Gap Fortnight

Oops, where have I been for two whole weeks? Living for sure but with a sadly-reduced time to spend in Brugge.

First, back to the UK on Thurs 16^th July for the graduations of two grandsons, brothers to boot and both now with good degrees in Economics. The subsequent celebrations for my son's family were held in London at a super restaurant, Santini's, in Victoria somewhere, I think. The ceremonies were in Brighton and in Leeds so London was a good place to meet to mark the double occasion and a jolly time was had. In fact, it was great. I took the opportunity to suggest that their youngest bruv, celebrating his 19th that very same day, and also reading Economics, could try to match their successes or even do better. However, I was out of touch as usual! He is Much More Interested as Social Secretary of something or other, with the huge responsibility for arranging a pub crawl for 500 students in Freshers' Week in late Sept or early October. Much more engrossed in that and his plan to go travelling after he graduates! I do like his ability to focus on what motivates him; it was often apparent during his sometimes dodgy, younger days and will surely be a great life skill for the future.

And here, at the risk of embarrassing the boys are pictures of our two from among the thousands of successful students around the UK. I have not included shots of adoring parents and grandparents but the Birthday Boy in pink shirt is shown and Dan's girl friend, Emily, who graduated in Economics with similar success, at Brighton.

Home after the celebrations and several days spent, visiting sick friends in different parts of the UK, with younger daughter and grand-daughter Niamh coming to stay a couple of days after my return. One of the lovely things which Niamh did was to go to have a professional make-up done as a birthday present, surely a dream for any teenager? To be totally fair-handed about the family's brief appearance on this blog, I supply one of the photographs of the finished result when she came back to the apartment.



One of the Triennale structures, pictured before on this blog, really took the fancy of Niamh and her mother so, after they had gone, I went back and took another photograph of it and of the information panel nearby, I  hadn't even noticed these panels when I first wrote about the Triennale and only realised their significance some time later.

This is the structure of which I write, probably my favourite too out of the whole group. However, it is MOST interesting to read the remarks of the architect responsible for it displayed nearby as a companion plaque. It is a Gothic step gable house and is installed in a lock in the north of the Bruges 'egg' close to where the city was linked to the sea in the Middle Ages. He points out that now, instead of the flow of goods and wealth along the canals, comes the inevitable endless stream of tourists who mainly seem to be interested in the frozen, timeless quality of Bruges. The architect suggests that by closing itself off behind the facade of history, the city is hindering its natural development. He suggests that there are forces at work behind the facade of the frozen city which will exact a price that Bruges will eventually pay on a social and cultural level.

The piece is entitled Cataract Gorge which is a nod to the turbulence in the water created by its presence, but can also refer to the cataracts that cloud the vision. The word, Gorge, also has two meanings: a narrow valley but also a self-indulgent action. All of this had escaped my earlier, rather cursory, look at the aesthetic impact only. Immensely interesting.

While I have been otherwise engaged I have missed lots of fun events, out-of-doors and therefore free to all. The City of Bruges really does give lots of free entertainment to its residents and the occasional passing tourist! In fact, it is estimated that around five million tourists visit Brugge every year and certain streets are irritatingly over-full of meandering visitors, some displaying the worst communal habit; eating on the hoof. However, rather like summer life in the Lakes in Britain, one has only to step a short distance, away from the most popular areas, to experience a delightful tranquillity.

The day after my return, it was Belgium's National Day [July 21^st] and there was a three day event
culminating on that day, on the Groote Markt involving music. I believe karaoke was going to be a feature but there were rock bands and various tribute bands, some playing 'pop with a raw edge' plus, no doubt, beer tents and food stalls. Someone I know had been and said it had been 'Great!'

Looks good.

The week before from the 18^th to the 20^th there had been an outdoor Circus Festival, Cirque Plus in a huge municipal garden, again open to all. I am frequently amazed at the amount of free, outdoor entertainment in Brugge which people who live here, simply take for granted. I mentioned to one man that taxes are higher here than in the UK and he said ruefully, 'Yeah!' But he then added, 'but still, we get a lot for it.' I must do a little more of a survey to discover if there are any depths of resentment about being quite a highly-taxed country but there IS a lot given back. I think of the rail travel for 65+; one can travel anywhere in Belgium by train for 6 euros. Capitalists might shudder at this state beneficence for all but rail travel is seriously popular with, and available to, all socio-economic groups. And certainly British train travellers must look on enviously at the amazingly low cost of tickets.

Meanwhile in the Burg, seat of local government and all things administrative for the City, plus, of course, the Chapel of the Holy Blood, there seems to have been a covered stage erected for quite a while. From Friday 24th July to Thursday 6th August there is an on-going event called Moods with different musicians most evenings; all gratis. Began last Friday with Flip Kowler + Roosbeef and ends on the 6th with the UK Villagers for which there IS a modest charge!

