life in Bruges. I am not certain but I think the top of their hit parade were the magical restoration works of Sint Donaas, the tenth century cathedral demolished in the late eighteenth century by the French and then the last session of the year of the ringing of the Dumery bell by foot to commemorate the work of Joris Dumery [17] the carillon-maker who installed the carillon in the Belfort [the Beiard]. They were much taken by meeting the foot bell-ringer, Paul vanden Abeele and his super wife, Jo. And I was delighted to meet Maria, a 94 year old friend of the Abeele who lived nearby and who always comes to witness the Ringing of the Bell. She insisted on taking me into her immaculate four-bedroomed house to show me masses of family photographs, including one of her husband in his wartime naval uniform. He was unbelievably handsome!

And, after their departure on Saturday afternoon, I joined friends to go to a property in the weekend's annual Open Monuments Day, rather like the Open Houses in London at this time of year. The first one I could make was the Minnewaterkliniek on Professor Dr J Sebrechtsstraat, a huge place comprising virtually one whole side of the street. Opened as a hospital and built at the instigation of the redoubtable Dr Sebrechts it is now an old people's home, complete with a splendid chapel and in-house medical care both for the inmates and others outside the home. It is a marvellously tranquil place with gardens to the rear and ample parking in what was almost certainly part of the original huge garden area.

A view from the garden of the chapel and a small part of the extensive buildings

of the Minnewaterkliniek

The last visit of the afternoon was to the house of Louis Reckelbus, 1864-1958. I had never heard of Meneer Reckelbus but discovered that he had been a watercolour artist of landscapes, city-scapes and so on, eventually appointed to be Curator of the Groeninghe Museum. He was among the first Belgian refugees during the First World War, to flee to, and settle in, St Ives in Cornwall, an artists' colony where he soon found an active place in the community and where he also sold his paintings to raise money to help his fellow refugees. He described St Ives, when he returned home to his birthplace of Brugge, as 'a little unspoiled Paradise', quite a tribute from one born and bred in Brugge.

A Reckelbus painting, an artist unknown to me till now!

His house too was a little Paradise; he had bought it in three separate parts, the first in August 1909 and the final in September 1937, gradually renovating it. Today, after earlier threats of demolition, it survives as an architect's stylish offices with a lovely garden at the back, bounded by a canal, and with a kitchen of particular note. It has been 'modernised' relatively recently but with sufficient of the original tiles left in place to make one long to see it as it was. There is a treasure, apparently guarded in secrecy by Louis Reckelbus, at the top of the stairs; it is no more than significant fragments of a fresco depicting the Nativity, probably fifteenth century; the face of the Madonna is particularly serene and beautiful and must have given the artist untold pleasure each time he clambered up the rather difficult stairs. It was a privilege to be allowed to see inside this building. And wonderful to have discovered Louis Reckelbus and his art.

Magical to have such an exquisite fresco remaining in part, in a private house.

Michele, my invaluable translator, and I had a full programme of Open Monuments on Sunday with the morning promising exceptional interest. We had a guided tour of the on-going restoration work in the Gruuthuse Museum and also in Onze Lieve Vrouwekerk, the Church of Our Lady, the huge and important church where Michelangelo's Madonna and Child are on display. I think I found the Gruuthuse tour particularly good with a super guide and an early mediaeval building for which one felt an instinctive empathy, its earlier grandeur slightly down-at-heel; its magnificence, a little shabby. Rather like an ageing Queen caught without the usual attention to detail. It was obviously being rescued from serious deterioration with wet rot abundant, tiled floors under centuries of dirt and wear, painted wood and walls faded beyond recognition. The restoration so far is Seriously Good, beginning towards the end of last year, and to continue until an advertised 2015 though, as the guide told us, almost every step of the way, as one piece of restoration is begun, another need for remedial work becomes visible. The finish date may well yet be pushed back to allow for more work as more decay is uncovered. Undoubtedly there is EU money involved, probably finance also from the city and from the regional government too. 

Restored crests amid both old and new wood.

The tour started in the attics where an apparently new mediaeval tiled floor stretched before us. The restoration of this huge pavement had revealed two unsuspected colours of tiles forming a regular pattern and we saw another floor area in the same attic, still untouched, and simply unrecognisable in its dirt and ageing with a heavy mantel of earth and centuries of use. The ample beams and lower roof timbers had all been restored and the motto of the Gruuthuse family, 'Plus est en vous' [que vous pensez, being implied] was written in beautiful script over many of the beams. This was the motto of Lodewijk Gruuthuse, 1422-1492, who built this palace originally, and means that there is more in you than you realise. A splendidly inspiring motto for a group [as in Gordonstoun which has also taken this same  motto] but our guide emphasised that it did, in fact, refer to the great man, Lodewijk, himself, almost everything he did being an extension of his ego! The numerous repetitions displayed upon the attic beams of Plus est en vous were not, apparently, done on behalf of Lodewijk, but the result of a little over-exuberance on the part of the firm, Delasenserie, which undertook a major renovation during the 1920s and which is, interestingly, in charge of the present operation.

Lodewijk, diplomat, soldier, aristocrat, patron and his motto

Plus est en vous

The tour took in various rooms, in differing stages of renovation; the little chapel, virtually joined to the OLV church next door, had been almost gutted in the restoration process, though its beautiful ceiling which merged into an apse at one end, was entire. Below the apse, a window seat with windows which opened on to, and into, OLV and which permitted the less-committed church-goers in the mediaeval Gruuthuse, to claim they had breathed the holy air, when both windows at one end and door at the other, were left open.

The beautiful little Gruuthuse chapel, awaiting further attention

The church inside, was highly polluted with thick layers of dust and soot, cracks in walls and vaults,  and damage from fungi and beetles. The current phase of renovation takes in the choir, the choir aisle, the sacristy and the transcript. The renovations in the huge church itself  are impressive with the main enemy, again the water. It is quite a feat to keep open an important and busy church for the faithful, plus accommodate an unceasing army of visiting tourists anxious to tick off the Michelangelo on their list. It is being accomplished with the major part of the building closed behind scaffolding and plastic sheets for restoration and will be thus until the end of 2015. There is a fixed budget [of 1.538 million, the majority of which has come from the Flemish community.]  so difficult decisions are being made as further unsuspected decay is revealed and plans for expensive gilding, or some replacement, have to be shelved. Renovation on this scale, and under the twin pressures of worship and tourism, is a daunting task but the renovator who spoke to us showed photos of utterly painstaking work being done with a tiny scalpel and infinite patience. Astonishing and humbling.

One restored corner of a large stone tablet rather sums up the power of restoration.

So many secrets of this ancient city uncovered in just one week. The Open Monuments weekend is intended for Bruggelings, not tourists, [hence only Dutch spoken] and it was heartening to see considerable interest and pride in their civic inheritance, displayed in the numbers attending and the keenness shown. But the great interest in the hidden Sint Donaas Kathedral and the esoteric ringing of the old bell in memoriam, by tourists like my visitors is also gratifying. Brugge really is a treasure trove for those who look a little beyond the beautiful surface, stunning though that is.