Le Nozze di Figaro and Taptoe

On my walk to school one morning recently, I noticed a small brass plaque on the street wall of an old building. It caught my eye because it contained a name of one of my historical heroes.

Translated it reads: Thomas More, Sainted patron of our association – visitor to these premises several times in the 16^th century. In fact, heilige means holy or sacred but can also mean Saint. It probably refers to Thomas after 1935 when he was canonised and it is therefore, presumably, a mid-to-late twentieth century plaque.

I was thrilled. Of course, it made some sense when one considers More's history. Amusingly, as I cannot at this minute locate my biography of More to check what I think I know, I found the following in an article of Aug 12^th 2009 in the unlikely place of Vremya Novostei, The News Time, a Moscow newspaper! 

Erasmus, the philosopher, lawyer and great friend of Thomas More, wrote his famous 'In Praise of Folly' [which he dedicated to Thomas] in one week while staying at Thomas's home in London. Each night they discussed matters philosophical in Latin, their common tongue, trying to understand and suggest improvements for, European religious, academic and political institutions. In the foreword to his famous book, Erasmus extolled the virtues of Thomas's wit, erudition and integrity and this [the Folly ran to almost 40 editions] amplified abroad the reputation of this wise and subtle man. Thomas eventually reached the highest position in the land, below the monarch , by becoming Lord Chancellor of England and a leading politician in Europe. In 1515 he certainly spent time in Brugge and also in Antwerp, Brussels and Mechelen and may well have visited again when he subsequently led several diplomatic missions in Europe.

Interestingly, a friend mentioned that Sister Mary More, a descendant of Thomas, had been Prioress at the English Convent here in Brugge, on Carmerstraat, and I dismissed the idea! I now find that indeed she was the ninth and last lineal descendant of Thomas and had been sent to Brugge to be educated at the Convent of Nazareth [as it was then known], was there made a Canoness in 1753 and elected in 1766 to be the seventh Prioress of the Convent. In 1791 Brugge was over-run by French Revolutionary forces and though the community, with Mother Mary as its leader, remained at the Convent for a time, it eventually fled to England in 1794. They were offered sanctuary by Sir Thomas Gage, a recusant, at Hengrave Hall near Bury St Edmunds where they stayed until 1802 when they returned to Brugge. Mother Mary More died in 1807 and is buried in Brugge.

At some point Mary More presented what is described as a portrait of Sir Thomas More, painted by Hans Holbein the Younger and which she had inherited, to the English Convent. There are two Holbein portraits of her illustrious ancestor, one is in New York and one in Zagreb so the Brugge version may well be a contemporaneous copy. It is presently undergoing restoration and one of the sisters has promised to let me know when it is in situ once more when I shall go to see both it and the inside of, the Convent. She referred to it as 'the Holbein portrait'.

The Holbein Portrait

  

On Tuesday evening I had a surprise treat from a friend, and not only a friend, but a friend with tickets and a car! He had two tickets for Le Nozze di Figaro at Gent Opera one of which his wife couldn't use so an early birthday treat was offered and rapidly accepted. It was an inspiring production which we eventually saw but first we strolled in a small area near to the Opera House and one could quickly get the feel of Gent. Much more urban, more sophisticated, more relaxed really than in Brugge; hadn't suspected the difference was there, but it immediately hit me. Interesting indeed.

The Royal Opera House itself was stunning; gilded mirrors, extravagant spaces, and, despite its relatively older age, with a fin de siecle feel to the whole place including the entrance we used which was a huge covered, cobbled area originally used for coach and horse arrivals and departures. The Opera House was built in the first half of the nineteenth century by rich Gent industrialists who sought status, wealth and power through the erection of this prestigious cultural totem. It is still extraordinarily impressive as a venue but also for its existence in a relatively modest-sized [though beautiful] city. 

The production itself was superb in every way; range and quality of voices, costumes, scenery, the entire communal effort with a superb orchestra and a feeling of verve and involvement on stage, which enveloped the large audience. At the end, there were repeated standing ovations and one could fancy the huge regret as the company of players prepared to disperse after the final curtain, following many many weeks of working so productively together. I noticed next day from the programme of book-length proportions, that the Musical Director was Paul McCreesh, famous in the UK for his extensive Early Music knowledge and activities. Impressive;  

I had no idea that he was also involved importantly in opera. The image above is from the Paul McCreesh online archive taken during a recording session. It was impossible to take any shot on the evening as he worked away, in a dark suit in an even darker, deeper orchestra pit.

Both my companion and I were also most intrigued by the way in which the area on the stage was manipulated. The audience's first sight of the stage showed a normal space where Figaro and Susanna are preparing the new apartment with the new bed presented by the Count. Later however, the space looked of almost hangar-like proportions. The perspective was shaped skilfully by both scenery and props, with the only slightly odd dimension being the fact that people, as they moved upstage, became comparatively bigger, huge in fact! I have occasionally been aware of this jeu des yeux in other plays but it was used to stunning effect onstage in Gent Opera House!

The image below is of the one of the numerous ecstatic curtain calls.

And here we have a theatre-goer [not sure if the phrase, 'opera-goer' exists] enjoying an innocent glass of water before finishing her wine.

