At the Helm

Time to wax lyrical [again] about the almost military precision of the organisation of the city’s affairs by the Town Hall, the Stadhuis. The processes could be described as a touch bureaucratic but it is a fearsomely efficient machine and has a human face, mostly! This mini-paean is brought on by the simultaneous appearance of the terraces of various cafes and restaurants on March 15. With the

Stadhuis, Brugge
 

smooth faultless perfection of a synchronised swimming team, many terraces were in place when I walked to the Crowne Plaza soon after 6.00 a.m. And during the morning, one could see the more ambitious, verandah-style constructions taking shape with numerous workmen intent upon their jobs. Some of the terraces are very chic like the glass elongated box in front of Tom Pouce in the Burg. Marvellous place to sit when warm or cool, windy or still, sunny or grey, but its construction is a complex undertaking. Ultimately, in place, it is a money-spinner one imagines for the Chinese owner.
 

The re-appearance of the terraces is one of the welcome signs of Spring following on from the dawn chorus which I noticed a couple of weeks ago; it greeted my leaving the hotel after my

 The extra-chic Spring terrace of Tom Pouce, the Burg.

swim around 7.20 but now sings its song from the dark as I leave home to go to the Burg at 6.05. This performance added to the gaiety of the sunny, warm days earlier this week as I dithered over no coat, long cardigan or what? I couldn’t wait to buy a camellia plant and several polyanthus on the Wednesday market to plant on the terrace, sun-ready, smiling under blue skies.

Elvis Costello has been and gone, after a stunning performance according to my enthusiastic informant. I am not a fan but elder daughter was devoted to him long ago when in her twenties I always imagine him as the thinking person’s pop singer, though he may have a more specific title. Whatever, my description greatly gratified my friend-who-is-a-fan! A tiring day Friday, with Dutch in the morning; Dutch in the afternoon and tax friend who came to advise me on ‘next steps’.

Elvis Costello

I have an ongoing struggle to gain proof of the status of my teachers’ pension [to continue being taxed in the UK] for the Belgian tax office here so that I can begin the process of trying to get a refund for tax paid on the other two pensions which are to move to the Belgian system for the years 2015-2017/18. Overall hangs a current bill for several thousand pounds of euros payable by March 24 to the Belgian tax system. Ik reis hoopvol which may mean, I travel hopefully! Interesting that I am still so upbeat after a phone call to the UK tax people on Tuesday which lasted for 41 minutes, followed by my failure to unearth promised information online and  another call of 39 minutes, a quarter of an hour later. I now watch the post with heightened interest.

And now to a heart-warming story involving the Mayor of Mechelen who is in all the media having won the World Mayor Prize for transforming his city, Mechelen, into a proud home for its diverse residents. Mechelen, between Antwerp and Brussels, has had Bart Somers as Mayor since 2001 and was the only Belgian city to ask the Government to send some refugees at the height of the recent crisis.

 Bart Somers, current World Mayor but for 15 years so far,
Mayor of Mechelen
 

The London-based City Mayors' Foundation was looking to celebrate mayors and cities that showed excellence in the integration and acceptance of refugees and newcomers into their communities. Mechelen housed 200 people, provided Dutch lessons as well as classes on social skills and involved around half of the 200 in volunteer activities.

This is a relatively small number of refugees [think Lesbos and Lampedusa] but it is the latest echo of the continuous and enlightened efforts of Somers to transform his city of 86,000 into a desirable and inclusive place in which to live. In 2001 Mechelen had been voted the dirtiest city in Belgium and crime was rampant. Somers focussed on greening the city with new parks and car parks, placing the spotlight firmly on cyclists and pedestrians. The Mayor says his three main aims have always been safety, improving public space and fostering inclusion. Fifteen years later, Mechelen [with 138 different nationalities] wins awards like the international Entente Florale and heads the Financial Times’ Cities of the Future ranking. Bart Somers feels simply that a good mayor should be able to affect how people feel about their city. “That is the most beautiful thing a mayor could aspire to”.

 Mechelen in flower

He is sure that it is not a new building project, not the level of local taxation, not the number of jobs. In fact he has succeeded in making the residents of Mechelen, the Mechelaars, feel proud of their city.

