Initiation

The title suggests an entry, in this case, into learning Dutch [bewildering; humbling; stumbling] and also into an unexpected, different language opportunity. Plus, a lesson in the language of flowers.

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

Chagalled!

Interesting week, easily the best day of which was Tuesday last [5th May]when I went to Brussels to the Beaux Art Museum to see the Chagall exhibition. Days later, I still feel excited, remembering. It is a major retrospective of over 200 pictures covering his years from 1908 to the mid 1980s and illuminating his world.  He portrayed repetitively and colourfully the iconography of Jewish village life and traditions, in his case, in Russia, chronicling family affairs, portraying his brother, [killed in the war] and sisters, and illustrating the growing threat to the Jewish way of life before and during World War Two.

His paintings are bright, poetic, lyrical in fact, peopled by iconic red goats, [sometimes white] with lovers entwined, often featuring dream-like figures floating in the air.

There is frequently a feeling of joy in the brightly-coloured images which look child-like at first, though second glances tell a deeper narrative. This exhibition offers an important, profoundly moving, experience.

There is one Chagall church in the UK in Kent, in the tiny village of Tudeley near Tonbridge. In 1963
Sarah, the young daughter of Sir Henry and Lady d'Avigdor-Goldsmith drowned in a boating accident off Rye, in East Sussex. The grieving parents commissioned Chagall to design a new East window in her memory, for All Saints, the modest little church in Tudeley, and gradually, Chagall, [and eventually his workshop]  produced other windows for the church so that by the time of his death in 1985, the last Tudeley Chagall window was being installed. They are beautiful, ranging from bright yellow and amber glass to deep purple and blue hues. The effect as one steps into this very ordinary-looking little country church, is dazzling and unexpected, as far as one could imagine from traditional stained glass but equally arresting. I think this was my first sight of Chagall, sometime in the early nineties, and it thrilled and uplifted me.

 And now, it is time to introduce a little more of 'my area' to this narrative. There is a line of three trees in the square, exactly opposite my study windows;  they had rather scrawny bare branches, forlorn and defenceless, when I arrived but now they are in their salad days, dappled in today's sun, and tender in their greens. I have forgiven the trees now for hiding a little of the architecture; the constant movement of the leaves in the lively wind seem all of a piece with the timeless chimes from the timid little convent bell next-door and the deeper tones, marking each hour, from the Toll Huis in Jan van Eyckplein. As I listen and look, I am conscious of these momentary pleasures that dot the landscape and I savour them. They are among the few special reasons why I came here to live; it wasn't for a quiet life, or to escape from the wonderful life I had in Wye or move from my super family, nor indeed, to leave England which I love. It was for the heightened appreciation of beauty in its several forms here and to find and meet the challenges of living on my own in a different country, near enough to feel safe, far enough to have to grapple with different customs, other ways of living, other unknowns. And I chose this little town because I fell in love with Brugge when I first visited with Eric in 1989.

Here is possibly my absolutely favourite local shop; to the left of my windows, it is a joy to see in daylight and a feast of colour and light till late at night.

Frou-Frou is a lovely little hat shop, and I write as a non-hat person! That seems not to have stopped me from buying two though this may simply be a tribute to the selling skills of the owner and the superb quality of her merchandise. I just love her window displays which change frequently; earlier this week, they honoured Mother's Day. The artistic arrangements of hats, bags, scarves and jewellery are such an asset to this little area and enhance the other, architectural, beauty on show. Here are two irresistible images from this week's presentations [but, now, one will be at the end as I CANNOT work out how to place pictures side by side in a companionable way, as intended!]

Not in 'my' square but a few paces off, in the Jan van Eyckplein, is a cafe [perhaps we should say Cafe Plus] which opened on Monday last, some  weeks after the window message announced its name as Blackbird, promising  that good things were coming soon. And really, good things have arrived! It is a visual knock-out inside as witnessed here, sophisticated dark browns, two levels and wonderfully chic touches everywhere.

And the coffee, salads, breakfasts, teas, wine and champagne et al more than live up to expectations. Since it opened early on Monday morning nearly a week ago, it has been pretty full, or very full, each time I have passed. It is perfectly situated of course, opposite Jan van Eyck's statue at the end of a canal and at a natural point for tourist pauses, but there are plenty of other gustatory temptations in that square. Undoubtedly, its inviting appearance [with the white blackbird and the chic little tables] plus the glimpses of the chocolate-brown, sophisticated interior, combine to lure in the discriminating.