It is now Sunday and I have just returned from a most enjoyable morning at 't Zand at the first of the season's three outdoor, open-air Flea Markets. As usual, crowds attending and what seems like acres of stalls selling... everything almost. As experiences go, it is addictive especially so on a warm and sunny morning, so I had admonished myself as I arrived, Not To Buy. I wandered for a short time then met two friends, by chance, from the Wednesday morning coffee club, and joined up with them for a time, until, John, a member of the Thursday English-speaking group, spoke to me and I stopped to chat which marked the last time I saw the first two friends! Shortly afterwards, I found the stall manned by Debbie and Ellie who do Brocantes and similar as a hobby; their double stall was great but I couldn't buy because I no longer need such decorations!  Off I wandered enjoying the crowd, the sunshine, and viewing what Eric would have called, the rubbish on view.

I investigated a lovely stall with brass and copper and various interesting objects including a lovely steamer trunk which I thought might well serve as a coffee table much needed for the large empty space in the living room. I have been searching for something but dithered over the trunk, so the price dropped. But it wasn't the price which was significant but the suitability and the subsequent transport, were I to buy. I wandered off to consider and over a coffee decided to buy and made a number of phone calls to taxi firms, eventually settling on one willing to do the job of transporting me and trunk and arranging a meeting point. Neither negotiation was easy but settled it was and the eventual deal done. The seller helped enormously by finding a porter from a nearby stall inclined to carry the trunk to the bus station quite nearby and even tipping the man to do the job. The burly porter impressed me no end by carrying the trunk on his head! I was too slow to get a photo! After a quarter of an hour in the bus area, and two taxi sightings on the wrong side of the wide road where the buses drop off and pick up, I contacted the taxi firm again to discover that the driver hadn't seen me and had picked up another fare. The phone manager suggested I cross the wide, wide road and go to the entrance of the Concertgebouw; not a big distance but I had two other bags and couldn't possibly move the trunk anyway.  Suffice it to say, that eventually a woman driver arrived, saw me because she was looking out for me, stopped and shouted that she wasn't allowed on that side of the road anyway. In the end, about forty minutes after the whole transport exercise had begun, I had cornered a young man to assist, crossed the wide road with the luggage and gained custody of the taxi. The girl driver was wonderful and I sent up a silent vote of thanks that I had been spared a male driver; she was SO sympatica and we had a lovely chat and giggle about the whole thing before she helped me carry it to the lift here. Trunk now in situ and I am still not sure.

  

                   

Last evening my friend from this building and I went to the Burg for the enchantingly-named Taptoe. I had thought it was Tattoo from the pronunciation but not so. There was seating for many in the Burg but we went to Tom Pouce for a meal on the terrace there which forms one side, virtually, of the space. Disappointment and irritation, shared by restaurant and other diners, to discover that the whole view had been obscured by black sheeting, the sole purpose of which seemed to be to stop people viewing from outside the arena's expensive seating. Outrage at the pettifogging meanness of spirit, but little to be done; for us, salvation; the waiter allowed us upstairs and so we had a super over-view of the whole proceedings. The Taptoe consisted entirely of marching bands, chiefly, though not exclusively, brass bands, from Belgium and Holland. I had assumed they were village or town bands but the level of professionalism was so high that we decided that they were entirely non-amateur. The standard of musicianship was superb but the particular joy in watching was to see the intricate choreography of the marching movements. Plus, of course, the splendid uniforms. I don't think they were military bands but they were certainly militaristic in their precision and commands. 

The music covered a variety of areas adapted for the instruments [lots and lots of drums as well as a vast range of brass] and marching rhythms. It was a delight to watch and hear; one group was quite different from the rest. Most dress was military style but based on ornate frock coats, traditional military jackets or folk costume adaptations but one Belgian group had cleverly adapted soldiers' khaki to echo their theme of Flanders' Fields and World War One. They rolled out a huge plastic cloth emblazoned with a single red poppy and their marching routines on the poppy ground, were staccato, echoing the theme of warfare, underlined by insistent drumming to suggest gunfire, with drumsticks used to evoke rifles. Magnificent and moving.

Below is an image of the temporary seating inside the Burg which the organisers seemed so keen to protect. In the event, more seats than this were taken but at least one third of the seats remained unoccupied. SO sad. Perhaps the 35 euro seat price was too high for some; the entire event would have been enhanced by the removal of the black curtain, mostly off camera along the front edge where lots of spectators, many unaware that Taptoe was happening until they had stumbled on the event or were lured by the music, were perforce kept offstage and unable to view what is a public space. Meanwhile the restaurant had a relatively disastrous evening; diners really didn't want to be blacked out! The organisation of the whole evening was superb [blackout notwithstanding] with one band marching out of one exit as the next was alert and ready at another entrance. For me, an evening with a difference and as thrilling in its way as the Gent Opera earlier in the week.

Learning Can Take Many Forms

  

There is a feeling of freedom, nay abandonment, chez moi as the Dutch lessons finish. Will really miss Sophie, the fab teacher, and my young fellow students who have been delightful. Earlier, I counted the number of different countries from which we came and now am not sure but it was around sixteen I think. We have been able to learn so much from each other in addition to the beginnings of Dutch from Sophie pursuing a mega-task of imparting some of the foundations of her language.  In spite of protestations of intent to keep in touch, undoubtedly we won't, or at least, they won't with me, nor I with them, as we are generations apart. I have come to love and admire them as they pursue their different journeys which chiefly cluster under the heading of Dreams for The Future. Whether they be for their children's better education and lives; their own professional advancement via university/college; jobs, now, to live independently; a restaurant to open, a degree to pursue whatever, they all need to speak Dutch and most pursue this objective with verve! Some, with an admirable and steely determination; others with a slightly less demotic devotion; yet more [but only a few] with a careless and carefree attitude which belies the real need and their possibly vain hope that, somehow, without working too hard, they will end up with some fluency in the language and so Fit In and Get On.

