Numerous Penitents and Three Birthdays

One of the birthday girls celebrating
her 80th last year.

What a lovely week I have had, even without the much-lamented Fitbit! On the evening before my Friday birthday, the lovely Thursday group came over here for food, courtesy of Trium, and drink. The Trium food was excellent, provided with maximum kindness [even to the extent of home delivery] and minimum fuss. And the excuse to have a dozen friends round for a lively social and sociable evening was happily taken. Couldn’t have been more fun and I do hope someone sends me a photograph of me wearing the tiara provided by Kristin, which I had to make myself take off to go to bed! Added to which, against stern admonishment of No presents, they gave me a Raaklijn book token. More pleasure ahead!

Emily Dickinson; born Amherst, Massachusets 1830;
died Amherst, 1866. Lived an ascetic, prudent
separate life. Her poetry recognised only
in the twentieth century.

I celebrated with my family on Facetime mainly, and that means my extended family as both my younger sisters have their birthdays on what I always refer to as MY birthday. I had two additional treats; one friend gave me a marvellous little Emily Dickinson with bilingual poems AND took me to a coffee house unknown to me, for a delicate little Merveilleux concoction of meringue, cream, raspberries and coulis. And on Saturday evening went with another friend for mussels to a new-to-me bistro which I shall visit again. A splendidly extended anniversary though a friend of similar octogenarian age wrote idly wondering why, at our age, we continue to celebrate. Habit? Great excuse for a party? Gratitude that the only alternative to ageing, has not yet claimed us?

Today, Sunday July 30^th, by train to Veurne which I visited recently and loved, particularly the Grote Markt with the Flemish gables and other venerable architecture surrounding it. The last Sunday in July is the Boetprocessie, the Procession of the Penitents which started in 1646. It is all inspired by incidents from both the Old and New Testaments and various carts carry centuries-old sculpture groups representing scenes from the passion of Christ. It also features an extended group of hooded, barefoot penitents carrying heavy wooden crosses. The girl in the tourist office oOh it's traditional'. I reminded myself that in earlier days, there would have been stalls and a mediaeval market of sorts with merriment abounding after the procession in the Grote Markt but somehow the plastic tawdriness and deafening racket, didn’t quite capture the mediaeval spirit of joy.

n my first visit had insisted that the penitents were genuinely atoning for past crimes, which I found incredibly difficult to believe. I realise that these processions are still an important part of Flemish life and its cultural heritage, and from the hundreds of people processing plus other unseen organisers and contributors, one can easily see the extent and importance of community involvement. One does wonder if the religious significance is still as it was, centuries ago or indeed, if there is any relic of the earlier religiosity expressed. I think it is unlikely; certainly the crowds of onlookers were entertained and impressed but not overawed with any religious message or example. What DID jar was the transformation of the wonderful Grote Markt into a fairground which had the grace to stay silent during the long procession but swung immediately afterwards, into blaring action. The man in the tourist office, when I commented adversely, merely said, airily, ‘





         

 Sonorous start to the Boetprocessie

Though I did, by chance, bump into a lovely Dutch friend, in Brugge for the forthcoming MA Festival next week, and he too felt the inappropriateness of the modern plastic whirligigs and torturous-looking carousels with the stunning blast of sound enveloping the aural landscape. Judging from the happy throng, we were the only critics there! When I was professionally active, working with teenagers, I always thought that I would never

be, or feel, out of step with modern life. But there are times now when …   In fact, many times when bewilderment sets in, as when young people sit together in twos or small groups, and stay on their phones all the time. A sort of companionable separateness seems to be the order of the day!



One of the penitents, struggling with his load.

Two waiting for the Off and a helpful boy
selling chair space for two euros

                                                                        

One blissful participant regretting nothing.
 



National Day

National Day for Belgium; another Feestdag  when shops are closed, buses and trains run Sunday services and restaurants and bars are crowded with an increased number of tourists and locals out to enjoy themselves. So, a Day of Celebration which, by happenstance, became a day of despondency
for me, and I write as an incurable optimist whose persistent high spirits can irritate some!

After my lovely, exuberant few days in Britain last week, I came home with a super birthday present from my son and his wife. A slender black Fitbit which really appealed to my slightly obsessive nature.

For any unaware of the nature of a Fitbit, it is a glorified pedometer with added electronic wizardry to tell not only the number of steps walked, but the heart rate at any given moment, calories burned, kilometres walked etc. I think it is something of a craze among young professionals [though not octogenarians] and I have been proudly wearing it all week, absolutely delighted to find that every day, doing everyday things, I seem to walk around 11000-12000 steps, or around 9/10 kilometres. I try to keep healthy with a daily swim and some walking so the new gadget greatly appealed.