Rik Wouters and Old England

Five of the ‘girls’ including me, from the Hotel Martin’s coffee morning each week, went to Brussels for a Day Out last Friday. I love sight seeing alone generally but a small group outing is hard to beat! We had an unbelievable amount of chat and shared moments throughout the day but the two main objects of desire, Museum of Musical Instruments in the building marked Old England, and the Musee des Beaux Arts for the Rik Wouters’ exhibition, more than lived up to expectations. The Old England is part of the Art Deco and Art Nouveau treasures of Brussels and is a delight to see. The museum itself with over 2000 historical musical instruments on several floors offers myriad interesting and often arresting examples of musical art. We had lunch in the restaurant on the top floor and that is stunning in its architecture and views. We genially tolerated the slow service [too many diners with too few staff] as we talked and feasted on the glorious windows and ironwork. Almost all of the senses were satisfied when I tasted my boudins blancs et noirs with apple. It is a mark of maturity to savour the disparate sensory pleasures in a conscious way which we did, rather noisily.

 Dame en Bleu Devant Une Glace
 

 Nel, Rik Wouters' wife and muse

Afterwards a stroll to the Musee des Beaux Arts to see the first day of the Rik Wouters’ exhibition. I had never heard of Rik Wouters till two members of my English group at the Amsterdam on Thursdays told me about him and said an exhibition of his work was coming to Brussels. Next morning, before leaving for the station, I Googled and discovered the exhibition was opening that very day. I am SO grateful not to have missed it. It is a large and important retrospective of his work with loans from many collectors, virtually one hundred years after his early death in Amsterdam in July 1916 at the premature ago of 33. He was a prolific artist, given his short and rather sad life, and considered avant garde throughout that life. How bereft Nel, his wife, muse and inspiration, must have felt when he died, she having been almost entirely his sole model; they must have spent almost all their time together. He was a Fauvist painter and sculptor, influenced greatly by his hero, James Ensor, and later by Cezanne and Renoir. Indeed, there are distinct echoes of Impressionism in his highly colourful work which consists almost entirely of domestic scenes. His sculpture is memorable; many busts of Nel in different guises; several of children, my absolute favourite being the clay model [for a subsequent bronze] of Baby Dribbling. I think it could evoke maternal emotions in the average female S.S.guard. Particularly impressive is the three quarter length model of a middle aged James Ensor. There is a majestic presence about it which commands attention and respect.

The majestic James Ensor

As a gentle start to the following day’s post-excursion fatigue, after my Saturday coffee at Cafune, to the Sue Ryder Boutique in Katelijnestraat to take clothes I love but never seem to wear. Unusually, I took time to look around and was rewarded with a frightfully upmarket black and white, slightly padded jacket by Anne Belin of which label I have never heard though the assistant adopted a most respectful attitude towards it which impressed! And then home to read the excellent New York Times, a favourite occupation these days, made all the more desirable since I have learned it is on Trump's list of Despised Media apparently peddling Fake News.

Post Script

Wandering homewards Saturday early afternoon, I saw an interesting group of jesters on the Markt. Further investigation revealed one elf was carrying a Brugse Zot carrier bag so it was perhaps not an expression of group levity; just an advertising stunt. 

One giant chief with his elves

Give music a chance

Realised suddenly on Tuesday March 2^nd that it was the sixtieth anniversary of my wedding in 1957.

My first husband died just over a year ago so I am the sole survivor left wondering what on earth happened between 1957 and now. Sixty years unbelievably happened and I hardly noticed the speed

  Summertime, and the living was easy.

of the journey, so busy was I in keeping on, keeping on, as Alan Bennett might say. I DO notice the accelerated speed now of the passage of a day, a week, a month, in common with the elderly everywhere. And I do remember that one year seemed an eternity when I was very young. Even the six weeks’ summer holiday used to stretch luxuriously ahead when we had a lifetime of no school, playing in our gang in the woods near home, organising competitions, giving shows on top of the barricade [erected to stop Hitler and his acolytes from driving up our country lane and there long after the war had finished!], having picnics and games in the long narrow garden full of Mum’s dahlias, making the annual trip to the cinema, hugely anticipated. Oh yes, six weeks then was a gift of gold to me and my sisters.