In the hope that this blog does not too closely resemble a scrapbook, here is a little final visual treat, courtesy of Frou-Frou with, now I realise, not too many hats visible! Take my word for it, there are

many, many more inside!. 

I shall leave till next week, more than a mention of the Dutch classes I have started; suffering continues tomorrow for four mornings, of three and three quarter hours, for seven weeks. I am searching for a Slow Learners' Group.

Carpe Diem

Since Eric died, my motto has been Carpe diem, seize the moment, so I was pleased to see the tearoom/patisserie of that name, which I had stumbled across several years ago but could never, subsequently, remember exactly where in Bruges.

That was reassuring but less so was the development of a pain in the left foot after the last guest departed [no connection there] After soliciting help from Alice in the pharmacy next-door and solicitously applying her cream, to no effect, I made myself go to the doctor. He is, in fact, a delightful man but the no appointment system sorts the men from the boys. It took, in fact about an hour and a half to hear that it might be a stress fracture and I left with a paper and the instruction to go to the Black Nuns the following day at 8.00 am. Terrific. The lovely old building which forms one entire side of the square where I live, is referred to locally as the Black Nuns, a former convent hospital now part of the civic Sint Janshospitaal but retained, not for operations but for day treatments of various kinds and for convalescence after operations.

An hour after arrival next morning, I had had X ray and Echo which is Ultrasound I think. Results would be with my doctor that evening. As I limped to the nearby surgery I pondered on the upside of a partially insurance-funded scheme, [speed] as opposed to the Beloved NHS and its long wait for most results but with no fee involved for patients. I had adjusted to the idea of a little fracture in the foot so was caught off-balance to hear that it was, and is, arthritis. This doesn't fit in with my self-image at all so more adjustment is taking place, faute de mieux. After moans to children, I have received a number of suggestions, some really helpful [Increase your daily Omega 3 intake from 1000mg to 3000mg; buy proper walking shoes to better absorb the shock to the feet of constant cobblestones; walk less; walk more; swimming, good] others less so [chop it (the foot) off; don't worry] The doctor's anti-inflammatory pills are super effective and I now know it, the arthritic pain, will wax and wane so I continue Carpe Dieming while I eat lots of fruit and salads as usual, swim every day and look around for real walking shoes.

The hospital next door to me  was started and run by the Black Nuns, the Zwartzusters,

and in an endeavour to check the Dutch spelling, I went online and was fascinated to discover that they had been active here since the  fifteenth century. But what really riveted me was reading some of their fairly challenging rules of living, the most mediaeval and disconcerting of which was that self-flagellation was timetabled for every Friday but with three times a week demanded during Advent and Lent. 'Get thee to a nunnery; go!' seems ever less enticing. Comforting however to see that Hospitality was highly regarded. The photograph above is of the back facade, taken from my terrace with someone else's chimney standing guard.

But here is a Zwartzuster:

and we now know that her demure and pious demeanour conceals an astonishing capacity for absorbing regular, Self Inflicted, physical pain. Plus silence from dinner to morning prayer. O tempora, o mores. Obviously, a little touch of arthritis in the night is as nothing!

And it seems apt to mention that I came across [my favourite, catch-all phrase since moving Bruges-wards. Better than admitting the slight bewilderment in my mind as to exactly where all my individual books and papers are located] a slip of paper, written in some magazine in 2011, stating that 'I have switched from a policy of gradual self-improvement to one of managed decline.' Who wrote it I know not but I do like its aptness for the Senior Citizen and its nod to the mysterious, unexpected and amorphous boundary all of us cross at some juncture. Unwittingly perhaps, but nonetheless, inevitably. What a comfort, and a diversion, language is.

As an atheist, think I'll make this week's theme, godly in an associative sort of way. That's because I have a lovely photograph of the Godshuis Meulenaere in Nieuwe Gentweg. There are many tiny areas of peace and otherness in Bruges, adjacent to, and just out of sight of, busy tourist streets, and this is one. Brugse Godshuisen were almshouses and still serve the time-honoured purpose of providing low rent accommodation to the elderly, the widowed, the poor.

