Signs of Spring

Every Thursday early evening, I meet with a small group of Flemish inhabitants of Brugge who want to practice their English. The standard of their spoken English is astonishingly high and puts the average Brit in the shade when considering dexterity in a foreign language. I try not to think of my lack of progress in Dutch when in their company. The members of the group have the true characteristic of serious language students; they gleefully fasten on a phrase I have used unthinkingly, and savour it! This week it was, 'Easy on the eye.' And whenever possible, this phrase was dragged into the conversation triumphantly and proudly. What would I give to be at that stage with Flemish!!

We have moved even closer to my building, to the Oud Huis Amsterdam, a hotel in Woensdagmarkt, for our drink and chat because the Bistro where we normally meet is temporarily closed. Last night, when we entered, we found a Norwegian photographer, or rather film-maker, busy in the bar area. He had two bottles of beer and two glasses which he repeatedly arranged and re-arranged before explaining that we could still meet there in the bar, if we could just stop talking for a brief filming session. Apparently he and his companion who in fact was filmed commenting on each beer and testing and tasting it, were travelling around making a series of programmes for Norwegian TV. It was all quite exciting to us plebs and we watched, fascinated as the commentator repeatedly sniffed the beer in a wine-testing manner! We duly paused and watched during the ten minute filming [after the
camera man had said several times, 'Let's get the show on the road.' which he must have picked up from a film sometime! It sounded dated American but it clearly established to the room who was in charge!] Discovered that the two beers were almost identical but also special. The original one, West Vleteren, had been made at the Abbey of West Vleteren for many years. When it ceased production, a licensed copy called Sint Bernardus, was brewed in Watou. The professional-looking testing was to ascertain which was superior. This beer cannot be bought normally anywhere else except at source and is considered a jewel in the highly critical beer world!

First signs of Spring in Brugge; apart from the dawn chorus coinciding with my walk to the Crowne Plaza in the Burg to swim each morning [in the pool by 6.20, a proud boast from someone who wishes to put a relentlessly shorter sleep into a positive light], the daffodils in the grounds of the Beguinage and the Return of the Terraces.

Fascinating, these rules of other places. In Brugge, think the terraces outside cafes and restaurants disappeared, as if by diktat, on November 15   and I suddenly noticed their return on the second weekend in March. Didn't know I missed them, but to see them back is pure delight.

 Oh yes, because they are needed; the other sign of Spring, is the sudden modest influx of tourists in the past week or so. The scant winter numbers have been further decimated this year because of the Molenbeek connection. Certainly some of my English friends rang me to inquire if Bruges was safe following the discovery of the Brussels connection with the Paris massacre. Let's hope that this understandable caution, though unnecessary, is not extended after yesterday's big news here that the Most Wanted Man from the Paris shootings, had been shot and arrested in Brussels, in Molenbeek in fact, where he had always lived.

Spring in Brugge is special; sunlight on canals [painting right is by Henry Goodchild, English-sounding but of Belgian nationality]; sudden profusion of interesting plants on the Markt and in the flower shops; tiny buds tentatively emerging on my terrace wisteria; lovers on the grass in Astridpark.

While not specifically a portent of Spring, and unnoticed till the early morning of last Friday, came St Patrick's Day. This is not something I think about nor do I expect it to be celebrated in Brugge BUT as I walked along in the dark at around 6.15 in the morning towards the Burg for the afore-mentioned paddle, I heard loud strains of celebration, i.e. music and laughter and loud voices. Now occasionally one can hear the latter, down alleyways, at the same unearthly hour, emanating from young people late to leave the bars, and slightly the worse for wear. But this sound was from inside some building. Soon discovered it came from the Irish Pub on the Burg which, when I rounded the corner, I could see was festooned with balloons in the Irish national colours, in spiral patterns around the entrance. This important sign, plus the noisy tumult within, suggested St Patrick's Day was still in process of celebration inside, the previous day having the eponymous honour! Interesting to discover how many fervent supporters of St Patrick live in Brugge, how many Irish and how many people enjoying the all-night opening, were there. Whatever; it was a heart-warming sound to start the day and would have awakened gratified  acknowledgement by the Saint himself. I wonder how many Saints find themselves and their lives celebrated all night with exuberant drinking and funny stories shouted to the world?

And before I go, many thanks for the lovely little email from Speranza who used to live in Brugge herself and who must miss this beautiful place.