And to top it all, there is folk dancing for all who care to go to the Fish Market [Vismarkt] in Brugge, near the Burg, every Friday evening from 18.00 to 22.00 in July and August. I glean from the as yet impenetrable Dutch that this includes Salsa de Brujas and Argentijnse. It was crowded when I passed by last Saturday evening.

Records of War and Other Battles

Such an interesting experience on Monday. After having found the Archaeological Museum, I then discovered that it was not the right place to find more about the history of this building where I live. The go-to place was the Archives and these are in the Burg, centre of all things important in Brugge. I had read somewhere that No 9 Woensdagmarkt was once called the Oud Hof van Smyrna but after some time in the Archives with the experienced help of Jan Dhont, one of the archivists who specialises in house histories, no mention of that name was seen. The town records for houses in Brugge began only in 1580 and the van Smyrna name was probably much earlier than that. That being so, we also found no record of the actual age of the building, although it was referred to as one of the earliest brick-built houses in Brugge and is therefore an important building.

However, Jan found in the Land Registry 1580-1800, and printed off for me, the records since 1580 of transactions with the names involved, concerning 'my' house which was consistently referred to as Het Oorloge Mansschip. Jan could not explain the name; oorloge, occasionally spelled 'Oirloge; Orloige; Horlogie', could be from 'oorlog', war, or horloge, watch; mansschip might be a corruption of the German for a team of men. But 'schip' is a ship and there is a superb, large weather vane on top of the tall tower on the building and seems appropriate as a symbol for merchants whose trade probably came via ships. 

The building is referred to, after 1623, as two houses, a north and a south; reference is made to 'het noordelijk deel', the northern part sold separately from 'het zuidelijk deel'. One entry states that 'een minder huis', a small house, perhaps an apartment or a couple of rooms within, is to be rented out. Also, the building is described as 'het groot huis', the big house, and 'het hoekhuis', the corner house. The address was given as Woensdagmarkt with the 'oude straattnaam' given as Oosterlynghe Platse. The old name refers to the house being in the area of Brugge colonised by German merchants, the largest and most influential group of foreign merchants living and working in medieval Brugge. Although, the archivist said that it is possible that other nationalities like Russian or Turkish, might also have been living within that area.

On the first of January 1580, the building belonged to Jan Telleboom but by July 1581 his widow had sold the house to Jan Breijdele and Joris Michiels. There is a mention in this entry of Sint Donaas with some benefit of the sale of the house going to the cathedral. The building was for sale by decree, probably to pay debts, and was bought by Wouter de Clercq for Sint Walberga Church and mystifyingly, with ground rent paid to the children of Pieter Lapostole.

The details of the vagaries of ownership and the multiplicity of owners continue till March 3^rd 1784 in the records I was given. It is an enticing glimpse of the partial history of one house during a two hundred year period of Bruggean merchant life. There are records of forced sales, debts, creditors, promissory notes, rentals, inheritance tax, legal decrees and of different people acting on behalf of the two churches mentioned and also of Sint Janshospitaal. A number of times, the court has ordered the seizure of the house and all its contents. There seem to be a number of widows and 'sons of …' plus 'bankiers uit Parijs' [bankers from Paris], guarantors, several different 'koopman', merchants or businessmen, and of one man, 'Pieter Gilliodts machtig over Jan Casson uit Alicante'; Pieter literally 'had power over' Jan. That probably indicates that Pieter had the power to act on behalf of Jan from Alicante.

One interesting long entry tells of a bailiff acting on behalf of the King to forbid Jaecques van Altere from taxing, selling or giving away this property associated with the German nation. And then, there is a story to be written about Guillaume Pollet, businessman, first mentioned in November 1759 and with a narrative which eventually includes Guillaume Pollet de jonger, which finished in March 1784 only with the end of the records. Guillaume Pollet de oudere seems to have had a hair-raising life, sometimes in debt with a forced sale of the house imminent, sometimes mysteriously assigned as guarantor for some other buyer. Guillaume, in June 1780 recklessly borrowed 8000 guilders at 4% and was repeatedly not managing to pay back very much with predictable results regarding his house. By October 1781 he still owed 3435 livres. The last entry for March 1784 has the Burgemeester, the Mayor, acting on behalf of Guillaume's creditors. What a story there. Intriguing and I must improve my Dutch though rather more than a step or three up from Level 1!! My neighbour, Michele, inadvertently caught up in solving this ancient mystery, then discovered, that dear Guillaume about whom I worried, was in fact a member of the Guild of Brokers so perhaps less sinned against than sinning!

