On Ageing

I have just read a long newspaper article [Daily Telegraph. Sat 11^th June, 2016] on 'The Middlepause; On Turning Fifty' based on the eponymous book. I really admired the wonderful writing of Marina Benjamin though I was quite bemused by much of the anguish which she expressed. Bemused, principally, because I didn't remember experiencing those anxieties and sadnesses myself at such an early age. Of course, I have endured quiet losses and I do remember thinking that I really must get a Headship before I was fifty because, mysteriously, the task would become so much harder after that. That reflected the conventional wisdom mirrored in what one could see happening. But I don't recall any angst about declining appearance, thinning hair, memory problems. There must have been some but not enough to cause remembered agony. No indeed, but these unwelcome developments have presented themselves in my upper seventies. I can't say that I worry about them however and I certainly don't look at photos of the youthful me [I only seem to have one picture anyway!] and beat myself up over pointless comparisons. Why would anyone do that? So the Telegraph article and my subsequent bemusement, have caused me to ponder my own ageing, and my attitude towards it. Hence the Bruggeblog is temporarily metamorphosed into a spot of introspection!

Physically, the photograph I have of me-as-a-young-woman is lovely; interestingly, perhaps like

many young women, I now see, she had no idea just HOW beautiful she was. That realisation took about fifty years to percolate through and by then the potential power of it had waned or perhaps, disappeared. Not that I did not comprehend that the beauty I had, brought with it sexual potency and the constant feeling of entitlement to attention; it was more that I wasn't interested in exploring the extent of that power. I just took for granted all the easy, effortless attention I received in the street, restaurants, buses, meetings, work, play, parties, dances, Life. NOW I do notice the lack of attention I receive, the lack of physical interest I arouse, and have come to terms years ago with the fact that at almost 82, these pleasantries cannot be expected. However the invisibility of the old does concern me, in particular, of course, My Own Invisibility! It encompasses and reinforces the general view in society, of the relative unimportance of the aged, acknowledging their declining powers, of their lowly status, less equal to the rest in the citadel of Life, more languishing, somehow reduced, in the cellars; of their comparative worthlessness in the population balance sheet. I long to shout, and wave my temporary crutches, that the pretty girl is still there, swathed in sag and wrinkle perhaps, but still attractive in a certain kind of way and infinitely more interesting and well-informed than her younger self. The foot may be arthritic but the mind still works and the optimism and desire for fun are the same though the necessary energy is reduced. Not one of the many, many younger people who pass me in the street every day without a glance, could believe that I still regard myself as a sexy, attractive, beguiling woman. The response, if they heard that, would be disbelief, incredulity, hilarity. However, their responses would cut no ice with me; I know who and what I am and I have confidence in who and what I am!

Which leads me on to the sunnier aspects of ageing, the greener uplands beckoning. Confidence and belief in self are strong; an almost complete disinterest in the judgement of me by others is there with a keen interest in events and people around me locally and  in the further world. My expectation that people behave well, in spite of evidence to the contrary, bolsters my own self-regard and security, and contributes to my general sense of well being and optimism about the future. Gone are the ambitions of a previous professional life; replaced by more modest hopes of things I want to do or achieve or places I want to visit. I see my family relatively rarely but I feel in touch through emails and Face-time and intermittent visits, and through my family, I love and feel loved. I have few friends now where I live but left behind many where I lived in Kent for over thirty years and the latter, or some of them, keep in touch with news and memories. The friends here are becoming more special and perhaps increasing in number! And from them, and the kindly, day to day recognition and friendliness from local neighbours, owners and waiters in several cafes and restaurants and shops, comes a sense of belonging and a quiet mutual appreciation, providing beneficial reassurance that, in small ways, I matter and I belong. And it is the small ways that really do count now; the grander needs and gestures are long gone, no longer needed. The old become interested in the essentials of life.

 

The fact that I have voluntarily and cheerfully uprooted myself to live in another country, in another language, with other customs and norms, surprises some but not me. It is a tiny bit adventurous, a little psychologically daring, simply because there was no imperative externally so to do. I thought I would have a little adventure and gratifyingly, I find I have. And equally gratifyingly, not only is my life more fun, more challenging, more satisfying than my former, much-loved and much-enjoyed life, by chance, not by design, I find I am keeping the brain exercised and the body in reasonable shape [for my age!] Must comment that these parentheses are now so often implied; by doctors ['You're doing well (for your age)]; acquaintances and friends, [You're looking good [(for your age!)]; museum staff etc. But I am amused by, and rather like, all of that. They are scraps from the Top Table both well intentioned; and well-received!