I have worn it every morning to and from the Crowne Plaza [worth at least 1000 steps!] when I go for my morning swim, leaving it in my jeans pocket, with my key and Crowne Plaza card, and the rest of my ‘stuff’ [underclothes, case for goggles etc] adjacent to my bag in the changing cubicle. I have never considered putting it all safely away in the lockers available. It all feels so safe in the Crowne Plaza! This morning when I entered the normally sedate and silent swimming area, I could hear two male voices shouting and laughing from the sauna round the corner, and smiled indulgently at two young men ‘having fun!’ I ignored the vast amount of water and sustained water fight I guessed] and entered the pool.

After showering, when I entered my cubicle nearby, I could see that someone had tipped my bag upside down then stuffed everything back in; my shirt was on the floor, the jeans were still hanging in place but the Fitbit was missing. The men had gone; I had seen one briefly when he had dived in, swum two lengths then left and had noticed, mid-water as he turned, near me, that he was perhaps in his twenties, Indian, with a beginning beard. I was stunned that someone who could afford to stay in a decent hotel in Brugge was also a determined thief.



 Grand Café Craenenburg, Markt

A further surprise awaited. The manager informed me, basically, that it was my problem and I could inform the police if I wished. He would not. Eventually after a phone conversation, the police came [lovely men!]. The two predators, towels around waists signalling a hasty exit, had been caught on camera leaving the Fitness area but this was not enough to try to find them. The hotel was full and busy, the images weren't great … etc! There were issues of privacy to prevent my seeing the images on the reception camera etc. At least, I am now bang up-to-date on procedures after theft in a hotel; where responsibilities lie; the ease of disclaimers and the perils of ignoring the safety of lockers in Fitness areas. I have fleeting daydreams featuring a chance encounter [I did, in fact, sit for nearly an hour scanning guests bound for breakfast!], superhuman strength and agility on my part, [totally unreal given that I am 83 next week!] resulting in capture of the two thieves followed perhaps, [this is the Ultimate Fantasy] by cojones on toast to celebrate!

 Terrace, normally used for leisure; occasionally
for consolation!

After a desultory morning with much consolation from enjoying the terrace while reading The New York Times, I made myself go out into the throng; walked to the Groeninge Museum to see the Flemish Primitives, the Surrealists and the Flemish Impressionists which did, in fact, distract and nurture. Afterwards I had a look en passant at the bric-a-brac stalls on the Dijver, and wandered to the Markt where a stage had been erected and an Oompah band was beginning to encourage some crowd-singing. I noticed a spare table at the Craenenburg, next to the pavement in the Markt itself, so cheered myself up with a Leffe Blond, enjoying the music and the pageantry of passing tourists.  Suddenly I saw a friend from the Thursday group, hailed him and he joined me, succeeding pretty quickly in Cheering Me Up with interesting talk. So a reasonably upbeat end to a trying day!


The Call of The Night
Paul Delvaux; Surrealist.

To Town With Harry Potter

Temple of Worship, West End style

Just surfing exhaustion today brought upon by only two and a bit days in Bucks and London. I definitely needed to limp home after great fun with my son and some of his family, specifically, with one grandson celebrating his 21^st today [June 16] A whole year ago, he had bought tickets for Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, currently staged at the Palace Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue, for three people including me, an H.Potter non-follower. His real kindness and generosity to me are SO appreciated however; his boundless love for H.P. is infectious!

 J.K.Rowling

I neglect to mention a further refinement: either through theatrical design or financial expediency, the entire production stretched over TWO evenings so the mountaineering to what my generation used to fondly refer to as ‘the Gods’, entailed climbing what felt like a hundred stairs [healthy!] to the steeply-stepped seats with leg-room for dwarves, on two consecutive evenings. As grandson’s perceptive friend, an actor and the third member of our group, remarked, the theatre audience demographic was unusual; families, young women, non-theatre-goers normally, brought with them a remarkable, collective disinhibition. Cheers, groans, noisy elation or despair, that curious ‘Whoooooo’ of appreciation that young people make and ‘on-your-feet’ cheering, waving and jumping about in total body worship, at the finale, were there in abundance. It all demonstrated a real encompassing involvement in the narrative and a huge appreciation of both performance and production. J.K.Rowling is a magician herself; years ago with her first Harry Potter book she single-handedly converted thousands of young boys to voluntary, nay enthusiastic, reading. And now, with this theatre venture such an enduring and total success, she is bringing in astonishing numbers of fans to experience theatre too. I am in awe.