We finished the course, after more exercises and test results, early and then went as a group around a nearby part of Brugge, the beloved Beguinage area, unknown to most of the young students. Sophie led and spoke of course in Dutch so it was learning continued . We wandered round and finished at a restaurant in the Walplein where Hardeep's husband is a chef, for drinks and more chat. A delightful way to complete Level One. We had earlier presented Sophie with a super Passion Flower plant and a bouquet, both of which I had bought earlier [with money collected from the class] and both of which I had to carry/drag to school in my bag-on-wheels earlier. The result after a journey of 30 minutes on foot, was a hot and slightly weary but triumphant, porter!

Some of the party on our perambulations

I have worked quite hard on the course, but the hours necessary to attend, over a four day week, are frankly too much for me now to have the energy to spare for the other stuff I want to do. Important tasks like finding the Archaeological Museum to see if I can locate more about the discovery of the buried remains, and subsequent restoration of Sint Donaas Kathedral or the history of the building where I live which has the intriguing old name of Oud Hof van Smyrna. However, I do want to learn Dutch and hope to find a class for fewer hours a week in the Autumn. Sensibly, all classes stop for the important vacances now and I already have details of a Dutch conversation group which will re-start in September, though I can offer only a tiny basis on which to begin any conversation! Still, got a decent grade to finish, with my lowest mark in speaking; no surprise but private irritation nonetheless!

What else have I done or seen this week? Relatively little overall; a second trip to the chic hairdresser on Gentpoortstraat where the highlights in my hair worked after all my anxiety, but the cut, though superb, is still Too Short [these things matter!] AND the visit was an unbelievable three and a half hours long. There is always an opportunity inside every problem, the Chinese suggest, and the plus for me was finding a fellow traveller there. She had also been Head of a school and had to retire early because of ill health. We swapped e-mail addresses as she was borne off to await the decisions and skill of the Master and I settled down to await my turn as I read the New Statesman. When I eventually reached the cutting stage and the Boss, I took the opportunity to say that no one had spoken to me from the staff when I arrived or during my unexpectedly long wait and that was not good enough. He is the sweetest man and he thanked me but I shall be interested to see if anything alters next time I visit. I have since decided that the real, day to day capo is the stately blonde in shiny clothes who seems to be i/c colouring and reception and it is she who should be training the girls in the minute-to-minute courtesies and practices.

Saturday was Feest in 't Park, in the area round Minnewater to be precise. There is a seemingly endless succession of events in Brugge in the summer months and I now receive the Brugge Stads magazine giving the zommeragenda. [even I can translate that!]. From there I gather news such as the fact that members of the Canal Swimmers' Club can swim in the Langerei canal near me, every weekend from 13.00 to 18.00 in July and August. Must pop down there to view the way bolder swimmers than I, disport themselves so fearlessly. Imagine the temperature of the water, AND the grime!

But thus, from the Brugge Inspraak mag, did I discover that Feest in 't Park, a free 'mondial festival' for young and old, was taking place yesterday, Saturday. Had to go and have a look; marvellous weather and free entrance, and no doubt the wealth of activities on offer, drew thousands. I doubt that there were many tourists there in fact; they might well not have heard of it. Hundreds and hundreds of young local families were there, meeting up with friends, trying out foods, supervising children, loving it all. Prepare ye for an avalanche of pictures; there were some enchanting sights in fact. My favourite bit was the arena where a young authoritative Western man, dressed in black gear and slung around with huge African drum, sticks etc was directing a large circle of youngsters, each with a drum, in the art of making rhythm, African style. The children were incredibly involved, totally and un-self consciously absorbed; a joy to see.

And here, my absolute fav example of concentration from a potential drummer-of-the-future:

And talking of concentration, I snapped this young man engrossed in solving some puzzle while sitting in his stylish transport.

The many activities included various painting opportunities on paper, card, objects, faces, for little ones and bigger ones; mini rock climbing; exploring over solid versions of cartoon objects like the one below: investigations in diverse tents;

Selling stalls were there a-plenty with African, Indian and perhaps Oriental jewellery attracting eager customers and in addition, there were lots of seating and eating areas with many, many stalls selling hot food from all over the globe!

Regional bodies were clearly involved and among the publicity tents I noticed Oxfam [one of the organisers of the event]; Plan Belgie [a charity which I already support in the form of Plan UK, providing help and education in the Third World]; UNICEF; Side-by-side India and numerous other charities. The identity of the organisers explains the worldwide nature of the stalls on offer and all sounds Good but Earnest; the event in fact was stimulating and Fun for the mainly young families there with the implicit message of We Are One World. Oh dear; difficult to explain; sounds so Worthy but impressive to see.

I have looked back at this blog and despite best efforts, CANNOT arrange the photographs as I would like; thus a big space adjacent to the tent where the picture below could go, but won't. SO annoying and any advice, welcome.