An unexpected treat on Wednesday evening. Ode Aan de Last Post, a celebration of the 30,000^th rendition of the Last Post at the Menenpoort, took place in the Burg.

                                                                                    

Hundreds of spectators enjoyed the one and a half hour programme of period music from Belgium, France, Germany, the Commonwealth, played by the band of Koninklijke Scoutsharmonie Sint-Leo with a local tenor, Georges Bullynck, Tracey McRory from Ireland on the violin, Guido Smeyers a Belgian playing the bagpipes expertly in Scottish traditional costume; Frank Deleu, Stadsbeiaardier, the important musician who plays the carillon on the top of the Beffroi, Marc Mosar both introducing, commenting AND reading Wilfred Owen's Dulce et Decorum Est. Plus two buglers from the Household Division as it is now known, playing the mournful, spine-chilling Last Post, flanked by two torchbearers. [The Household Division was made up from the amalgamation of the Foot Guards, the Grenadier Guards, the Coldstream Guards, the Scots Guards, the Irish and the Welsh Guards]. The lone majestic piper in full Highland rig appeared twice, flanked by drummers, and turned out to be a Belgian, one Guido Smeyers.

Guido Smeyers, bagpiper resplendent.

In spite of a huge prolonged shower in the middle of the ceremony, spirits were high as were voices for the well-remembered marching songs of WW1; Mademoiselle from Armentieres, It's a Long, Long Way to Tipperary, Pack up Your Troubles, and so on. Jerusalem and the Londonderry Air were also greeted warmly by the crowd of spectators. It was a moving ceremonial remembering the war with music, words and images on the large screen; the violin solo as background to the reading of the Dutch version of Dulce et Decorum Est, was particularly moving, with the Last Post bugle call inducing haunting and melancholic feelings. I considered, as I walked home, if that ceremony might not have caused the anti-European sentiment in the UK to stop and marvel at the improbable length of the peace in Europe since 1945, improbable given the violence and atrocities committed in Europe between 1914 and 1945. And to wonder if the union of much of Europe had not contributed hugely to this blessed state.

What a week! On Friday with two friends to Waterloo. More war with that Battle still ranked as perhaps the bloodiest, most costly in terms of lives squandered, in modern history. My interest had been particularly aroused because of the recent two hundred year celebrations but I hadn't expected to feel so involved in the pity of it all. The various exhibitions and memorials are excellent. We first saw the extensive Wellington Museum in the village of Waterloo itself, housed in the building, opposite the church, where Wellington established his HQ and where he lived. Somehow, it seemed improbable that the great man had actually lived in a house in the main street of the village, Waterloo, and planned his army's manoeuvres there in this domestic setting.

 A bus ride away, was the purpose-built Panorama, quite an elderly building, still beautiful to see outside with the spectacular panorama within, still with the power to call up the tremendous human wave upon wave of soldiers involved and killed, and the immensity of the battlefield.

The Lion's Mound with its 226 steps surveying the vista of the battlefield as a memorial to peace and the famous Allied victory, is reputed to be built upon the fathomless remnants of war, the spent ammunition and discarded rifles, bayonets and cannons remaining after June 17^th/18^th 1815.This may be apocryphal but certainly earth from various parts of the enormous battlefield were incorporated.

 But the one memorial that a visitor could particularly relate to was le Chateau d'Hougoumont, often referred to as the farm. It is at the bottom of an escarpment at Braine-l'Alleud, near Waterloo and was where Wellingon and his allies faced the Napoleonic Army in what was effectively the Battle of Waterloo. Perhaps it is the intimacy of the farm area, quite a rustic self-contained settlement before Waterloo but transformed during the battle to the strategically important pivot about which, Wellington, when asked what he wanted done if he was killed during the fighting, replied, 'Keep Hougoumont'. The fighting there raged over the two days, with ferocious hand-to-hand combat and thousands of deaths and mutilations, and both commanders desperate to retain or gain it. Now it is a tranquil, sanitised area restored over the bones of countless thousands of bodies below the soil. In one small barn there is a beautiful exhibition on Time, the vitally important ingredient of the battle; would Blucher manage to arrive in time to aid Wellington? But perhaps the most stunning is a media presentation [it is more than a film] in the great mediaeval barn; it is on three screens using close-ups, shadows, silent, snarling actors in uniform, weaponry and buildings on fire. It is difficult to describe but incredibly moving to watch in the very barn where so many died. 

 

Interesting to note that Hougoumont had been very dilapidated but was completely restored for the recent 200th anniversary celebrations and only opened, in fact, on June 18th 2015.

  

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.