As I may have mentioned [repetition can be a hazard!]I know who I am now; I am burdened with neither false modesty nor excessive arrogance. I know my limitations and my possibilities; I know that I can deal in a mature way with death, grief, sadness, regret. I know that I chiefly lack the capacity for envy and grudge and that my greed is modest and governable. I know that I live effortlessly in the present and take pleasure sometimes in remembrance of times past, or with others, in events from our shared history, or in a sudden idea for a future holiday or visit. I think I hardly need the approval of others but when it comes, it is a beautiful surprise and a reassurance I didn't know I needed. I do need other people; though I choose to live alone, I need to be with others at times, outside home, surrounded by others or at least in contact with others. Equally I need to be alone, with my thoughts, books, pictures, computer, terrace, familiar possessions, all of which provide nurture and delight. In the last few weeks, seven so far, I have spent the vast majority of the time, alone in my flat, and the pleasure experienced has been immensely enriching. Just to be, to read, to write, to look around, to sit, in a space that has become so dear to me, has reminded me of how very lucky I am. It is quite possible that living in the here and now, so beloved in counselling and therapy, has happened for me almost by chance; at least, almost without conscious intention. Just following one's instinct and expecting the best, seems to work! 

My conclusion is that ageing, that inevitable development, is, at the very least, OK. Set against the losses, there are compensatory gains; set against the diminishings there are new possibilities. And the inevitable physical and mental decline can be comfortably acknowledged, managed, mitigated, disguised when necessary! At least, so far. Dream on, some would say. And I do!

Crutches on cobblestones

Not so easy to write a blog when most of the time I am alone in my apartment. What do I do? Occasional bursts of studying Dutch! Quite frequent reading of War and Peace by Tolstoy, bought for post-operative therapy almost as a joke and a delight to discover that I don't want to put it down! Tolstoy is verbose, dwells rather too lingeringly on War, and on Freemasonry, and has lengthy

 Leo Tolstoy

discursive  deliberations on various facets of the period and subjects which interest him, BUT his narrative is compelling and his characterisation, superb. Unbelievably, after five weeks with only four of those weeks in his company and I am around halfway through the 1360+ pages, and painlessly too. More than that; I really enjoy his prose.

 

Nazi Brown-shirts in 1933 enforcing a boycott of Jewish stores

In addition to War & Peace, I have The Final Solution by David Cesarini, recently bought after a rave review in the New Statesman. Slightly taken aback when it arrived, to discover that it is over 1000 pages long though the narrative itself runs only to around 800. It is the story of the Jews in Germany from 1933 to 1949 and, though early days, it is riveting and incredibly informative. I had long wondered why German Jews didn't heed the dire warning signs before the onset of World War Two and now I realise how diffuse were the laws, and the official reactions, the apparent indecisions of the government set against the rampant anti-Semitic sentiments of the Nazis on the streets and in the ordinary population, especially in rural areas, released and encouraged deliberately

by the state which intermittently pulled back on its worst excesses as these negatively influenced everyday commerce. The author, David Cesarini, died during the publication process of this book but he has left a work of profound scholarship on, and insight into, what he called his 'reappraisal' of Hitler's Final Solution.

 Timeless Jan Van Eyckplein

Saturday, with friend and neighbour Michele, to buy a newspaper and to drink coffee and chat, not at Blackbird, in Jan Van Eyckplein, which had no room for us, but at the coffee place nearby. This proved to be first class and we sat long and discussed much on various topics including the UK Referendum which originally seemed to me to be an unnecessary sop to Cameron's right wing and which is backfiring anyway as the Conservative Party tears itself apart in increasingly bitter recriminations. It is such a gamble; the UK cannot afford the possibility of a quasi-economic wasteland if it casts itself off the moorings of the E.U. But I know so many people who really believe it is worthwhile going it alone because of the bureaucracy and because it actually believes that immigration is a) bad and b) Brexit will reduce numbers. Madness to put at risk a reasonably successful economy. It is amusing anyway, to hear commentators in favour of Brexit, like the boss of Witherspoon's, on Radio Four this morning, stumbling as he tried to find explicit examples of the alleged bureaucracy. There will be some but they do not seem as universal as the popular mythology suggests and so what? Remaining within the EU means fighting for change from a stronger position within, instead of waving, powerless, from outside.