I went to the baker's at half past eight this Sunday morning, and was musing, as I walked back, at the reassuring nature of the whole experience, short though it was. First, a queue on the street from the bakery which had been on holiday for a week; a vote of confidence I thought. As I gradually edged forward and was looking at the goodies on offer other than the super breads, a quite new neighbour in my building saw me and remembered who I was though not the name so a short conversation later [in English schoolgirl French and Belgian French] we parted amicably; man who served me, remembered that I have a black Probody bread, sliced and that I live in Woensdagmarkt nearby, and as I waited, homeward-bound, at the zebra crossing, a large car stopped to allow me to walk. Reminded me that this is the norm here and that, as a permanent pedestrian, I really appreciate the courtesy.

Two in one

 Last week's blog was going to be quite short and it was ready except for one or two details I wanted from someone else. As I waited for their arrival I played about with pictures, rather obsessively to be truthful; putting one in, removing it and trying another. I did this a number of times, and the last time I clicked Remove to zap the image, rather unsportingly, the entire text-with-pics disappeared. Couldn't retrieve it and retired in the face of superior forces.

SO this week, will try to remember some of last week's topics as well as this week's, the whole exercise made much easier on account of the fact that my activities, other than the Nederlands course, having shrunk in the face of the reduced energy available. I want to be a student but think I may lack a little of the stamina necessary!!

First, I totally omitted to mention the wonderful stork which Michele and I saw in Sluis; it was perched in a huge nest, atop a branch-less, tall tree trunk among the busy crowds and stalls of the Brocante below. It never deigned even to look down, only into the nest where there were young ones I think, or into the wide blue yonder. It was implacably on duty for hours and hours, studiously ignoring the multitude, the noise, the colours, the unceasing movement of the crowd below. It was magnificent, regal one might say. One wondered at the position of the nest; it looked steady but it was improbably high and possibly precarious, without external supports. But that judgement is obviously from a non-stork viewpoint; the stork itself appeared nonchalant about security.

A week ago exactly, the group of Bruges residents with whom I meet every week to speak English in a nearby bistro had quite a treat. John, a member, spoke about his fascinating hobby; he paints faux marbre and he had brought along various large pieces of substantial paper on which he had painted a number of examples. We were all impressed and I particularly loved them. They were so skillful; he has been painting them for around six years having received tuition, as an apprentice originally, from an experienced artist. John is now really accomplished and must spend hours involved in following this creative pastime. He showed us examples of different marble he has painted: Carrera; Yellow Siena; Sea Green; Grand Antique. He sent several pictures as examples of the effect of faux marbre painted on objects. 

I am very tempted to ask him to paint the handsome fireplace in my study, presently a lovely Farrow and Ball pale sludge; it would look fab in faux marbre but I hesitate. The flat is rented, not owned by me, and who knows if the owner would be happy with a tenant exercising more power than she, in fact, has? Perhaps not!

This week, apart from lessons, I have been to the tandarts, the dentist, who is superbly efficient BUT for whom I wait at least half an hour after my due appointment. I have so far lacked the courage to arrive late, just in case …. Visits to the doctor's are similar but worse in the wait; a no appointment system and usually anything from an hour to two to hang about! But that is something else! From the dentist, late, I hastened across town, [another twenty five minutes walking] to have tea at a house owned by one of the members of the coffee group which meets in the Hotel Martin in Oude Burg every Wednesday. There were four of us, one having left as I was an hour late in arriving. As so often in Brugge, rather ordinary-looking houses which open directly from the street, repay further investigation. This house is splendid with the feel of a venerable country house, rather baronial in its fireplace and air of quiet history; oil paintings and other treasures on the walls and a dark library light, lit up at the far end with a large window giving on to a truly delightful garden. Heaven. Didn't even think to ask if I could take a photograph or two but may do if I am invited again. We sat in the garden, table laden with cakes and cups, sheltered by high walls and a vine, and rather pitied the husband who works all week in London although I hear that he believes he has the best of both worlds!

And this morning, Saturday, to town twice as I instinctively went out around 9.00 a.m. forgetting quite that only the bakery, the Post Office and the supermarket would be open, regular shops opening at 10.00 a.m. Eventually, all errands accomplished, Daily Telegraph bought [once a week treat, the Guardian being unavailable here] on an impulse into Blackbird in the Jan Van Eyckplein nearby, for a coffee, a little read of the paper and to refresh my memory of the lovely décor there. Then home to revise for an exam next Tuesday followed on Thursday by a spoken test and Freedom at the end of Friday morning as the Dutch course finishes!

Broke off from the student mode to catch the Brugge Triatlon beginning at 17.15 from Sasplein, not too far from where I live. All households had received a substantial leaflet giving chiefly details of available parking and of the numerous roads closed. But I did discover that it was a Kwarttriatlon [so easier then] consisting of a 1000 metre swim in the canal; a 45 kilometre cycle ride and a 10 kilometre run which sounds Not Very Easy to me. There were crowds waiting for, then watching, the staggered start:

And more watchers lining the route, cheering friends and family members in the water; indeed, as the first tranche lined up for the start, several of the swimmers were to be seen waving optimistically to friends on the sidelines. It was a really well-organised event with about a dozen men in wet-suits in the water at strategic points as life guards plus a speed boat in the wings, so to speak.. I was impressed to see the potential life-savers more than half an hour before the start, in position in the canal. Rather like the recent Triennale opening, crowds of volunteer helpers feature prominently in the successful organisation which is anything but amateur.

