In my temporarily normal bubble of one, with occasional shafts of company throwing lighter relief, I have suddenly noticed that Summer is quietly subsiding into its dog days. How can this season be fading after so brief a tenure? My blackbird hasn’t visited to serenade for nearly a fortnight though a fat pigeon squatted for ages on a terrace chair today. NOT quite the same, the blackbird’s melody being of the most exquisite refinement. The searing heat has left but there is warmth and some needed rain this week. The terrace plants are thankful though Autumn whispers in the large hydrangea, florally white weeks ago but now with magical greens and creams in bloom. The smaller flowers of the second hortensia however, are shrinking and crinkling in September mode. The geraniums and oleanders fight on!
But, after all, September IS the new school year, in the past, signalling the return of a reassuring normality and routine; schools now are almost back for the new Covid year, suitably adapted though the virus continues at strength. I am beginning to realise that this September does not signal that old renewal; I am losing some of that spontaneous habit of carefree, thoughtless socialising. Concerts are out; Lumiere is out; Mah Jong groups of 8 are out; Thursday evening group is finito. This week has 
seen several, tentative, small-scale attempts to substitute survivor groups! Thus, coffee in a garden for three; conversation group of five people who live nearby, be-masked, on a terrace; two of us on my terrace for Mah Jong last weekend. One does realise how the amazingly long run of fine weather has helped to soften the hard edges of Lockdown. And also there is the gradual realisation that normal groups of friends, accustomed to regular meetings, cannot maintain the same level of friendship without regularly refreshing the relationship. There is also the dawning acknowledgement that just hunkering down and waiting for the storm to pass, won’t quite cut it this time. It looks increasingly likely that this rather pared-down normality will order our lives well into next year, beyond the Spring. I am now telling myself that all will be restored by or before Christmas 2021.
Noted on my early morning walks this week: three men fishing [at 8.00 a.m.] from the Potterierei, with nine rods. What DO fish from Bruggean canals taste like? Reminded me of Waingroves Hall in Derbyshire where my children grew up and a fishing club used to occasionally fish our pond overnight. Saw three strikingly long barges on the Gentpoortvest, sheltering together with one, dated 1885 for sale. And keep noticing yet more shops, empty and businesses abandoned, along the main streets. One can imagine that large chains, like Sissy Boy, can withdraw and regroup , but the smaller businesses lost can mean a complete change of life. This extraordinary pandemic has a terrifying power in multiple directions.
Walked, relatively unenthusiastically, this morning to the Petanque range adjacent to Minnewater and the Hotel Kasteel. I wanted to support what seemed like A Good Idea; exercise, socialisation, in the open air. Perfect for our viral times. But I am not an outdoor games person. Imagine my amazement when I, who cannot aim, throw or catch, stumbled her way to winning several times and having lots of fun. Look forward to the re-run next week when my perhaps temporary expertise is unmasked!
I seem unable to label each photograph at present so here are two to reassure that, despite different challenges to Life in Brugge, the swans, above seen from Potterierei, are oblivious to everything beyond the canals and fishing, and
below,
a glorious evening looking towards Verversdijk seen from the Carmersbrug.
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