And so, via continuing physiotherapy, to Tuesday's funeral for a certain friend's untimely death. There was a slight air of bewilderment that it was her funeral anyway, this healthy, lively 80 year old who cheerfully rode her bike everywhere and seemed to have lots of energy. A small crowd gathered at the Brugge Crematorium which is a most tranquil and green place to end one's journey. The service, put together by her three daughters, was really a sweet loop of memories from the family with several short apt readings by friends which would have been greatly enjoyed by the subject of the tributes! Afterwards, in her light-filled house, there was talk and laughter with the food and wine and an enchanting eight year old grandson 'handing round' plates and glasses in an impressively mature way. The best thing I heard was the slight boast of the home-schooled young man, that he had thirty three friends.

The funeral and wake afterwards, followed the three hour appearance of my much-missed cleaning girl, not seen since early March and hugely welcome. Thus, Tuesday was a particularly special day for the Physically Challenged One. And Wednesday even better; for an Xray then a final examination by the surgeon who gave me the go ahead to try to walk as much as possible. The final flourish was to board the No 13 bus to town and walk what seemed the endless distance from near the Stadtheater on Vlamingstraat home. I took the precaution of telling the driver when I would want to get off and asked him to give me plenty of time with the crutches! He did; the Bruggean bus drivers are marvellous!

Since then, out to lunch on Thursday at Trium on Academiestraat nearby and quite a long walk to the Biekorf, the Library to read The Times. An hour's rest and off across the square to the Oud Huis Amsterdam to meet some of the Thursday English group; always a real pleasure. This was a Busy Day for anyone  physically-challenged!

Innocence

Greetings from my smaller world! That is, from the world inside my apartment; going out is a tremendous effort so it is rare and only when necessary. Yesterday to AZ Sint Jan, the hospital in Brugge for a check-up on The Foot which, despite being much larger than normal, is healing well. The image, left, is a reminder of the beauteous treachery of cobblestones for crutches; cobblestones, may I remind, are normally one of the most admired characteristics of Brugge, normally being the operative word.

I was amused, while awaiting the surgeon's critical eye, to read in my current New Statesman, that the Remain campaign in the UK is cribbing from the Ireland same-sex referendum, the same strategy to win over older women. Obviously, it goes without saying, that I am already a huge supporter of Remain, feeling European to the core, but the strategy is for young people, who back a Remain vote by large margins, to 'Talk to Gran' by writing to, or emailing, their grandmothers to encourage them to vote to stay in the E.U. [Research shows that this approach does not work with elderly men!] I realise that I haven't sounded out my grandchildren on Vote Leave/Remain so am about to launch a free Listen to Gran emailing service to five of the six grandchildren [No. 6 is only five years old and lives in the U.S.A. at present] encouraging them a) to vote and b) to vote Remain. Surely, this will be infallible!! Incidentally, en passant, one does wonder why Jeremy Corbyn hasn't thrown his shoulder to the EU Remain wheel with more passion. Being in Europe is part of voting Labour, I think, but his tepid statements on Europe rather echo the pale political performance he has exhibited so far.

And on the topic of Europe, I was thrilled to see, on May 8 and 9, the European flag flying from the Belfort tower in Brugge to celebrate the anniversary of the end of World War Two. Do wonder if flag-flying featured in Blighty and if so, would it have been the Union Jack or the much more appropriate flag of Europe waving in the breeze? Interesting times.

Two days after the hospital visit, an old friend of my husband's arrived. Derek does a little month-long UK tour every year [from the Boston area in the U.S.] which used to include Wye, where Eric and I lived, but which also includes a trip to Germany to see old colleagues who have become 'like family'. Since last year the German visit has included Brugge for a long weekend. After one first dinner, prepared with the aid of my now-beloved zimmer, we ate out nearby, with me choosing crutches over the slightly lowly wheelchair as transport; this was chiefly in deference to Derek's age [89] and the fact that he had mentioned in another context, that he gets rather out of breath going up small hills these days!