The crowds were on the canal-side watching the cyclists and the first 20 or 30 received cheers and hand claps and encouraging shouts which died away as numbers increased and groups of cyclist whizzed by. I didn't wait to find the subsequent road run; I had spoken to a lovely policeman [SO different from our own dear policemen in his linguistic ability! I heard French, English, Dutch.] earlier who said that some entrants, at least, were groups of three with a swimmer, a cyclist and a runner taking part. I lacked the tenacity to remain longer and study called, though I WAS diverted en route home, to the crowded Terrastje cafe-bar tucked into the corner of Genthof and Langerei, for a beer and a chat with mine hosts, Ian [English] and Patricia [Dutch].

It is now Sunday morning and I can hear, behind the insistent bells, the sound of a marching band somewhere near; obviously more entertainment is afoot and I smile to myself at the plethora of 'things' going on in Brugge. It is a huge tourist centre and would be popular without making much of an effort anyway, because of the wonderful art and mostly mediaeval architecture set in narrow cobbled streets. But the town authorities and others make considerable and creative attempts to present interesting cultural events in the summer period which no doubt entertain tourists but which also add so much to the social and intellectual life of the residents.

But speaking of entertainment for the tourists, on my way to my late tea at the lovely house on Friday, I stopped, albeit fleetingly, as I passed through the Burg where there are virtually Always Entertainers. Could not resist a photo or three of a little family of jugglers and tumblers in chic black and white, with the composure and skill of circus artists. DID want to stay longer.

Sint Donaas

The hotel where 'my' swimming pool is situated in the Burg, the Crowne Plaza, also has something else rather more thrilling to the amateur historian. It is the remains of Sint Donaaskathedraal of which I had heard, years ago, but was never in Brugge long enough to investigate it. I tentatively asked if I might see them, the remains, one afternoon last week and was pleased when the receptionist said,' Of course; please go and look,!' I had expected to fill in a form, or jump through some hoop for the privilege and furthermore, to be conducted thither. No one showed me round, in case I stole or disfigured any artifacts or exhibits. I just wandered down a nearby staircase, security-free. I liked that a lot; rather as I admire the almost total lack of awareness of public elf'n' safety in the streets of Brugge. Seems to recall echoes of an earlier, more innocent, more trusting time.

So down the lovely staircase I went. The sight was stunning as I looked down on the relatively small space visible; there was fan vaulting, four tiny lights around the base of each pillar with the lights on the columns highlighting the beauty of the vaulting above. A beautiful chiaroscuro. To the left was the beginning of the restored walls which are extensive and invite the observer to walk on, round curves and sweeps, corners and turnings, to discover more:

 Saint Donation's church was built by Arnulf 1, Count of Flanders, circa 950 A.D.to house the relics of Sint Donaas that had been brought to Brugge around 870 AD by monks from Torhout. The church, in the Romanesque style, had an octagonal main building and a sixteen-sided ambulatory. It was situated in the heart of Brugge, in the Burg opposite the Stadhuis, the city hall and became a cathedral when the first Bishop of Brugge was installed in 1562.

Charles the Good, Count of Flanders, was assassinated here on March 2nd 1127 and Sint Donaaskathedral was the final resting place for Jan van Eyck in 1441. Van Eyck's painting, Madonna and Child with Canon van der Paele was commissioned as the altarpiece for the Cathedral by the Canon in 1436. It is now to be seen in the Groeningemuseum in Bruges. The sacred building was eventually destroyed in 1799 by revolutionary French forces which were occupying the city.

                                                      

                                                                 The fragment to the right, above, is taken from Marcus Gerards' 1652 map and shows Sint Donaas in the left foreground . 

The extensive, restored stone walls bear silent witness to the 1000 years plus of history and devotion; one showcase is filled with sentry-like row of venerable planks of grainy wood:

Several other display cases have many whole pots and containers with the remains of many more, cobwebbed together from fragments. There are even two displays of the remains of wall paintings rescued from the destruction and burial. The actual foundations of the ancient building were uncovered in 1955 and the site is now occupied by the Crowne Plaza hotel. Apparently very few people ask to see the hotel cellars which may account for the lax security; the hotel staff have become accustomed to the age-old evidence of man's devotion and skills. Especially for a solo visitor, it is a silent, spiritually moving, aesthetically enchanting experience. One wonders how many hotel guests are aware of the historical wonders below their feet?

Another peak experience followed Sint Donaas and that was the exhibition in the Jan Garemijnzaal in the Belfort in the Grote Markt as I have only now noticed is the official name for the market place. It was a superb show with works by five artists local to West Flanders. I particularly loved the sculptures by Annie Vanlerberghe, and the paintings of Moche Kohen and Nadine Callebaut. As anything by these three artists was in the region of 6000 euros I hesitated to buy though would have loved to find any one of their works of art in my apartment! Here is a commanding portrait by Moche Kohen:

And so the week passed, with my activities curtailed somewhat by the hours on four days necessary for the Dutch klas which do leave me with less energy and certainly less time for other activities. But the free weekly Wednesday is a godsend; to the Hotel Martin for the informal get-together of English-speaking [mainly English] ex-pats which is fun and noisy [as Michele observed! According to her Belgian groups behave in a more sedate and orderly fashion] and then quite a long walk to the Kardinal Mercierstraat to Sofie who does my nails. An innovation here in response to despair at the constant broken-down state of my nails. They are now gelled to perfection every four weeks and the expense is put down under the heading of Successful Ageing Attempts [emphasis on Attempts]. But I pass a splendid plant shop en route and this week ventured inside, the emptiness of my little terrace being at the top of my To Do list. It looks quite forlorn in the sun while I never noticed more than its comforting existence in the wind and rain. Left my card [have I mentioned that little act of pretentiousness? I have had cards printed to help solve the frequency with which I need to give my address and details] and the husband will call me. It will take time to reach me on my landline which I asked to be used, the mobile going chiefly unheard, buried as it is, in the depths of my handbag. But there is no 1471 or 1571 here and I am not going to buy an answer phone which was too techie for me the last time I tried in the UK about twelve years ago. But eventually he will come over to take a look and advise me.

