Mimosa

Today is Saturday and when I awoke around 5.30 a.m. and flipped open my Ipad it said, Bruges weather: heavy rain for next 13 hours. And so it has proved!! Even 13 hours later,the force shows no sign of diminishing! Even so, I resolutely strode forth and went to 't Zand to the temporarily diminished market, to buy flowers, with tulips in mind. I bought some lovely tulips too but was quite thrilled to find Mimosa. The old boy on the stall said dreamily in response to my delight, 'Ah, Grasse; St Tropez …' and finding Mimosa DID seem somehow special, a harbinger of Spring on the wettest day in the year. In fact, when people spotted what I was carrying, like the young man in In and Uit, the tourist centre where I next repaired to buy a ticket for tomorrow's guitar concert in the Concertgebouw or Dumon after that, to buy chocolate to take to the U.S. in a fortnight and have a super cup of coffee, one and all, smiled a little sweetly and
murmured, 'Ah, mimosa', implying the certainty of better weather and more romantic times to come. Now I come to think of it, the Americans call Buck's Fizz, Mimosa, which I always thought charming though lacking the descriptive bubbly quality of the English. And Italian men give mimosa to their loves on one special day in Spring, the name of which I have long forgotten.

Continuing my minor film-watching wave, I saw the Belgian Problemski Hotel at the Lumiere. Based on the novel by the West Flemish/Russian author, Dmitri Verholst, it follows the changes that occur in the lives of random people born in areas affected by war or armed conflict. Their bewilderment at the strange events around them co-existing with the strong desire to live normal lives, is depicted graphically as the characters struggle to make sense of their suspended reality in the often Kafka-esque absurdity of this no-man's-land. In the midst of the turmoil, a love affair blooms between Bipul and Lidia. The character of Bipul is beautifully observed; he is the Everyman to whom assorted refugees turn for help with interviews, form-filling, personal difficulties. He is a dignified man of integrity in a cruel world, and his anonymity is emphasised by the fact that he  has no recall of his true name nor of his country of origin.

Thursday I had a lucky offer to accompany Luc to a press presentation at the French Embassy in Brussels. Housed in a grand building, the high, gilded room accommodated quite an audience which was treated to at least nine accounts of particular facets of life in Aquitaine, [the region under promotion] such as the Lascaux caves, delivered in quick-fire French by chic young things whose moment had arrived. After perhaps an hour, I silently vowed, 'Never again'. But that was before The Buffet was revealed. When I commented on the wonderful canapes, tiny delicious amuse-geules, the cheeses, hams, breads, etc AND on the heavenly Bordeaux red, I was told, 'It is Always super here; if the food and drink weren't marvellous, no one would come!' The later tartes were superb and the coffee and Pierre Marcolini chocolates, da morire as the Italians say. I didn't eat again all day, just treasured the memory! But I am interested in exploring Aquitaine by way of thanks!

I haven't commented on the empty streets of Brugge; January is obviously a tourist-free month though it may be worse than usual with the suspicion some tourists feel following the disclosure of the Brussels connection to the Paris killings in December. Friends from the UK have rung me to ask if it is safe in Belgium! Seems an absurd question given the parochial, slow, safe pace of life here. Whatever, some places look closed, the markt today was only half its normal size and at that level, still not busy. Buses are comfortable; sidewalks roomy, supermarkets bearable, cafes and restaurants, often [but not always] only partially full. Last week was sunny to boot and it was a very Heaven, I must say. Above, the illustration is by Henry Victor Wolvens, of Rue Deserte a Bruges 1945 and gives a perfect rendition of some January streets 2016! Empty but nonetheless, picturesque.

Rob Michiels Auctions opened, opposite my building, several months ago and held its first auction last October. The second sale is tomorrow and looks to be specialising in ceramics and statuary. I popped in this morning just to look as, though I need nothing, I  DO mourn the two statues and the many large pots I gave to my family before leaving the UK, as I was set on finding an apartment and thus no garden. I don't have a garden but do have a terrace so, after much consideration, I singled out two items in the auction; one comprised three little columns each narrowing into a mediaeval figure though they were undoubtedly nineteenth to early twentieth century in the making. The second included four stone consoles [I think] rather like little stone tables for the wall with mediaeval figures sculptured below in the support. They were charming but one was way best its best and a second, well on the way to fading out. Sunday morning through the everlasting rain across the square to the auction room! I  quickly dropped out of the bidding for the group of three; they went for  220 euros which was too much. The second I definitely wanted but I also didn't want them at any price and I dropped out at 250 euros; they eventually went for 480 euros; way too much. Disappointing but my first foray into a Belgium auction had been fun and instructive. I used to go to auctions in the late sixties and the seventies and my, things have changed. Bids were coming in to one long table, by phone, and to a second similar, online. The sale room was pretty full and instead of the old-fashioned display of each item, it was all shown on a small screen at the front. SO quietly efficient!

Such sadness to hear of the death of Henry Worsley, the Shackleton-inspired Antarctic adventurer and explorer. I think it was in 2014 that he came to talk to Wye Arts in the hall of Spring Grove School where, I think, he had once been a pupil. His talk on his trek following in the footsteps of Shackleton, was riveting and the Wye audience discovered that he was the most delightful and

modest of men. Small wonder that he inspired so many others and so desperately heart-rending that he died alone, almost within reach of his life-time goal. But, at least, he was in the land of his heroic inspiration.

And a perfect ending to the weekend was provided by an uplifting concert of South American guitar music played by Four Times A Lady, with real skill and panache. First time for me to hear both the group and the music and it was worth the undoubted effort to go, my flat being so much more inviting than the windswept, rain-sodden streets. I rarely take the bus both ways but made an exception to return home for two expected FaceTime family sessions and a beer to end my dry January!