Felt quite triumphant as we 'strolled' up Genthof to buy a newspaper and drink a lengthy coffee at Blackbird, the award-winning coffee and lunch place in Jan Van Eyckplein, about fifty metres away! Saturday passed in an enjoyable haze of reading the Daily Telegraph, my usual Saturday treat, [never thought I would write that!] reminiscing, drinking coffee and later, beer, sitting on my sunny terrace and eventually, early evening, retracing steps courtesy of the crutches beyond Blackbird a little way, to Trium, my son-in-law's favourite pasta place. In my present state, this passes as a whirl of activity.

And another was to follow on Sunday when we tottered down Genthof towards the canal, to Terrastje, tucked into a corner facing the canal and where we were warmly welcomed by Ian [ a Brit] and Patricia [Dutch with perfect English] Derek and I had a marvellous sort of fish stew called Waterzooi with a Brugse Zot, a local beer and returned home for a short rest before partially re-tracing our steps to the Galerie Pinsart which had a vernissage on Sunday afternoon for a water colour artist called Sigrid Tanghe. There was an introductory viol recital by Gunda Gottschalk which was loudly applauded but which I found not to my taste. Loved the paintings which were rather dreamy, insubstantial echoes of images, strange and touching at the same time. Right is Sigrid Tanghe's Deerwoman, Hertenvrouw, which is sooo enigmatic and touches the soul.

 

And so to home and for me, post-crutches fatigue, while Derek valiantly re-packed for perhaps the twentieth time since leaving home a month before. After he had left next morning early, I thought about the past three days and how we had managed to carpe diem pretty well in spite of ageing and surgery. That motto, Carpe diem, my motto in fact since my husband died, surfaced again in my mind when I learned later that day that a friend in Brugge, a couple of years younger than I, had died after suffering a catastrophic brain haemorrhage on Saturday. 

 Below is another shot of my newly-acquired Innocence to remind of the wisdom of Seizing The Moment.

m

Blogadoodledo!

And now to end the silence on the blog front, self-imposed because of pressure of other activities.

April 27^th operation on left foot with normal walking expected to resume in two to three months. SO now equipped with wheelchair, zimmer and crutches plus huge special protective boot. From an overnighter in hospital, to De Haan, an absolutely charming little seaside town, for revalidatie, or convalescence. The home is in the middle of the delightful Art Deco area of the town and Dunepanne [the home] is super; chic, elegant, with lovely food and staff. So why did I cut and run [metaphorically speaking] six days after arrival instead of staying for the whole fortnight I had booked? 'Twas boredom, dear reader. Fifty residents, all recovering from something, and amiable in the extreme, but fluent Dutch and some

fluent French meant conversation for me was a tad limited though good intentions and interest were there aplenty. Virtually no wi-fi in the bedrooms but centred in the bar, where it was variable, meant I did feel a little frustrated at my inability to send and receive messages though no other resident minded much as only one other appeared to have an Ipad though one younger man homed in on the single computer every morning during his few days there.

So after the compulsory visit to the hospital in Brugge, I came home with a darling ambulance man who waited for me for over an hour and a half at A Z Sint Jan's and then carried up my case and made sure I was home and dry. DO like the health service here; one pays, modestly, then has around three quarters re-imbursed, with quick and efficient medical service. Once home, I tottered around the flat on the zimmer looking and checking, then through to the terrace and it was just the best feeling to be back. I put on a CD and sat lounging, absorbing the sights and sounds both in the flat and outside, on the terrace and in Woensdagmarkt. It was rejuvenating and nourishing neither of which the alternative had been.

A couple of days later, son David arrived to do my bidding!

Always a treat to have the luxury of an adult child alone staying, however lovely the partner. For the last week until three days ago, I was able to go out with him, shopping for stuff for the terrace, going out to lunch, attending a concert, going to the bank, though occasionally felt ridiculous being wheeled around prior to the fumbling and hopping around involved with crutches. I especially enjoyed a day in Damme, about four kilometres up the canal, though we went by car on the road adjacent to the water. First, there was the monthly seasonal Book Fair on Damme market from where I have bought several books in the past few months. Had an interesting chat with one stall holder who had retired from running a large print shop and, loving books, started to sell them to fund the acquisition of his five grand-children's sports gear! Then came the journey to find a restaurant with a space for two; many, most, were booked up it being a Sunday and the weather blissfully inviting. We eventually found a pavement-side place and enjoyed a super meal with a local beer new to me. [Name has escaped due to lack of pre-organisation, that is, I had forgotten to pack the usual pen and little notebook in the excitement of Going Out.]