In fact, The Cursed Child was amazing: fabulous production values; extraordinary creativity; magical choreography [HOW could one character, mid-stage, metamorphose before audience eyes, into another, completely different person?]; first-rate casting and acting; a gripping narrative that almost made sense eventually, even to an agnostic like me. A real spectacle indeed.

I DID enjoy strolling, post-theatre, through the crowded, multi-lingual, multi-cultural streets of London, pushing through others leaving theatres, with tourists by the thousand so pleased to be there; excited families on special occasion trips up to Town,

NOT the West End Theatre land but Oxford Street.
Similar crowds however.

and on the roads, among the buses and cars, motor bikes and bicycles; rickshaw drivers working hard for the enjoyment of their passengers, dodging pedestrians, many half-transfixed by the lights and personalities on show. Beggars were still, heart-breakingly, at work among passers-by who had other sights on their minds and other priorities pressing. But the feelings of surrounding vitality and fun and excitement were irrepressible.

 The splendid Gauthier.
The boys enjoyed the locked front door with the attendant
necessity to ring for admittance.

On our second day in London for H.P. worship, we went to a super restaurant, Gauthier on Romilly Street, for a celebratory lunch for the Birthday Boy. Quite simply, it was the best. We chose the Taster Menu and were rewarded by a succession of exquisitely-presented tiny courses, each with a different, complementary wine. For me, the fact that two twenty one year old young men adored it too, was great. Later, after a visit to the R.A. [a first for the boys I think] we were walking along Piccadilly when my grandson stopped, almost quivering with excitement before humbly approaching an undistinguished boy propping up a doorway. Apparently he was Jack Gleeson who plays King Joffrey in Game of Thrones and, to his credit, he was delightful with the boys’ adoration. I was bemused but glad that they were glad!! Much later I was shown a tiny clip of King Joffrey behaving really badly in character and his odd face looked just perfect for the part! I think that this brief encounter was probably the icing on the birthday cake for The Boy!!



 King Joffrey from Game of Thrones
insisting on a selfie with the boys.



Veurne in World War 1

 Veurne Stadhuis in the Grote Markt

An unexpected trip to Veurne proved to be a delightful and truly interesting experience. About an hour from Brugge, it is a typical Flemish town. By that I mean it has a spacious and beautiful Grote Markt, lined with bars and restaurants and a tearoom, no less! There is a venerable church, Sint Walburga, with a little park around and a Stadhuis built in Flemish Renaissance style with interior walls lined with beautiful tooled and coloured leather, a legacy of the Spanish influence. On one corner of the Markt is a former library which was holding a temporary exhibition of paintings and ceramic sculptures from a local art group. And everywhere the lovely Flemish gables.

The very normality of this picturesque townscape, peacefully busy with its sunny quotidien life contrasted sharply with its situation in WW1 which I learned about from an excellent exhibition in the Stadhuis there. There are many memorial exhibitions in Flanders in the present period, 2014-18, to commemorate the First World War; unsurprising given the dates. But until today I had not realised that there had been a tiny part of Belgium which remained free for those appalling four years of savage warfare. Then, Veurne [Furnes] had been virtually on the front line of free Belgium [Vrij Vaderland] and, as the one remaining unoccupied town, had been declared the capital of Belgium; the King took up residence there establishing the Belgium army headquarters in the Stadhuis. From 1914 on, the town was crowded with thousands of refugees and Belgian and French soldiers en route to and from the front line with totally inadequate supplies of food, medicines, bandages, sheets and shelter to meet the myriad demands.

 Inundation

Veurne lies in the Westhoek area of Belgium and in order to prevent the German troops from taking over the northern part of the Westhoek with its access to the Channel ports, and after extensive battles over weeks, a desperate, defensive plan was launched. In Westhoek, the terrain was different; it comprised the polders, reclaimed land with water levels just below the surface, regulated by a widespread system of sluices and pumps. The lochs and sluices in nearby Nieuwpoort were opened allowing the sea to gradually flood the Yser plain down to Diksmuide, forming a natural barrier and stopping the German advance in that area for four long years.