Godshuis Meulenaere, is timeless and touching in its almost bucolic simplicity and tranquillity; it implicitly offers sanctuary and always the French word, pelerin, pilgrim, comes to mind, not sure why. In fact, I followed a sign and briefly visited another Godshuis recently, the Rooms Convent founded in 1330 in Katelijnestraat; its secluded grassy area was busy with a young group of picnickers, happy and full of life, impervious to the surroundings apparently. Just seizing the moment I guess, in a care-free way.

Now I am on the God-related trail, I must introduce my angel-with-trumpet which I bought from an antique-cum-bric-a-brac shop, a huge cavern of an emporium actually and great fun to discover. She was crowded out by lesser objects and decidedly less attractive than intended, for the previous owner had somehow attached a metal slot to the ceramic back and slid in a pair of angel wings. Oh hideous to behold; bright gold-coloured metal of the correct size and the totally incorrect concept. She, the angel, looked somewhat embarrassed to discover herself thus accoutred and I felt a surge of sympathy. The vulgar wings were so inappropriate that they were almost a sin. Here she is, saved and wingless though perched high on top of a beautiful linen cupboard. She is such a subtle, Farrow and Ball colour too, although that last comment seems almost iconoclastic!

 

And, as a farewell to the Black Nuns, and Woensdagmarkt, an image of a fair young woman looking remarkably content and fulfilled with her often punishing life in Brugge.

Dipping A Toe in The Water

As a weak and woeful swimmer, I am nonetheless, devoted to keeping joints moving and in Wye, before Brugge, I swam five mornings a week, early. Finding a hotel with a swimming pool which allowed outsiders, i.e. local residents, to join the club, as it were, was always on my list but I have been too preoccupied with pressing problems like lighting to actually start the search. It proved to be easy and I am now a member of the Health Club at the Crowne Plaza in the Burg, perhaps four or five minutes' walk away. Perfect; catching a bus to the suburbs would probably present all too much of an unwarranted effort. The pool is Seriously Small, more a large rectangular puddle, voila!

I'm not very conversant with metres etc but think it is probably four by eight so, even for me, a tad tiny. However, I now paddle devotedly round and round the perimeter for half an hour, always solo. I go when it opens so am in the pool by seven; sometimes there's a grim-looking woman who runs on the treadmill nearby for, quite possibly, an hour. A grim task indeed. So there is the background, pounding noise just audible but otherwise, it is my private space. Choice of two showers, dress then a swift walk home to breakfast. Even with guests staying I can do this as I'm back home by eight, feeling a trifle smug!

This Bruggean adaptation of my normal routine extended, this week, to going to see a film. SO glad that this is also incredibly easy; the cinema is named the Lumiere and is about five minutes walk away, with three screens [but alas no Direct Transmission so beloved in the UK] and a fourth to be soon added, AND a super terrace plus a large seating area with a bar. Even better, there is another place, no doubt a Plastic Palace, on the outskirts of the town, which caters for blockbuster fans etc. That 'etc' covers action films, violent films, vulgar and pathetic films. I hope this means that the out-of-town place is the Go To Cinema for popular stuff, leaving the central one for decent films; the Lumiere does UK, US and European films with the emphasis on the latter. Went with neighbour-who-lives-above to see 'Still Alice' with Julianne Moore and  have a vague memory that she won an Oscar for her stunning performance. It was heart-wrenching, as well as beautifully directed and acted, to see the descent from professorial articulate confidence to the lower slopes of dementia. Afterwards, a beer in the bar and now can't remember the new-to-me beer I ordered. Delicious, like all Belgian beers, whatever the staunch fans of warm, flat British beer profess!

To briefly continue the beery theme, had an old friend of my husband's staying a week ago and one of the sights he wanted to see was the one remaining brewery in Brugge, De Halve Maan which produces differing strengths of Straffe Hendricke and Brugse Zot. There are frequent guided tours, something I hadn't done for twenty years, so it was a revelation to be brought up-to-date, even with the 120 so-called 'steps' which were steel ladders in the main and required concentration and confident footwear! Part of the premises is virtually a museum with everything part of the history of the site and its gradual modernisation over the last one hundred and fifty years; it was impressive. And remember, this brewery has belonged to the same family since its inception. Apparently, the main difficulty for the present brewery is that it is spatially locked-in, given the constraints of the built-up environment so that delivery of goods or dispatch, presents major problems with road closure [very early in the day] essential. SO, dazzling to discover that the present CEO, the latest member of the Maas family to inherit, is exploring the practicality of piping the finished beer for bottling to the premises beyond the canals where bottling has taken place for years. Indeed, it is more than exploring; with the help of the town council of Brugge, it will happen next year.