After lunch to Damme church for an afternoon mandolin orchestra concert, conducted by friend Luc.

We had time to look around the exhibits in the church, a small part of a large exhibition in Damme, before the excellent concert, and I enjoyed again the lovely, haunting faces by Nadine Callebaut whose work I had come across in a previous exhibition in the Belfort last year. Yet another artist whose exquisite paintings are out of my reach, not an existential condition suffered by the likes of Victoria Beckham one assumes. But, c'est la vie Averil!

 

The major exhibition, Madammen in Damme, included works by more than 50 artists exhibited in eleven different locations in what is effectively a pocket-sized village [stunningly beautiful too] and we visited only four as the effort was considerable! But it was enough to judge the range of works from relatively modestly-talented artists to many at the opposite end of the talent continuum. 

After the concert, David manfully pushed me around to several spots looking to find the sculptures of Annie Vanlerberghe after whose work I have lusted for several years! Her sculptures are increasingly in bronze and thus too expensive for me to buy but one can have dreams! 

 

Eventually the gorgeous green space of the garden of Kristoffelhoeve was discovered and I swung my way around Annie's exhibits which did not disappoint. Interestingly, among the desirable bronzes were three terracotta statues and I lingered long, balancing on the crutches, pondering, my nose quivering slightly like the pointer in search of prey. In the end I bought one of the three and felt excited that I had done so, experiencing quite a little burst of personal power as opposed to the comparatively undignified powerlessness of the invalid state!! So this acquisition is not only about art appreciation but also about reasserting my independence, I suppose!

Almost a mini rant.

Must try to let this small entry not descend into a mini rant. Up very early to leave home for 6.15 in exceptionally cold and windy weather. Goal: to reach AZ Sint Janshospitaal by or before 7.00 when I had an appointment. Couldn't begin to understand why it was needed as all the pre-op stuff had been done by the G.P. or on his behalf by a laboratory for which I have just paid. After the ticketed queuing, I had an interview with a young man who was clearly puzzled; he told me several times that my operation was due to take place tomorrow afternoon and I replied that I knew. Eventually he disappeared, with the forms from the Huisarts, the G.P., and my I.D. card. He returned, full of apologies, to say that I wasn't needed; the letter asking me to attend had been an administrative error!! I graciously managed to be philosophical about it, and my missed swim, before plunging, head down into the maelstrom outside. Ten freezing minutes later the No 13 bus arrived and whisked me nearly home enabling me to arrive approximately two hours after leaving, cold and starving.

Just enough time for coffee and toast before I set off to walk to Kardinal Mercierstraat to have my nails done, a Bruggean extravagance I have adopted. Quite a long walk then one hour later, back to the wind and rain, to walk another long distance almost to Gentpoort, to have my hair trimmed and highlighted. All this beauty concentration because it may be two months at least before I will be able to manage the same journeys on foot, and that is an optimistic assessment. The hairdresser is a marvel at cutting and his
partner is great at colouring so all was set fair. And indeed, my hair looks good but there was an unexpected and unusual clash of cultures after the first hour and a half. When the highlighting had been done and the hair washed and conditioned, I sat with wet hair feeling rather cold. Only then did I notice that the salon was empty save for me and another woman suspended backwards over a basin, having her hair washed. It was around 12.45. I asked the shampoo girl where my hairdresser was and she said, unbelievably, 'Now he is eating.'
 

Is it because I have recently visited America, Land of Customer Service, or is it because that situation just couldn't happen in the UK? I said quietly to the girl that the customer's money is what keeps the salon going, so the customer must be looked after. She uncomfortably agreed and disappeared coming back to say he would be with me shortly. In all, I waited just over 20 minutes for him to appear and resume business after a five minute phone call which he received, thus making the wait, 25 minutes! I said nothing, it being politic not to upset the man with the scissors but at the end, he said, 'So you object to my eating?'