On Saturday I went with a friend to the Concertgebouw to see Anima Eterna performing Gershwin. The concert itself was a total joy with a new discovery for me of Claron McFadden, an American soprano of inspiring rhythm and great warmth. She so clearly enjoyed herself and the orchestra so clearly adored her. It was an infectiously happy occasion. However, en route to this important concert hall in ‘t Zand, I had been stunned to see what appeared to be the aftermath of

Claron McFadden performing
in Amsterdam

 't Zand under siege. Trees will be planted
within the circles on the right.
Note the reduced space for café terraces!

Sarajevo. I hadn’t been there since the end of January when the dismantling of the splendid fountain was just beginning in the first phase of the redevelopment of 't Zand, estimated to finish in June. The entire area has been dug up but worse, so has much of the surrounding area too; the devastation extends into Steenstraat, one of the two major shopping streets of the city. And goes behind and to the side of the Concertgebouw. It makes the Concertgebouw and adjoining cafe and In en Uit, the major tourist information centre accessible only by muddy duckboards while restaurants, cafes and bars which line 't Zand are similarly besieged. Cannot be good for business; I certainly resolved not to go to two evening concerts towards the end of this month because the approach from any direction is unlit and perilous. And I now don’t dare attempt perilous!

 Geef musiek een kans

In the Concertgebouw I discovered that the Music Fund was in action. People were donating old instruments to be given new lives and provide support for musicians in conflict areas and developing countries. Since 2005, the organisation has collected over 4000 instruments of which more than half were immediately ready to be played and sent off to partner projects in Africa, the Middle East and Central America. The fund also assists in training specialists in music instrument repair and in contributing to musical dialogue between Europe and the rest. We arrived apparently between acts as there was a running programme throughout the day of jazz and pop, piano, gospel plus the afore-mentioned opera/jazz singer Claron McFadden providing a musical intermezzo. Worth spending the day here next year!!

Before beginning this blog, I hurried off to Aux Merveilleux de Fred, a palace to coffee and little cakes, opened over a year ago in the Eiermarkt. I haven't been for some time and had rather forgotten the chandelier, the busy patissiers at work in the window before an audience of admiring tourists outside, and especially the enticing little confections on display. I bought four tiny, frothy bonbons for coffee with a new friend who was coming round later and proudly carried the chic dainty little container home giving thanks yet again for the proximity of Good Things in Brugge!

 A merveilleux sight chez Fred!

The time of our lives ...

 Jonna in performance
[See below]

There will apparently be a million more septuagenarians in the UK during 2017. An astonishing figure and rather frightening I imagine for the boss of the NHS. I read it in The Times on Saturday, so it must be true! I fear that The Donald  is also around that age which gives pause for thought and fear, as the Times article opines that the Seventies are possibly the best decade of one's life. I do  NOT wish more power to Trump’s elbow; indeed quite the reverse; a swift decline or a complete disappearance would suffice and improve the global landscape immeasurably.

 Joanna Lumley looking Ab Fab at 70

However, the article did remind me of how lucky many of us are in the seventieth and in my case, eightieth, decades. Not all of course,
pensioner poverty is dreadful, but compared to previous generations, we have good diets, enough money, exercise, education and boundless self-confidence based on wide experience. Much of this could even delay dementia with luck. Sunday morning to an aperitief concert at the Crowne Plaza hotel where I also go swimming every day. I arrived to a full audience but got a seat near a lovely couple who turned out to be Belgian [her] and British [him]; they live here now after some travelling, losing, then finding, each other again after many years. Afterwards over a glass, we chatted and also met an elderly German couple on holiday. Ages cropped up and I was amused at the compliments for me; quite reminded me of a fossil on view in a museum. ‘No?! A million years old. Amazing!’ Saturday morning I went for coffee to the apartment of a new friend age 79 who has a large house in twenty hectares in Normandy but realised she was just watching the grass grow. So she is selling and has come to live here. I think it is the unfettered confidence of so many elderly people these days that is so impressive; the confidence to search out good, satisfying, interesting lives as a matter of right, almost. To be recommended and attitude helps!