As I remarked once before, computer friend, Bernard, says blogs must include photographs so here is the splendid exterior of a cafe nearby which seems to get passersby busy, snapping away. Must get a camera; had to use my Ipad which is both a feat of memory and effort.

And whilst on the topic of pretty pictures, also took Derek to see the delightful Beguinage which I think I have mentioned before. It really is a peaceful haven; a delight to the senses in every way.

Before we entered the gates as we crossed the canal with its usual heavy crowd of busy white swans, my eye was caught by two elegant birds almost dancing in unison on the water; they stayed close, brought their long sinuous necks together in an almost convulsive, simultaneous shudder before dipping beaks and heads into the water, again in unison,  and then re-emerging to continue their self-absorbed passion.  They were oblivious to the approving crowd which quickly assembled and even to the crowded, noisy tourist boat which scythed the water perilously close to them, simply continuing on what were obviously the early stages of courtship. Soon after, we noticed two more ivory-feathered couples, further upstream, gliding and swaying and dipping together, and realised that it is April and Chaucer's Prologue came to mind:

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote.

When April's sweet showers have penetrated the dry roots of March, hydrating them ...

I had to check the spellings online of the Chaucerian English which I thought I had remembered, but hadn't quite! Only then did I see
' And small fowles maken melodye '
which I had quite forgotten. But it perfectly described the loving swans in their unrestrained and joyful overtures; they were making melody!
And there is a picture! But a rather small one of the smitten swans!

And to finish, a mention of a lovely exhibition in Sint Janshospitaal. It is called Right, Before I Die by Andrew George, a photographer from Los Angeles. It is one of the most moving I have ever seen. George somehow persuaded about twenty people who were in the final stages of dying, to have their photographs taken and to answer questions in writing. Their individual testaments, as Alain de Botton says in his foreword, show that the dying are the great appreciators; they notice the value of the sunshine on a spring afternoon, a few minutes with a grandchild, another breath. This exhibition doesn't depress; rather the contributions, instead of trying 'to crush us with the remembrance of death, have an unexpected joyful quality.' And on that jolly note, au revoir with a photo of the distinguished-looking Abel.

Pictures of Perfection

Think I'll begin with this Picture of the Perfect Patisserie, the phrase referring both to the little gateau above AND the magasin nearby. I stopped recently to buy from the Academie Patisserie and was delighted to find an example of pink grapefruit, a favourite fruit, used in a confection. This little shop is full of amazing tartlets and sweetmeats and must be one of the best in Brugge, at the very peak, in fact. It is just round the corner from a more famous, larger [and also gorgeous] patisserie, Van Mullem, where crowds sit on the pavement terrace and the inner temple is always full. The large window spaces are poems to the confectioner's art and seduce the eye of the passer-by, even that of the puritanically-inclined [in dietary terms] Both places are testimony to the wider art of Bruges.

Quite forgot in the last blog to mention the two important purchases at the Brocante in late March where I attempted to sell some surplus pictures. One was an antique map of Brugge, subsequently covered by the generous cheque from the Jane Austen Branch in Kent as a 'retirement' gift. It is from the Flandria Illustrata of 1649, by Antonius Sonderus and is detailed with such tiny writing that I have to keep a magnifying glass to hand to decipher it but it is such a privilege to have it there in my sitting room with me as a temporary custodian.

This is the best picture I can manage; doesn't do the map justice at all but it does convey the extraordinary detail of the engraving.