'Not at all, I object to waiting for over 20 minutes while you eat.'

'The business of the day is constant, without a break, and I need lunch.'

I won't report the short conversation, not at all heated, but the hairdresser just did not understand my point. If you want a lunch break, build it into the appointments bookings; don't take it in the middle of someone's treatment. The photograph above right, is of a woman who manages to look neither cold nor petulant about waiting around with wet hair; quite glamorous too. It is, sadly, not of me.

Quelle Europe Pour La Nouvelle Generation?

A friend told me of a visit by the Ministre Francais de l'Economie, de l'Industrie et du Numerique to give a lecture to students and other interested people at the Verversdijk campus of the College d'Europe, here in Brugge. Now this sounded interesting and, despite the fact that the two operational languages of the College are French and English, I did not expect a famous French

minister to speak in the language of  Perfidious Albion. I was not disappointed and though my meagre French was insufficient, I gathered enough to understand the gist of what he was saying and, more importantly, I was able to savour the occasion. The Minister in question was Emmanuel Macron and I was initially impressed with the fact that despite an official limousine bearing the Ambassador, he chose to walk from the station; quite a hike actually. He was clearly admired by his chiefly young student audience and had a youthful energy and appearance that commanded attention and respect. De Standaard did an interview with Macron on the train between Brussels and Bruges en route to the lecture [full of interesting-looking stuff which I shall eventually understand.] The interviewer referred to the Minister as 'the hottest kid in town' in Parisian politics! The photo right shows Monsieur Macron speaking to Monsieur le Recteur of the College d'Europe, Jorg Monar.

 

He spoke of the initial promise of a border-free Europe and insisted that it remains a construction economique, socialistique, pratique, a construction which despite its present fragility, is in a profoundly historic moment and must go forward with projects towards 'other tomorrows'. It was quite heady being in an atmosphere wholly supportive of Europe and convinced of the importance of this historic concept. The young audience was so enthusiastic as was M. Macron, about Europe and its future; so refreshing after the daily news from the Leave Europe campaign in the UK. I DO feel European and hope above all that the June vote manages to cling on to common sense and do what's best for the UK while leaving the Conservative Party to continue its internal warfare. Since writing that, President Obama has weighed in heavily today to urge the UK to remain in Europe. Another voice of reason and judgement.

But back to last Monday and the College. I picked up a  leaflet listing College of Europe Alumni 'Holding High Positions' including students from the 1950s onward. Glancing idly through the pages I was quite excited to find names I knew. Some, not unexpected: Nick Clegg, Leader of the Liberal Democrats , Deputy Prime Minister 2010-2015; Member of the European Parliament 1999-2004 and M.P from May 2015. Others, less so: Simon Hughes, M.P. since May 2010; President of the Liberal Democrats 2004-2008; Stephen Kinnock, M.P. for Aberavon since May 2015; Director, Head of Europe and Central Asia of the World Economic Forum, 2009-2012; Director of the British Council in St Petersburg 2005-2008.

I had had no idea of Stephen Kinnock's so far illustrious career with little mention in the British media of his name until it was as the spouse of the then Danish Prime Minister, Helle Thorning-Schmidt. But then, Neil Kinnock was never the darling of the right wing press; difficult to imagine the successful son of a Conservative Prime Minister being ignored by the newspapers!

And from the sublime to the absolutely perfect 70th birthday party! Just back from happy hours spent in a super tall house in one of the 'ordinary' streets of Brugge where front doors open directly from the pavement on to often quite splendid period interiors. 'Twas in such that about fifteen chiefly English women gathered this afternoon to celebrate a 70th birthday; all there meet every week in a central hotel for a coffee and chat and of course, friendships develop or strengthen. The happy birthday girl, looking much younger than her seventy years, greeted us all with bubbly served by the lady of the house masquerading as a cinema ice cream seller. Eventually, up to the erstwhile attic space, now kitted out handsomely as a tiny cinema to see Alan Bennett's The Lady In The Van. Wonderful film, deeply comfortable chairs including five formerly the property of King Baudouin, complete with discreet crest on the back. Then down two flights of stairs to have tea and cake. Great fun and a birthday celebrated in style!