Marie and Irene Curie in Veurne 

It was a real surprise to learn that Marie Curie, with her daughter, had come to Veurne in 1914 bringing their knowledge of radiography. It seems extraordinary that a double Nobel Laureate and revered physicist and chemist should so closely engage with the war effort as to spend several months in a highly dangerous area so that she could improve the care for, and safety of, severely wounded men. Disheartened by the trauma of war and guided by her humanitarian principles, she launched a project to establish a radiological service for the French army and bring x-ray machines nearer to the battlefield. She obtained vehicles that could be converted into mobile x-ray units, working with manufacturers to obtain portable generators. From these materials she was able to produce effective field radiological units, the first anywhere. She trained people, often women, in the use of the machines and before the end of the war had twenty radiological units with over two hundred trained personnel in active service. During 1917 and 1918, alone, these mobile facilities took more than a million x-rays enabling quicker, near-battlefield medical diagnosis and treatment thus saving many lives.

I have begun to understand more the difference between living in an island at war like England, which suffered considerable civilian disruption and fierce food and clothes rationing while millions of kith and kin fought and died in Europe, and experiencing war under enemy occupation and within an active war zone.

I happen, by chance, to be currently
reading Bastion: Occupied Bruges in the First

German troops in the Markt, Brugge 1914

World War by Sophie Schaepdrijver and learning of the deaths, the deprivation, the cruelty experienced from occupation by enemy forces. Apart from imminent and arbitrary brutality, there was the loss of personal autonomy; the constant fear of doing something wrong with the inevitable reprisals; the absence of normality with the closure of many shops, schools, universities, town halls; the disappearance of normal officials, taken-for-granted routines, services, free choices. Morality changed and all the routine underpinnings of every-day society disappeared under the oppressive regime of an alien force. Collaboration, with its implicit threat for future consequences, became a way for some, to get by in intolerable circumstances. Many chose to survive by becoming quislings for which they suffered severe consequences after the war finished. Society was riven and the bruising after-effects of the war lasted long after 1918.


British soldiers blinded by mustard gas

And so, a small trip to see a little Flemish town became an absorbing and unexpected learning opportunity to learn and understand more of Belgian history. Oddly, my own childhood memories of wartime Britain, also stirred.

Death and Art

Not news from, but news in, Brugge and the rest of Europe comes the death of Simone Veil who died yesterday, June 30, aged 89.. This Auschwitz survivor lived, when many of her family died, and went on to carve out a magnificent career for herself. She was Minister of Health under Giscard d’Estaing, President of the European Parliament, Honorary President of the Fondation pour la Memoire de la Shoah, Member of the Academie Francaise. Need I go on? Perhaps her most courageous act was to push through legislation for the legalisation of abortion in January 1975. Quite an achievement forty years ago in a country like France with its deeply traditional and Roman Catholic roots.

In the meantime I despair when I hear and read of the state of British politics with the inflexible Theresa and the D.U.P. support package involving real money with apparently no insistence that D.U.P. policy moves to support gay marriage and abortion though the latter, strangely, managed to garner sufficient support for meaningful legislation in Parliament. Brexit continues its downhill path of UK destruction while Corbynmania allows the mirage of a Labour electoral victory in sight when a majority of voters will not support Really Left policies. What’s not to like in the Labour manifesto? Nothing save the impossibility of affording it all.

 The Haymaker by Emile Claus. 1896

But to return to Beloved Brugge or rather, yesterday, to Ghorgeous Ghent. A friend and I returned to the Caermersklooster, in Patershol, to see another marvellous exhibition in this former Carmelite monastery. Entitled, Rooted, it displays Flemish art from 1880-1930. Much of the exhibition is of paintings from private collections and demonstrates a major turning point in Flemish art history against the backdrop of the development of Belgium as a leading industrial nation. The early works were painted by a group of Belgian Impressionists who had left the grime and overcrowding of industrial Ghent for the pastoral paradise of villages along the River Leie. These light and picturesque works by Gustave Van de Woestyne, Emile Claus, George Minne and Valerius De Saedeleer, are the most romantic and beautiful of the entire exhibition and show the nostalgia the artists felt towards the rapidly-departing pastoral idyll of earlier nineteenth century life. All these paintings are done before the First World War and, with the onset of war, the tone and style changes abruptly as artists flee Belgium and
become immersed in the international art scene.

Woman on a Bicycle. Hubert Malfait 1924

The pastoral gives way to the metropolitan; scenes, again based on ordinary lives, now picture images of cafe interiors, fairs, circuses, the music hall and modern pursuits like cycling. The pictures of Gustave de Smet, Frits Van den Berghe, Constant Permeke and Edmund Tytgat are individually striking and contrast dramatically and urgently with the earlier Romanticism on view. Two of my favourite Flemish artists feature; James Ensor in his Oostende studio and Rik Wouters in his domestic Paradise; both are idiosynchratically expressive but somehow a little apart from the general tide of art history.