My second Brocante purchase was equally, though differently, thrilling to yours truly. I had never heard of James Ensor till perhaps four or five years ago; he was an artist, born of English parents, who lived almost his whole life in Ostend [his dates were 1860-1949] but he eventually, belatedly, became famous as 'a forerunner of twentieth century Expressionism'. I visited the James Ensor Museum in Ostend three years ago with a girlfriend from Florence who is an artist. I loved some of his work; he was an innovator, often grotesquely so. Anyway to the point. In the Flea Market in March, there was a print of a drawing of James Ensor which was quite special. The original charcoal line portrait had been done by David Lang in 1926 then subsequently the same artist had created prints of it; the one I bought, slightly scruffy, was the artist's proof and is dedicated to the 'Marquise Massoni avec mon plus respect et tout ma reconnaissance. Bruxelles le 20 Okt 1951'. As I managed to negotiate a reduced price of 125 euros, think I got a bit of a prize which cheers me even more each time I look at it. The picture appeals both to the aesthetic and the historian in me.

I'm making this issue a testament to the fact that I have joined the Gadarene swine in their rush towards rampant materialism! After WEEKS of dithering, for I need extra furniture not at all, I have given in to the base desire to possess and place a venerable old [circa 1900] Chinese chest of drawers. I knew it would be perfection in the bathroom [though I might yet move it into the corridor]
and it is. It arrived on Thursday evening delivered by the owner's wife [who gamely struggled] and his grand-daughter, the latter observing that her family had a similar one in their bathroom. This in answer to my diffidence about it being 'in the right place'. Here it is.

And this image doesn't do justice to the subtleties of tone and texture!

But I must stop and prepare for a guest, an old friend of Eric's, en route as I write to a short stay here for three nights, on his way to Germany from the US via the UK. Think my living in Brugge will be a similar story to the nine months I spent in Florence when I happily entertained many visitors, attracted alas, not by my personal magnetism, but the opportunity for free accommodation in a
beautiful destination!!

Statues

Just returned from lovely sunny windy walk to buy a newspaper, a weekly treat, wander down to the Markt to admire the visiting throng and have a coffee in a favourite bar on Sint Jacobstraat [closed!] Stopped to watch a large group, encouraged by a Chinese tour guide, deciding whether to splurge 44 euros on a half hour horse-drawn carriage ride. Many did! Let me try to show you.

Wow! Bernard's instructions Work; can now place photographs more or less where I want them. Great new skill! Let's try again; have intended to photograph Jan Van Eyckplein, very close to where I live but, having lost the camera, have to remember to take out the Ipad and this is a challenge. Today, all set fair.

Jan Van Eyck was one of the most significant Northern Renaissance artists who achieved new levels of virtuosity in oil painting and was followed and copied by many other artists. My shot doesn't show the canal, a few metres to the left of the statue; must try again.

Just to demonstrate my new, low-level flair in image-placement, here is 'my' statue on which I look down every day; 'tis of Hans Memling, a mediaeval world-beater part of whose small but exquisite collection is housed in the museum, Sint Janshospitaal. There are others; at least one Memling is in the Groeninghe Museum here and others are in Gdansk and Italy. [Memo to self: stop lecturing.]

When the agent brought my sister and me to view various apartments in Bruges in December, he identified the statue and I remember saying that I hoped the apartment lived up to expectations because I HAD to live near my favourite mediaeval artist, whose work I make an annual pilgrimage to view. That is one reason I live in a family-sized apartment when I was supposed to be downsizing.

The building, housing a number of apartments, is fifteenth century I think, and perhaps a trifle severe in external appearance BUT it is brilliant living on the third floor [paradoxically my windows are the line across the top; to my inexpert eyes, they look to be on the fourth floor! But I dial 3 in the little lift and also walk up once a day. But I boast; it is an effort. The views are superb; I can tell the time from the clock on the Belfry, the Beffroi, housed in the Markt in the centre of Brugge and can see numerous church steeples and turrets. A roof-scape to savour. [I did include a shot of the building but decided to remove it in an over-cautious moment.]

What else has happened this week? A re-directed envelope brought me a £10 third prize from a 100 Club; only the second time for I am not a winner normally in these ventures. A bill from Telenet, an overdue bill from Eneco with a five euro fine attached, [successfully challenged], a card from a friend in Chianti aged 91 and still firing on a number of cylinders with the help of a Polish carer. A letter from a friend in Wye who doesn't do e-mail plus several hundredweight, oops, kilos, of rubbishy magazines, offers and sundry dubious invitations. And of course, the continuing saga of the lights in this flat, a problem nearing solution I reckon. Still cannot believe that there are only occasional bare bulbs inches from the high ceilings plus clusters of bare wires poking through the plaster, when a new tenant moves in. Definitely the rental turn-over in Brugge and presumably in Belgium, keeps the lighting shops and electricians with a generous supply of sales and work. Oh yes, a delightful and convivial evening with the Crundale Gardeners over a meal at 't Putje in 't Zand. They were passing through en route to the bulb fields of Holland. It was super to see them and just as super to remain behind here when we parted. 'Surely you miss the countryside?' I was asked but I don't. Think I must have been an urbanite at heart, all those years of near-rural living; a metropolitan, built-up kind of person who loves cafes, little shops, restaurants and museums just outside the door.

