First the Dutch which weighs heavily on the psyche. I know the ageing mind is slow and slowing; I know that the 'young' are like quicksilver at picking up new words, sounds, language, but I was still sadly unprepared for the dissonance between my stated objective [I'll learn a bit of vocab and pronunciation] and the intensive course I find myself in [First hour: Uit welk land kom je? Repeat. Now.] Pretty sure that the Gauleiter who signed me up originally with the immortal words of, 'We Dutch take our language seriously' really had no idea of the inappropriateness, not to say, agony, of putting the Seriously Aged with twenty somethings to learn a new language by ear. Alas however, there isn't a queue of older people wanting to learn Dutch while there are any number of young immigrants desperate to achieve a measure of Flemish fluency.
But I digress; the class I attend is terrific in its members. Twenty two of us and [do excuse the list] we are from Japan, Ghana, India [both Parsi and Hindu], Lebanon, Ruanda, Spain, Romania, Ukraine, Iran, Slovakia, Thailand, Hungary, Greece, Congo [spelled endearingly Kongo], Syria, Morocco and England. I admire the keenness of them all to learn the language and the brave journey that many have made. It is really a humbling experience to meet them. Twelve of the group are not accustomed to using the Western alphabet; I blush at my own inadequacy at the enormity of what they are so cheerfully undertaking. Should mention the energetic, sympathetic and charismatic teaching of one Sophie for whom speaking English is a particular bete noir [though her English is excellent and she swears that she loves that language and the country!] She is a gifted teacher wholly committed to the current approved method of language learning; As a lapsed English teacher, I long for lists of verbs and grammatical rules to learn; for written exercises to be completed, however difficult. I long in vain and this yearning for previous methods, in any case, may be a smoke screen for my snail's pace as a student and an example of the usual nostalgia for what worked when young.
The other initiation of the week involved synchronicity and goodwill. My neighbour met, by chance, an American woman at the bus stop; subsequent chat revealed she is here in Brugge from April to October, having retired and wanting to realise a dream of living in Europe. We met up the next morning when I took her to join the women's Coffee Group of English speakers which meets weekly at the Hotel Martin. Discovered that she was to depart two days later, for the fleshpots of Berlin with her visiting daughter, thence to sample London. After which, she goes alone to Wales to explore that forgotten Arcadia. BUT she had taken on leadership of a little group of locals wanting to improve their English and was desperate to find a replacement. Which is why I enjoyed a super and convivial evening later, at the cafe with the sunflowers outside, pictured here recently, and meeting Jacques, Lieve, Rose et al for the first time. Such fun and SO good for my battered language ego! Thus a Thursday evening fixture was born for me.
Must have a photograph and here is one picturing part of a past Procession of the Holy Blood.
On Ascension Day each year, certainly since 1291 and probably before that, a sacred relic containing a piece of the cloth used to wipe the wounds of Christ, is borne by men in hooded cloaks in a huge procession through the streets of Brugge. Brought here after the second Crusade by the Count of Flanders, it is normally kept in a special and ornate casket in the Romanesque Basilica of St Basil in the Burg, on view to the public.
Numbers of those involved in the procession grew hugely in the fourteenth century when it was combined with the annual fair and now, it is said, that around 1700 people are involved each year, led by thirty City notables [among whom a neighbour is numbered]. People participate on carts, on foot, on horseback, performing Old Testament stories, episodes from the life of Jesus and from the long history of Brugge. The style tends to be that of the fifteenth century, the zenith of Bruggean fortunes when the city boasted the most important harbour in Northern Europe and was a bustling commercial centre.
I expected to attend but learned that, alas, in the face of an appalling weather forecast, it had been cancelled quite late in the day. Huge scaffolding banks of seats in the Markt were chiefly empty [ticket money, non-returnable] and woebegone tourists were milling around, asking plaintively where the procession was. The rain, relatively light, did not appear till 15.00 hours and I heard someone asking a policeman when the event would now take place. 'Next year, Ascension Day,' he answered crisply, to tourist bemusement. 'It HAS to be on Ascension Day'. SO all that work, practice, planning, expense and expectation came to naught. C'est la vie and was accepted philosophically by the locals who are proud of their annual spectacle. The procession plays an important role in expressing and consolidating the identity and community of the people of Bruges.
A farewell to arms till 2016 then.
Last weekend, to two concerts at the Concertgebouw in t'Zand, both by the acclaimed cellist, Steven Isserlis. They were both pure Schumann delight. A high spot on the Saturday evening was, in the second half of the concert when he was not playing, the Great Man came and sat next-but-one to me, with his partner and how I envied the girl adjacent as she chatted to the Maestro. Eric [husband] would have dismissed such excitement as pretty pathetic but secretly I longed for the fortunate neighbour to drop dead or similar. She didn't.
Steven's Sunday morning concert, Schumann and friends, furnished me, by chance, with similar, that is, with new friends. I chatted to the couple next to me in the Kamermuziekzaal [see how fluent I am] and, at the end of the concert, we companionably went for a beer together at the bar next door. They, an English couple, turned out also to be Bruggean freaks, like me. They come every year, this time for a month, and are contemplating a longer period another time. They are Considerably More Knowledgeable about Brugge than I and have already given me loads of suggestions and advice. Another example of Jung's synchronicity working in my favour. We have already had coffee and next week, lunch. Thus I stumble towards establishing a Life here, even though these particular new friends' stay here is limited. They'll be back and I can always e-mail for urgently-needed information!
However, at this Friday evening's wonderful concert by Phantasm, a superb English consort of viols, gambas and theorbo, playing Tye, Gibbons, Lawes and Purcell, an unexpected and charming thing happened. At the end, always, the performers are presented with flowers, a small bouquet each, and when the group trooped back in to acknowledge the applause, one gamba player bestowed his bouquet on me. Thrilled reaction of course and it wasn't until a second return to the applause and an encore, when another of the group donated his flowers to a little girl of about six or seven, facing me across the performers and also on the front row, that it occurred to me that the apparently spontaneous presentations had been safely made to the youngest, and quite possibly, the oldest, female listeners there. Pragmatically however, enjoying the flowers!
Slightly day-glow Gerberas with a soupcon of attitude