In the meantime, en route home on Friday, stopped as usual at the lovely florist and plant shop near here, which specialises in orchids. Outside stood a super specimen of plant-hood; a white clematis, name undisclosed, with, I later discovered, a dwarf wisteria in the same pot. These two-in-one now reside on the formerly forlorn terrace complete with one small table and one lovely chair, emblems of my blessedly single state! In fact I found the table on the way home from a previous visit to Sofie the nail wizard a few weeks ago. Just need a little less wind to be comfortable out there, preferably before the mosquitoes arrive.

After a busy, busy weekend, this blog is late; already Tuesday and today am tired after Dutch test this morning and difficult tooth extraction this afternoon; details mercifully suppressed! But Friday last, to the Concertgebouw with a friend, to hear Grigory Sokalov. the great Russian pianist of whom I knew nothing. I was unprepared for the wonder of his performance; his sheer artistry was compelling and the emotion he both put into his playing and with which he enveloped the entire audience, was unforgettable. I now understand why he only allows CDs to be made when they are recordings of concerts. He calls them 'pure, live recordings' and his idea is to capture a moment in his life with his interpretation of the music in the time and place where he performed it. He no longer gives concerts with orchestras; only solo recitals where his writ runs supreme!

His first concert was given when he was 12 in Leningrad, his birthplace and at only 16 he won the International Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow. Unlike many successful contemporaries, he chose to remain in Soviet Russia and forfeited, to a large extent, international fame until, that is, the fall of the Iron Curtain. He is now internationally feted but chooses now not to play in the UK in protest at their fingerprint requirements with visa applications. What a loss to the UK! Sokalov is uncompromising; he says 'I only play what I want to play at the current moment. I never play to order,' so that precludes programme planning a year ahead, for instance. On stage, apart from a brief bow, he seems to ignore the audience altogether, immersed in the music he is creating though at the end of the concert, his repeated encores are generous and illuminating. As written in Le Figaro once,
" There is Sokalov, and then there are mere pianists."

And then  on Saturday evening to the Kamermuziekzaal in the Concertgebouw to hear Mark Padmore and Roger Vignoles. I have heard and admired Mark Padmore singing from an Early Music repertoire, but never Schubert and Britten lieder and again, I know little about these and went to hear him only to support a UK singer whom I admired. I have heard Schubert lieder on CDs but never wanted more until I heard Mark and he was wonderful. Again, controlled emotion as well as technical expertise with an expressive voice and splendid piano accompaniment from Roger Vignoles, made for a memorable evening, with, once more, standing ovations!

A really busy and satisfying week was finished by a visit to Sluis with a friend on Sunday. Theoretically it was to visit and support two new friends who sell at brocantes occasionally, as a hobby really; there was an all-day, street Brocante in Sluis on Sunday. Enthusiasm was high as we set off for the station to catch the bus, despite quite a long wait. We had a super day; Sluis is beautiful and has the added advantage of being in Holland and therefore is cheaper than Brugge. However, the little town was really full of tourists and by early afternoon, weary from the effort of strolling along with the cohort, we retired to sample mussels at one of the many restaurants and take a rest.  After which, we did not return to what had become a relentless slog along the stalls lining the streets; we dipped in and out of a variety of shops, enjoying and occasionally buying,  and then decided to head for home. Alas, the one bus a day on Sunday meant we had to stand for fifty minutes waiting for the bus which was so full, we then had to stand for the journey as the vehicle slalomed, veered, braked and accelerated, swung into grass verges shuddering to a halt, and then swept back into the middle of the road to continue. The final fifteen minute walk home was surprisingly balm to the soul and to the feet. Loved Sluis but even the fab array of gleaming, polished and proud motor cycles in lines in the centre, for a 'meet', was not quite enough to persuade me to go again on a Sunday unless a car owner can be found. Even the monster-sized Harley Davidson, complete with driver and passenger in matching HD gear, could not tempt me back.

Multum in Parvo

Golden Labradors have always been my favourite breed of dog so it is particularly pleasing to report on Fidel who is one of the most famous residents of Brugge.  Here is a recent picture:

Fidel keeps watch from a canal-side gable window at the Cote Canal Bed and Breakfast on the Groene Rei and he is now something of a celeb! He is not Always There but he keeps a lengthy daily vigil and has the distinct honour of being mentioned on Trip Advisor and of making a cameo appearance at the beginning of the  super gangster film, 'In Bruges'.  Furthermore he is on the itinerary of the many tourist boats which ply the canals; each one stops, to the delight of the myriad number of photographers on board, while the guide does his spiel through a mike. Fidel treats their collective devotion with a magnificent disdain, if he is awake, or sleeps peacefully through all the activity, otherwise. To locate him, visitors need to start at the nineteenth century Vismarkt and walk around 130 metres along the Groene Rei canal; soon after the Meebrug, look left and slightly up to find him across the water. I saw a family there on Saturday, awaiting the appearance of the V.I.D* and when he appeared, stretched then leaned nonchalantly on his cushion on the balcony as it were, the group started applauding enthusiastically. Fidel remained unmoved, a  little bored perhaps by the constant  adulation.
                                                                                                                                * Very Important Dog.
The photograph below, the work of someone who knows a thing or two about photography and taken by me from the Internet, gives a superb idea of the context in which Fidel makes his daily appearances onstage:

Fidel is to the left in the dappled shade.