Long Pause

Cannot possibly be a month since I last posted, can it? Oh the shame of having to admit that I haven't had time or energy to spare; but there are reasons or perhaps, excuses. First I had to return to England for almost a week. Initially to retire, formally, at the Jane Austen Kent Branch AGM, from the Chair and then, my brother's funeral eventually came to rest in the same week. This had had to be postponed because the Coroner's office in Nottingham was behind schedule in the post mortem stakes so the body could not be guaranteed for the first funeral date. Mine not to ask [though I did] why a post mortem was necessary for a man of 94 who had spent the last two weeks of his life in hospital. Apparently it, his death, came under the heading of Unexpected. I do savour the idea of an unexpected death at nearly 95. Dear old boy, so contrary in life and so contumacious  in death. He would have loved the fuss and the fact that about three dozen of the extended family managed to turn up at the church and thoroughly enjoy the subsequent feast and fun. Think he would have also loved the presence of several of his sisters' grandchildren, especially four year old Genevieve who brought along Reg the Rabbit, named in honour of her great uncle.

The Jane Austen day was fab too with generosity of spirit and in gift, very evident. I'm not sure if it was the amount of week-long talking and travelling and/or the excessive cold at beloved Goodnestone [in Kent; Google it you duffers.] but I finished the Saturday 21st March colder than I ever knew it possible and more tired than Methuselah...[ I am assuming excessive fatigue with excessive age!] Sunday from Margaret's to Clare and Steve's for a last lovely stay before returning home, and still sooooo tired and prone to cold. Details best left unsaid but most of the following week I 'rested', unexpectedly exhausted. One branch of the family arrived on the Sunday and by the following Sunday, Easter Sunday, had departed and made way for a short stay en route home by another branch. Lovely time was had, apartment duly admired and washing etc done subsequent to each departure. I am still dreaming of a cleaning person if only to master the damned vacuum cleaner which is so easy, instant and highly recommended that I can't see how to detach to empty in spite of demo a few days ago from younger daughter.

Which brings me pretty well up to date and the excitement du jour is the Installation of one light fitting this morning and delivery of lots of others, ready to be fitted on Friday. My lumiere truly shineth. But I can't omit mention of The Brocante of which I meant to write before the departure for funeral and celebration etc.  Et voila, [below] a photo of the wonderful double table display opposite the stall I set up for two days [Sat: 8.00-18.00; Sun 10.00-18.00. Phew!] in the Beurshalle not far from 't Zand. [One day I shall perfect the technique of fixing the wretched illustration/image where I want it.] I wanted to sell pictures, loads of which used to adorn the walls of my house in Wye but which I don't feel I can display here AND remain friends with the owner of my flat, an architect who is slightly neurotic about holes in walls. Selling things which do not interest most people is certainly a shade humbling but there were pluses.

Made friends with the girl who makes her living from the stall opposite and her sister-in-law, an elegant 80 year old whom I shall see again; also made mute but tactile friends with a Mrs Pepperpot lookalike and her angular husband on the next stall. They were endlessly cheerful and friendly but only spoke Dutch. Each of the two days I gave Mrs P one of my pictures in return for which I received copious hugs and several kisses. Should admit here that it was expediency disguised as altruism. In the end I took almost 200 euros but, alas, spent around 400, finance not being my prime motivator. Photographs of my two impressive purchases to follow! No time now; slow in achieving much today after my first Night Out. Met up last evening, with a party of 17 Crundale Gardeners who were en route to the bulb fields of Holland; we had a super dinner and what could be described as 'animated conversation'. Splendid time was had, though they either drank wine or water to my puzzlement, Belgian beer being sans pareil, as my usual Duvel testified.