Emma Wauters

 Saturday evening I went to a super concert in the Ryelandtzaal to hear two sisters, Emma & Mathilde Wauters playing a harp each SO beautifully. The whole evening was such a treat; Franck, Bach, Liszt and John Thomas of whom I had never heard. His Fantasie on a theme from Bizet’s Carmen was great fun. I think they had arranged the whole concert themselves with family and friends on hand to help with the audience entering and then enjoying a glass of wine before leaving. Mention was made in the programme notes of a professional cellist sister to add to the claim of being a musical family. The Sunday morning concert was dominated by Jonna, a young jazz singer, guitar player, pianist and composer; incredibly, all of her lyrics were in English. Her accompanists were Olivier Penu on drums; Jered Kerstens on piano and Benny van Acker on bass. They were very loud but accomplished and the audience loved them.

 Mathilde Wauters

I have spent a Long Time during the last two weeks over discovering the tax status of my pensions. It matters. I have a bill for 9000 euros payable by March 24th! Governmental pensions continue to pay UK tax; non-governmental, i.e. private, must pay Belgian tax. I believe I have now finally discovered the situation but must obtain written proof of the Governmental status of my Teachers' Pension [so far refused]; start proceedings [six page form] to reclaim relevant UK tax; and when I obtain the afore-mentioned written proof, apparently I must face Sandra in the Brugge Tax Office to seek official approval [without which I cannot reclaim UK tax]. This is definitely the most difficult, time-consuming, convoluted task since arriving here and I am trying to remain up-beat and positive!

 This is NOT a drawing of Sandra-in-the-Brugge
Tax Kantoor.

Happy families

Keen to return to normal life, I have been feeling energetic enough to be out and about in Brugge for most of the past week. Tuesday for the all-important hair appointment; highlights and trim and yet another attempt to persuade Patrick, the master cutter, not to cut my hair too short. In what I thought was a master stroke, I took along a photograph taken at my first husband’s 80^th party, in 2012, of a large family group, including me with slightly longer hair. I showed him that that was what I really wanted instead of the cut which caused friends and acquaintances to cry last month, ‘Gosh, you have gone short. New hairstyle?’ No, just an over-enthusiastic clipper/kapper. Patrick glanced at the photo and said, ‘With great respect, that hairstyle is old-fashioned.’ No I protested, same hairsyle, my hair is just a little longer. He shrugged, resignedly, and proceeded. I THINK my hair is a little longer than after previous scalpings but not sure. Surely for 108 euros I should get my own way, she sighs pathetically.

 My terrace two days before the harbinger of Spring arrived
 

The weather has been much improved and one afternoon I ventured on to the sunlit terrace to chop down or uproot dead stuff, sweep the leaves and dead twigs, and generally begin what felt like a real move towards Spring. En route home today I bought some lovely twigs with nascent blossom buds on, from the marvellous flower shop on Wapenmakerstraat nearby. The round bursting buds are pregnant with promise and bring the message that Spring cometh. One only needs the combination of pale sunshine and buds-about-to-burst to initiate a kind of Spring fever.

 Three days after the snow, taken during a sunny wander
around the canals.

 

Twice this week, en route home, I have been spontaneously invited in for a coffee. That's in addition to two other arranged meetings in coffee houses and a tea party at a friend's house. Definitely, all this convivial lubrication signifies the approach of Spring!

Thursday, passing a marvellous shop crammed with an Aladdin’s cave of discarded saints, Jesus statues, putti, old books, etc which I love, its owner, whom I now know, popped out and we chatted. He showed me a photograph of his estranged father, now displayed in the window in honour of his demise a few days before. Almost immediately he began to recount an amazing and long story of his fractured family, mostly re-told in its length, over a coffee nearby. It reminded me of the opening of Anna Karenina: ‘All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’ Unhappy families may be individually woebegone but the unhappiness is always grounded in human relationships and the betrayals and malign behaviour which emerge from dysfunctionality. I thought of a young man, a talented immigrant working in the hair salon where I go, who had formerly spoken warmly of the need to be close to family, this week waxing quite angrily about his family not appreciating him, or supporting him, only wanting him to send money home. ‘I’m going to live for myself,’ he fumed. And the girl who comes to fix my feet every so often rhapsodising about her second husband and their new young son, and her two other much-loved children. Family first in all sorts of ways, a universal unit, universally important to the healthy development of children and the continuing well-being of adult members. I moved away from my family in old age, confidently assuming that their love and support would still be there, wherever I chose to wander.