While on the subject of composed animals ignoring irrelevant humans, I  should introduce a delightful cat who is always seen serenely grooming herself in the window of a lovely shop towards the end of Katelijnestraat, quite near the school which I currently attend in an effort to begin to learn Dutch. She sits, oblivious to tourists and other irrelevant persons tapping on the window in an effort to get a good picture, and just concentrates on her private ablutions or her catnap. Here she is:

She isn't shy; just disinterested in looking street-wards which is why I went back into the shop where I had already spent about half an hour, to catch her pretty face. She is called Stracciatella after the stripey, chocolate and vanilla Italian ice cream. Her owner, Nathalie, is a magnificent calligrapher which is why her shop is so irresistible to me. It has hand-made books and paper of different sizes, framed calligraphy proverbs, sayings, comments and other charming calligraphic [is that a word?] maxims, dictums and wise words, just mounted on lightweight blocks of different sizes. No hackneyed phrases and cliches. In brief, an artistic and minor literary paradise as well as feline heaven for some.

And now for something completely different. Last weekend I discovered that the brass shells that one sees set into the paving stones and cobblestones in Brugge are associated with the route to Santiago de Compostela. Astonishing; had idly wondered many times when visiting but never actually checked up on their significance. They seem to be dotted around the old city, though there may well be a pattern as they marked a way through the mediaeval city. Whatever, they are just beautiful:

The early mediaeval pilgrimage route to Galicia, in Spain, to the shrine of St James in the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela [Field of stars] could be accessed at different places though the start of it was reputedly at the Cathedral in Canterbury. The brass shell, set into the ground at various intervals to mark the route, came about as the emblem for the legend of St James who was supposed to have emerged from the sea, miraculously saved from death and covered in scallop shells. There are variations on this theme I believe. The shell became the symbol for St James and was carried by mediaeval pilgrims who used it for various purposes, like drinking and as a platter for food, as well as for identification.

I had never thought of  Brugge in terms of its being a part of this most renowned pilgrimage, first referenced in the 9th century, but on reflection, it is not unexpected.  Brugge was a powerhouse in early mediaeval times, a most important European centre for both finance and banking, and for commerce. Moreover it had a strong Roman Catholic church in a world where that Church was supreme with virtually unlimited power and influence.  The R.C. Church remains important today in Belgium, though rather less powerful than in earlier times.

Friday here has been a free day, free that is from the constraints of language school. Bliss to have a teacher training day thoughtfully timetabled for one of our working days. After the Carrefour Xpress run with old-lady-bag-on-wheels, essential in a car-less life, I set off to explore. I wanted to visit a gallery, the Art Galery Groeninge at the junction of Nieuwe Gentweg and Groeningestraat but it was closed so I crossed the road to enter  through the open door into yet another Godshuis, a sixteenth century version much like both earlier and later settlements though rather more beautiful and spacious; at least, the gardens are. It is just charming, near busy streets often teeming with those modern-day pilgrims, tourists on the trail of sights and shops, but, within the high walls of the Godshuis, serenity and a calm beauty reign.  

The little houses sit on both long sides, and one short side, of a large garden, complete with a pump

 

 and what I think was a little chapel with two bare benches and little else now.

Later, back to the art gallery as I retraced my steps for home and a hot roast chicken a neighbour was picking up for me. The gallery was apparently open though locked so I rang the bell and heard the owner crashing down the stairs.  He was delightful but has obviously Got Life Sorted. He said I had to come back [it was noon and he opened at eleven] as he was cooking. However I was allowed to go into the garden which is delightful with a little exhibition of small bronze figures amid flowering plants and shrubs. 

I shall definitely go back when I can manage to get the timing right!  I want to see inside.

Brugge Triennale 2015

• ©HeHEvery year, five million tourists visit Bruges. What if they all decided to stay? What if a smalEvery year, five million tourists visit Bruges. What if they all decided to stay? What if a small, preserved, historic city should suddenly become a megapolis? This is the premise for the Bruges Contemporary Art and Architecture Triennial 2015.
• l, preserved, historic city should suddenly become a megapolis? This is the premise for the Bruges ConteEvery year, five million tourists visit Bruges. What if they all decided to stay? What if a small, preserved, historic city should suddenly become a megapolis? This is the premise for the Bruges Contemporary Art
"Every year, five million tourists visit Bruges. What if they all decided to stay? What if a small, preserved, historic city should suddenly become a megapolis? This is the premise for the Bruges Contemporary Art and Architecture Triennial 2015.
•  and Architecture Triennial 2015.
• porary Art and Architecture Triennial 2015.

This scenario opens up a plethora of possibilities and challenges. Would a small city be capable of coping with the dynamics of a metropolis? And conversely: could a city on a human scale contribute to a new, better form of urbanism?

Eighteen international artists went to work on this idea. They created new works that can be viewed on an art trail through the centre of Bruges. The artists pose questions and reflect on the future and potential of the city, of urbanisation, citizenship, lifestyle, community, economics, energy, space, sound and the values that guide us.Three indoor exhibitions illustrate the concept of ‘city’ – in visions, dreams and real-life images - as a living, growing and evolving organism."

