That was reassuring but less so was the development of a pain in the left foot after the last guest departed [no connection there] After soliciting help from Alice in the pharmacy next-door and solicitously applying her cream, to no effect, I made myself go to the doctor. He is, in fact, a delightful man but the no appointment system sorts the men from the boys. It took, in fact about an hour and a half to hear that it might be a stress fracture and I left with a paper and the instruction to go to the Black Nuns the following day at 8.00 am. Terrific. The lovely old building which forms one entire side of the square where I live, is referred to locally as the Black Nuns, a former convent hospital now part of the civic Sint Janshospitaal but retained, not for operations but for day treatments of various kinds and for convalescence after operations.
An hour after arrival next morning, I had had X ray and Echo which is Ultrasound I think. Results would be with my doctor that evening. As I limped to the nearby surgery I pondered on the upside of a partially insurance-funded scheme, [speed] as opposed to the Beloved NHS and its long wait for most results but with no fee involved for patients. I had adjusted to the idea of a little fracture in the foot so was caught off-balance to hear that it was, and is, arthritis. This doesn't fit in with my self-image at all so more adjustment is taking place, faute de mieux. After moans to children, I have received a number of suggestions, some really helpful [Increase your daily Omega 3 intake from 1000mg to 3000mg; buy proper walking shoes to better absorb the shock to the feet of constant cobblestones; walk less; walk more; swimming, good] others less so [chop it (the foot) off; don't worry] The doctor's anti-inflammatory pills are super effective and I now know it, the arthritic pain, will wax and wane so I continue Carpe Dieming while I eat lots of fruit and salads as usual, swim every day and look around for real walking shoes.
The hospital next door to me was started and run by the Black Nuns, the Zwartzusters,
and in an endeavour to check the Dutch spelling, I went online and was fascinated to discover that they had been active here since the fifteenth century. But what really riveted me was reading some of their fairly challenging rules of living, the most mediaeval and disconcerting of which was that self-flagellation was timetabled for every Friday but with three times a week demanded during Advent and Lent. 'Get thee to a nunnery; go!' seems ever less enticing. Comforting however to see that Hospitality was highly regarded. The photograph above is of the back facade, taken from my terrace with someone else's chimney standing guard.
But here is a Zwartzuster:
and we now know that her demure and pious demeanour conceals an astonishing capacity for absorbing regular, Self Inflicted, physical pain. Plus silence from dinner to morning prayer. O tempora, o mores. Obviously, a little touch of arthritis in the night is as nothing!
And it seems apt to mention that I came across [my favourite, catch-all phrase since moving Bruges-wards. Better than admitting the slight bewilderment in my mind as to exactly where all my individual books and papers are located] a slip of paper, written in some magazine in 2011, stating that 'I have switched from a policy of gradual self-improvement to one of managed decline.' Who wrote it I know not but I do like its aptness for the Senior Citizen and its nod to the mysterious, unexpected and amorphous boundary all of us cross at some juncture. Unwittingly perhaps, but nonetheless, inevitably. What a comfort, and a diversion, language is.
As an atheist, think I'll make this week's theme, godly in an associative sort of way. That's because I have a lovely photograph of the Godshuis Meulenaere in Nieuwe Gentweg. There are many tiny areas of peace and otherness in Bruges, adjacent to, and just out of sight of, busy tourist streets, and this is one. Brugse Godshuisen were almshouses and still serve the time-honoured purpose of providing low rent accommodation to the elderly, the widowed, the poor.
Godshuis Meulenaere, is timeless and touching in its almost bucolic simplicity and tranquillity; it implicitly offers sanctuary and always the French word, pelerin, pilgrim, comes to mind, not sure why. In fact, I followed a sign and briefly visited another Godshuis recently, the Rooms Convent founded in 1330 in Katelijnestraat; its secluded grassy area was busy with a young group of picnickers, happy and full of life, impervious to the surroundings apparently. Just seizing the moment I guess, in a care-free way.
Now I am on the God-related trail, I must introduce my angel-with-trumpet which I bought from an antique-cum-bric-a-brac shop, a huge cavern of an emporium actually and great fun to discover. She was crowded out by lesser objects and decidedly less attractive than intended, for the previous owner had somehow attached a metal slot to the ceramic back and slid in a pair of angel wings. Oh hideous to behold; bright gold-coloured metal of the correct size and the totally incorrect concept. She, the angel, looked somewhat embarrassed to discover herself thus accoutred and I felt a surge of sympathy. The vulgar wings were so inappropriate that they were almost a sin. Here she is, saved and wingless though perched high on top of a beautiful linen cupboard. She is such a subtle, Farrow and Ball colour too, although that last comment seems almost iconoclastic!
And, as a farewell to the Black Nuns, and Woensdagmarkt, an image of a fair young woman looking remarkably content and fulfilled with her often punishing life in Brugge.