Saturday evening to the gorgeous Opera House in Gent, a centre for music lovers and aesthetes alike in its slightly-faded, extravagant, multi-tiered auditorium and the opulent glass and chandeliers in the bar and sitting areas. It is a space confident in its place and with assured pretensions to be a serious focus for musical art. It is a pleasure to go there, none more so than to see and hear the Symfonisch Orkest Opera Vlanderen. I know little about Gustav Mahler and have never heard any of his liederen performed; last evening they were from Des Knaben Wunderhorn and the long first half of the concert consisted of all his songs from that work performed by soprano, Barbara Senator, and bass baritone, Josef Wagner. I was enchanted with the richness and variety of the music and the art of the soloists. The second half was a tumultuous Symfonie No. 2 in D, opus 73 by Brahms, both challenging and passionate. A great evening.

 Opera House, Gent

Sights Not Seen

For the last two blogs I have intended to have a moan about a little parade which I would have enjoyed watching but about which I knew nothing. I discovered by chance a couple of days too late; the weekend of Jan 14/15 saw a parade of the best 50 costumes from the Venice Festival walking [on their owners] in technicolour grandeur from the Beguinage/ Minnewater area through the centre of Brugge. Apparently it rained a lot that w
eekend but even so! Were I a Facebook follower I would have known but even that knowledge does not persuade me to follow social media. I am outed as a Grey, Past-the Sell-by Date geriatric observer. Next year, however, I will be there in the watching crowds. Look around to see what I missed.
 

In Flanders Today [an interesting  weekly English language newspaper] I noticed that two excellent beer bars in Brugge[and both beloved here,] ‘t Brugs Beertje and Cafe Rose Red, were in the top ten list of beer bars in Belgium rated on the influential website RateBeer.com. The actual honour of Top Beer Bar went to de Verzekering tegen de Grote Dorst [Insurance against a Great Thirst] which is situated in Eizeringen, a district of Lennik in Flemish Brabant. In de Verzekering is only open from 10.00 to 13.30 on Sundays but still draws patrons from across the country as well as dozens of tourists every week to enjoy its special atmosphere and decor, mostly unchanged for 175 years. [It does have a notable Art Deco bar] It’s offering a bonus right now, however:  in honour of its 175th anniversary, it will be open until 20.00 on Sundays until 26 March. Concession indeed! Besides Sundays, the Grote Dorst is open on feast days and, splendidly, whenever there is a funeral at St Ursula's in the village. Another feather in the cap of Belgian eccentricity!

 Slaking the Grote Dorst
or perhaps, a post-funeral wake



A promising leaflet through the letter box announced Winter Vonken on 10-11 Februari in the Burg. From 19.00 Gratis. Another of these frequent, totally free street theatres, events, processions, displays which always amaze me, both in their scope and finery, and their free access. It reminds one that Brugge is a rich little city [more a town in feeling] and an imaginative one at that. Tourism is all here, but the free attractions benefit, above all, the residents most of whom seem to take these delightful interludes in the quotidian life, totally for granted! Or even with indifference. 'Oh I didn't bother to go' is often the response to my excited appreciation!
 

In spite of my present bronchial seclusion in my apartment, I determined to visit the bar and terrace under the trees at the edge of the Burg proper on Friday evening. Vonken means 'to shoot sparkles' I think, rather reminiscent of fireworks on November 5th in Britain. It was advertised to open   illuminated by blazing fires and light sculptures followed by a surrealistic aerial performance. I went for a wander, as it started to snow, and just loved the warmth, the crowd, the chiaroscuro of the scene. There were half a dozen giant shallow cauldrons stacked high with flaming logs and surrounded by smiling families; an amazing array of enormous iron candle-holders and ironwork sculptures lit by electric light or candlelight plus huge 'flowers' serving as candle-holders. It was quite magical. I could not stay for the aerial performance but there was a large plastic construction on the Burg itself, where the giant Christmas tree had recently stood, labelled Franse I couldn't decide if this was the launching pad for the aerial display or a stage for the later band. Anyway, it promised a splendid warm outdoor event definitely up to the usual high standards here!