 

De Ronde Van Vlanderen

A lovely sunny day developed for the start of the 100th Ronde Van Vlanderen last Sunday 3rd April and the historic Markt seemed totally full of bikes, supporters, spectators and of course, cyclists. Excitement was palpable, amplified by the accordion music and perhaps a guitar plus occasional strident singing launched from the temporary stage; all overlaid by the continuous, good-humoured, noisy commentary. The Ronde is a highly-regarded gruelling cycle race for professionals, starting in Brugge and finishing in Oudenaarde, 259 kilometres away. Between the two, in addition to the daunting distance, are three major hurdles to clear. The first is Koppenberg, a steeply cobbled climb; the second is the 2,200 kilometre ascent up Oude Kwaremont, the longest, paved climb in Belgium, and the third and most challenging is Paterburg, described as an absolute killer! That, too, is a steep, narrow, cobbled incline of 360 metres with the maximum gradient of 20.3%!

Cyclists were introduced and rode in single file across the temporary stage and gangway, approaching

via Steenstraat which was also lined with spectators; I could tell when it was a local favourite who swept by from the sudden activity on Smart-phone cameras and loud partisan cheers from onlookers. Knowing nothing and understanding nothing from the commentary did not prevent me from enjoying the spectacle and especially, the happy, involved atmosphere. Cafes and restaurants in the Markt overflowed and many spectators carried their own beer supply! Children were hoisted aloft shoulders to see and cheer local favourites and the sheer good-natured presence and commitment of the thousands there, was intoxicating and life-enhancing. A tonic indeed after the atrocities in Brussels and that anti-life message.

The Ronde was one hugely public, very important occasion in Brugge and indeed, in Belgium. Another

much quieter, more private procedure had occurred during the week before Easter. Frank Deleu, Carilloneur of Bruges, worked for hours with Paul Van den Abele, to do the biennial task of changing the music of the automatic carillon which plays every quarter of an hour. From the picture one can guess at the huge effort and amount of time needed to achieve this. Frank says the drum can be compared to a huge music box with pins that lift up hammers on the outside of the bells. The drum system pictured is from 1748 and is the biggest in the world still in action; it weighs 9 tons and there are 30,500 holes in which to programme the pins. What a work of genius is man!

The music for the next two years, chosen by Frank, features two WW1 songs from 1918: 'Till we meet again' and 'After the war is over '. Every quarter of an hour, past the hour, will come the Prologo from 'L'Orfeo' by Claudio Monteverdi. In 2017 it will be 450 years since Monteverdi was born. [Sacred moment!] Every half hour, Henri Kowalski's 'It Etait Un Fois' will be played; Kowalski died in 1916. And every quarter before the hour, will come 'Bouree 11' from 'Cello Suite no. 4 in Es by Johann Sebastian Bach. Frank asks, 'Why this? Because Bach is Bach!'

The sound of the carillon is familiar to Bruggelingen and indeed to residents of many other little Belgian towns and villages which have their own Belfort. To English ears, it is charming and joyful, reminiscent of musical boxes fashionable a century ago and so unlike the glorious music of church bells in England, also beloved of many. Until I had watched Frank Deleu playing the carillon in his eyrie, I had had no notion of the physical hard work and manual dexterity needed as well as the musical knowledge and the artistry required.

The belfry is a famous landmark in Brugge and was added to the market square around 1240 when Brugge was prospering as an important centre of the Flemish cloth industry. After a devastating fire in 1280 when all the Brugge archives were lost, the tower was largely re-built. The octagonal upper stage of the belfry was added between 1483 and 1487, and capped with a short-lived wooden spire, soon reduced to ashes and subsequently replaced by another which lasted for two and a half centuries till lost in another fire in 1741. The Gothic stone parapet was added in 1822.

The bells in the tower regulated the lives of the city dwellers, announcing the time, fire alarms, work hours, and a variety of social, political, and religious events. Eventually a mechanism ensured the regular sounding of certain bells, for example indicating the hour. The carillon appeared in the 16^th century after which the bells could be played by means of a hand keyboard. The first record of the employment of a carilloneur was in the 1604 accounts and his duties were to play songs during Sundays, holidays and market days. So Frank Deleu is the latest in a long line of proud carilloneurs
in a city which holds them in high esteem.