Holy Days and Processions

I must stop buying plants to beautify my terrace; I am not really a gardener for I treat my terrace as I did my Kentish garden; as an outside room to be made as decorative as possible while retaining basic functionality. That said, a sunny Wednesday [May 24th], a crowded market transferred to the Burg temporarily to make way for the seating for tomorrow's Holy Blood Procession and a wealth of flowers and plants on stalls beneath the trees and around the huge bronze statue, Les Amoureux.
Et voila! I bought flowers as usual [this week, luscious paeonies] AND a splendid plant. Soon there will be no room for people!

 Les Amoureux spooning beneath the chestnut spires
in the Burg.

To coffee with the girls this morning at Hotel Martin's in Oude Burg and the town is at its best; young foliage, chestnut spires, bright sunshine and thousands of bewitched tourists. The flower and plant display in the Burg markt is the prettiest ever; stalls overflow with strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, nectarines, peaches. May, the loveliest month, presents a visual feast but the news from Britain with the deaths of so many young people in Manchester is unbearably sad, wretchedly nihilistic, utterly wasteful of young life and potential. The young terrorist was, perhaps, also among the victims of a mystifying, anarchic, destructive ideology. And it is still May. Read a lovely quote recently about the month of May by Samuel Scoville in his Wild Folk. Not a major writer, one might assume; sounds American, folksy, a minor rural writer one might say. But his lyricism about the most special of months, arrests the attention:
Honey-sweet May, when the birds come back and the flowers come out and the air is full of the sunrise scents and songs of the dawning year.
Simple and inspiring.

 Paul van Abeele, he of the Dumery bell, playing a portable
klokkenspiel in the procession.



And early this morning [Thurs 25th] walking back from swimming in the Crowne Plaza pool, I was struck by the absolute silence in the streets; it is Ascension Day, a Feestdag, and as a Belgian friend observed yesterday, a Holy Day. This last thought had never occurred to me and I doubt there are many English people who would describe it as such. But this is still a Roman Catholic country though active church-going I hear, is on the decrease. However, a Feestdag so, deserted, waking, sunlit streets lacked buses, cars and people at 6.00 and again at 7.00 this morning and it was magical.

 Rounding a tight corner from Oude Burg into
Wollastraat.

For the Procession of the Holy Blood, I chose not to occupy my seat in the Markt; the bank of seating was in the full sun and untenable for me. Much better, in fact, to roam the streets and photograph and view from the shadows of tall buildings. I had not expected anything so major; the whole production is massive and impressive with often glorious costumes and seemingly no expense spared. Now can't remember how many donkeys were taking part, six at least, four dromedaries, maybe a dozen Shire Horses [not sure of the Belgian equivalent], a little flock of sheep and scores of compliant, happy children in mediaeval garb.

One of the donkeys displaying its customary sang-froid

The centrepiece is the Relic, a cloth with  the alleged blood of Jesus Christ, brought to the city by Thierry of Alsace after the 12th century Second Crusade. The Procession of the Holy Blood seems to have emerged as a civic ceremony by the late thirteenth century. Instituted in 1303, the ceremonial procession commemorates the deliverance of the city, by the national heroes Jan Breydel and Pieter de Conynck from French tyranny in May of the previous year, and which takes place on Ascension Day. Bruges residents of the area perform an historical re-enactment of the phial's arrival together with similar dramatizations of Biblical events. For this secular spectator, the stunning historical continuity is the most impressive with splendid costumes and wigs, coming a close second.

 A masterly touch; Himself with baby

A Beautiful Cake

Things have slipped, as my mother might have said. It must be two weeks since my last blog partly due to being occupied elsewhere; partly due to age-related sloth and procrastination ! It was lovely going for four days to Cologne for a 50^th birthday party with the opportunity to stay in a tasteful, calm minimalist apartment, white and spare, but with lots of time in the flat of the birthday boy and his husband which closely resembles an over-the-top Victorian melodrama set. Almost every inch of wall adorned with pictures, many of Brugge [at least 30]; a positive 'fishes and loaves' crowd of Jesus statues and statuettes, [at least a hundred] on surfaces already crowded with ceramics, objets d'art, photographs, books, figurines, mementoes; lots of interesting furniture including at least two harmoniums [harmonia?] clamouring to be noticed; swags and bows and sweeping curtains adorning doorways, all adding to a busy but authentic and dramatic whole. I could add, politically incorrectly, those suffering from excess weight, and those suffering from claustrophobia, abandon hope! Enter not despite the very warm welcome awaiting.

The party itself was a jolly affair including a two or three hour concert with individual friends singing or playing the piano and several groups including fine singing from the Church choir organised by the birthday boy himself. Plus a great buffet and a most artistic cake. The Master of Ceremonies, a friend who organises important musical festivals as his day job, performed a dramatic excerpt from The Magic Flute though he is not a singer. He also wore a pair of Chris Vos shoes from Brugge pictured nearby. Not a shy man you will deduce!

Further work has been done on my terrace, especially when son and his wife were here for a few days till yesterday, Sunday. We visited Damme for coffee where I took the opportunity to buy a beautiful top from the Very Chic Indigo. We were actually en route to Bomberna near Maldeghem, a superb garden centre where one could spend at least half a day, sustained both by the cafe and the huge range and display of plants. It is a place where the whisper of a regret at the willing loss of a little garden can be heard. But I restrained myself and bought only a gorgeous white hortensia, to replace the loss of the two which died of drought in my Californian absence. Plus a fancy fern, and two huge pots, one of which will await use [in the fietsenhok off the entrance hall] in the Autumn when the tricky job of potting on the wisteria and its companion, twining clematis will occur. The other pot was for the vine and my son, fortunately, grappled with its pot-bound steadfastness and eventually we transplanted it. I am coming to terms with my singular inability to deal with very large pots efficiently or even, inefficiently; quite a lot of strength is needed.

Then, Sunday afternoon, strolling in the sun to the Crowne Plaza hotel in the Burg, a friend and I heard a brass band and thus did I discover Open-air Lucht Concerten, performed by various youth brands, and the Navy, mainly in the Burg but also in the Markt and Koningin Astridpark, between April and September. I had always thought of brass bands as a chiefly British tradition, especially in the North of the UK and often associated with coal miners and pit villages. But from the marching bands from Holland and Belgium which perform once a year in Brugge, clearly there is a strong Nederlands' brass band tradition too. These concerts are free, part of a most generous cornucopia provided gratis every year, courtesy of the Stad.