 The above is a prolonged quote from the Brugge Triennale 2015 website and explains, rather better than I might, the concept behind the extraordinary city trail of installations exhibiting from this week until the end of the Triennial in October. I set out on Saturday, to locate some of the art works and  the fruits of my Ipad photography are recorded below. Perhaps the exhibits are even more startling given the serene and chiefly homogeneous nature of the mediaeval architecture in this beautiful little city. Brugge is provincial and traditional and the exhibits are international and ultra modern. They challenge the eye and the expectation.

 

Uber Capitalism is situated almost in the Burg, the ancient seat of government and of the Holy Blood. The large statement spins slowly and silently as one watches with the inexorable message.

And the structure above, by Song Dong, is Doing Nothing Doing in front of Sint Salvatorskathedral, and each time I have passed by, has been attracting lots of young families who are all doing something, mainly playing. It encourages, invites, exploration by the young and for adults, it is certainly challenging and questions perceptions. And the juxtaposition of the apparently ramshackle, distorted construction before the majestic Gothic cathedral is arresting.

Here is a house in the water on the Groene Rei; it is called Cataract Gorge, Brugge stormt and reflects beautifully on Romy Archituv, the creators. It is enchanting, quite magical. I am not sure of the significance of the title but 'storm', the noun, means both tempest and applause.

And, on the theme of houses, one of the indoor concepts was for Vertically Integrated Socialism.

an experimental housing hypothesis that integrates the social class pyramid into one single building. Tenants who live off state support live free of charge on the ground floor of an apartment building. The floors above house increasingly better-off social classes, which each pay the rent of the class below them. This implicitly acknowledges the social and economic inequalities of contemporary society and suggests one possible, possibly idealistic, solution. The idea of Nicolas Grenier.

I had gone out on Sunday afternoon to see if I could catch the promised kayak races and immediately bumped into two friends with the sister of one, on the Carmeerbrug near to where I live. So I had tagged along and the anticipated hour or two, turned into about four, as we wandered with the crowds, along the Langerei to see some of the installations and whatever else there was to see. The weather was sunny to celebrate this day of the opening of the Triennale and along the relaxed meander, we saw the above model. When I asked about it, only then did I discover the delightfully optimistic concept though was assured, 'No it won't be built; it's just an interesting idea'. There was a mock-up near the model of what I think must have been one of the free social housing flats on the ground floor. It was Seriously Tiny but ever-so-chic with the smartest, tiniest loo ever. Designed, I imagine, for a person with few possessions. The idea of the penthouse on the top of the pyramid looked distinctly attractive though the occupant would presumably have been responsible for some serious rental costs of those below as well as for his own domain. One wonders if Socialist Rich tenants, fully in tune with the Vertically Integrated system, exist? Oh,brave new world.

Because I was with the Bruggean friends I discovered a place I would never have seen; we wandered through a buttercup-strewn meadow [normally not open to the public]

to a space beyond with lock-up garages and a large-ish house, all in a spacious area of neglected land. People in yellow T shirts with Stoer Huus were buzzing enthusiastically around to show the plans for an intended development there of social housing. SO much more effort, resources and interest for social housing here; quite warms the heart. The garages, see below:

will be demolished and the large space will have 29 terraced houses with one to three bedrooms , a community centre, library/resources centre and play area with the intention of providing the context for a real sense of community to develop. The accommodation will be Green and Stoer Huus is a Danish organisation which does not surprise me.

Later, we failed to see the advertised raft race though we saw a group of Sea Scouts  staggering under the weight of a heavy raft, along the street to the water, ready to go, and when we had walked along the canal a little further, came across three strong young men, two rowing vigorously and one wrestling with a sail which he eventually erected to loyal cheers from onlookers on the bank. When the sail was up, the rowers stopped and so did the raft.

I had, in fact, gone to the Langerei earlier, at around 11.30, in time, it transpired, to miss the mayoral speech but in good time to join the crowd there, dense on the bridge, but sparser below on the specially constructed platform I had admired in construction in the weeks before:

I rather fancied a walk along the platform as the crowds were thin there, unlike the crush above. So I jostled my way through the  throng to join the queue to enter through special wooden gates erected for that purpose. But there was no movement at all; I asked the girl in front who didn't know why the queue wasn't moving, but the man in front of her said, 'It's not the space available, it's the capacity, the weight. It might sink'. Strangely this quite deterred me so I said to no one in particular, 'Think I'll go and buy a beer instead'. Everyone it seemed had a glass of Brugse Zot in hand. ' Oh the beer's free to celebrate the opening of the Trienniale',  the man said and off I shot to fight through a crowd at one of the three outdoor bars.

This sort of thing, the free beer certainly, but the whole inclusive nature of the celebrations for the Triennale, speak volumes for the civic awareness of fostering good community relations and a pride in Brugge itself and life here. Most of the celebrations for the opening day involved community; Sea Scouts giving free boat rides in the morning; raft race, Brugge Canal Swimmers' Club in the water; lots of volunteer help on outdoor bars and in marshalling crowds during the peak morning attendance; volunteers with explanations of the Stoer Huus project. It is the sort of community hands-on involvement one sees in Britain in villages for street parties, fetes and so on, but less often for events in tourist-destination cities. It is admirable and enables a solid, proud, inclusive civic life to flourish here alongside the five million tourists a year.

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