 Think this beautifully captures the
Hard Rock spirit 

Post Script

I understand [dimly] from the Brugse Tam Tam, a free regional newspaper, that the Beuk, a hard rock band from Brugge won the bronze award in the TBFM Music Industry Awards 2017, entitled Best International Band. The Gold was won by a Scandinavian group and the Silver by a German. I am not into hard rock at all but must publicise this local talent. I am almost as proud of them, the band members, as I am of my tiny ability to forage some meaning from the almost impenetrable Dutch of the newspaper!



Krexit means Krexit



  In the Mount Cook area, N.Z.
far from Brugge.

I have been in a relatively secluded spot this week; in my apartment, home alone, on account of a bout of bronchitis; a first for me. In spite of hope of a quick recovery, I can see that the coming week will also be spent in a continuing bout of house arrest! But there is much to be cheerful about on the family front. One daughter and family happily removed to a new house they are buying in Silicon Valley; one son and daughter-in-law finishing a five week exploration of New Zealand in a camping van; one grandson and girl friend happily ski-ing in France; one grandson and partner, newly returned from super holiday in south Mexico and moving this weekend into their first home they are buying together; one grand-daughter and partner about to explore Amsterdam. All good then. And it puts my temporary bronchial exhaustion into perspective! The arrival of a tax demand on my 2015 income, already taxed in Britain, is a Big Problem to be solved. I am shelving it until mental acuity returns. Plus, a stern letter in Dutch, with accompanying photographs, threatening a fine for putting out my re-cycling on January 5th, mistakenly, Jan 12th being the exact collection date. The letter to me was registered as must be my answer. Now for the first time, I see the steel behind the velvet glove of the pristine appearance of Brugge.
 



 An imaginary place where life is perfect,
socially, politically, morally

Otherwise, the week’s big event, in a relatively event-free week, has been the arrival of Utopia, bought under the influence of the marvellous exhibition recently in Leuven. More wrote much of the book during his diplomatic tour of Flanders in 1515 to protect the interests of English merchants. He took the name Utopia from the Greek ou-topos, meaning 'no place'. But there is a pun there; the Greek word eu-topos is 'a good place'.  As I read, I am staggered by its modernity which must also be attributable to the splendid translation from More’s Latin  by Paul Turner. The Utopians follow a keen sense of virtue and rationalism. They seek to avoid the social complications of private wealth and class structure and they rely upon an education in reason, morality, and religion to keep Utopians well-behaved. Utopians believe the greatest pleasures to be those of the mind and not the body, and they devote much of their free time to these pleasures. Utopianism seems to be a superior form of Communism with more emphasis on intellectual pleasures.

 The island which gave its name to signify
a place where life is perfect
 

More takes a reflective tone in his final letter in the book, to his great friend, Pieter Gillis, but More is not telling the literal truth. He describes his work as not necessarily "a fictional presentation which would make the truth slip more pleasantly into the mind like medicine smeared with honey." At the same time, More gives the clues confirming that his work is fictional: the name Utopia means that the island is nowhere; the name of the city Amaurot means phantom; the name of the river Anyder means that there is no water; and the name of the ruler, Ademus, means that he has no people.

By Bruno Vincent

And now, from the sublime to the ridiculous. My sister has sent me a copy of Five On Brexit Island by Bruno Vincent. I became quite excited when she told me about it during one Facetime a couple of weeks ago. Memories stirred of the joy I had when young in reading the Famous Five adventure stories BUT recent publications by an Enid Blyton for Grown-ups, covering such titles as Five Go Gluten-Free and Five Give Up The Booze, had all passed me by, just when I thought I kept abreast of important British news! Anyway my copy arrived on Friday and I read Five On Brexit Island before getting up on Saturday morning. There are blissful touches like the picture on the outer cover which includes a boy in a boat brandishing a notice saying, ‘£350m for the Picnic Fund.’ and inside, a drawing of the Famous Five with Timmy the dog eagerly sniffing, and the caption, ‘Timmy was neutral, although if he had understood the variety of sausages available on the European mainland, that would have been a factor.’ A delightful touch is to label the move of the Five to declare independence for (their) Kirrin Island from the UK mainland, Krexit, with the accompanying, inevitable, ‘Krexit means Krexit’, to further burnish the fun. Bruno Vincent, the author, is inspired! This is a spoof par excellence and one of a series. Below, and above, are more titles placed in an apparently random fashion. Putting images into this blog can be challenging; there seems to be An Unseen Hand governing the process!