One visitor enjoying a ride on the carousel

I did enjoy the manner of display in this Rooted exhibition; several small rooms are furnished with items of furniture contemporary to the paintings and one space has an imaginative version of a carousel to echo the circus theme. Delightful and light-hearted as a backdrop to an exhibition of outstanding works from radical and influential Flemish painters of the day. Worth seeing twice!

Zomer by Gustave de Smets 1913



  Open air school in Astridpark

And just as a passing observation; I noticed last week how many school parties there seemed to be roaming the streets and squares of Brugge then the penny dropped! School finished yesterday and pupils and teachers alike were unwinding in thankful preparation. Still three weeks to go in the UK before the longed-for Summer break!

Universal Genius Par Excellence



Horse's Head by Giorgio Vasari.
[in exhibition]

In search of cultural refreshment, I visited the new Leonardo exhibition in Oud Sint Jan on Sunday morning. It is billed as a World Premiere as, after Brugge, it travels Europe-wide. I do vaguely remember a similar idea for a Leonardo exhibition which featured models of some of his sketches, in the Poor Priests’ Hospital in Canterbury as part of the Festival 1985. This current exhibition is mind-blowing in its extraordinary scope and size; there are over a hundred models made from Leonardo’s sketches and demonstrate the quite extraordinary genius of the man. Indeed, Giorgio Vasari in his Lives of the Artists, 1568, describes Leonardo [1452-1519] as: an example of an artist transcending nature when, ‘a single person is marvellously endowed by Heaven with beauty, grace and talent in such abundance that he leaves other men behind.’

 

One can imagine that illegitimacy was despised and ridiculed during the fifteenth century but Leonardo was saved from ignominy in his mother, Caterina's, peasant family because his father, a rich notary living in Vinci near to Firenze, took him into his household and provided a basic school education. Ser Piero da Vinci, eventually recognising his son's extensive talents, persuaded friend, Andrea del Verrocchio, to take the boy into his workshop to shape his creativity. So, good fortune in his early days provided Leonardo with creative training and his matchless curiosity and innate creativity carried him per ardua ad astra.

 Ginevra de' Benci  1474/8

His painting was almost faultless with its wonderful use of sfumato and chiaroscuro though he did acquire a reputation for not always finishing commissions. In spite of Leonardo's mastery of portraits

 Lady with Ermine
Accomplished portrait of
Cecilia Gallerani
1490

and his astonishing anatomical drawings in surviving notebooks, the exhibition is memorable chiefly for the superlative array of wooden weapons and defensive models constructed from his drawings.

There are inventive and enormous catapults and several cannon ball-launching machines; assault cars and any number of ingenious devices involving ladders, projectiles and protective armour for the mediaeval soldier. One cone-shaped assault car is credited with being the inspiration for the modern tank.
Walking round wondering is to be in the skin of a mediaeval general, given the key to a mediaeval gallery of prototypes of weapons and armour designed to make him ecstatically impregnable on the battlefield. Leonardo was an Engineer Extraordinaire and an Inventor of Defence and Weaponry Par Excellence. And this doesn't touch on his genius with hydraulics, aeronautics, architecture, measurement.

One tends, now, to think of Leonardo da Vinci as, primarily, an artist, though he left quite a small body of work behind; 15 or 16 paintings in total though containing wonderfully realised compositions such as the Mona Lisa and the Last Supper but my favourites are Lady with Ermine and Ginevra de’Benci [1474/8] However, contemporaneously, he was admired and sought principally as an engineer and inventor, especially in the realms of warfare. The art of warfare ranked first in the list of arts and clearly Leonardo was entranced by it for most of his life.



Cone-shaped armoured car surmounted
by a small tower. Armoured
wooden exterior defended by  
low perimeter cannons.

Many of da Vinci's sketches were clever dreams, unrealisable at the time because of the weight of the materials available. But, this Renaissance Man's inventions often pre-dated by hundreds of years, the actual appearance of machines imagined by him. His 'aerial screw' drawing has notes ....' If this instrument made with a screw be well made -- that is to say, made of linen of which the pores are stopped up with starch-- be turned swiftly, the said screw will make it spiral in the air and it will rise.'
His idea of compressing air to obtain flight is similar to the principle behind today's  helicopters, the first of which was made in the 1940s.


 Leonardo da Vinci, self portrait, 1512/15

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

                              

 The matchless beauty of Ginevra de' Benci,
as portrayed by Leonardo in 1474/8

 

Brugge Blog from Britain

 St Augustine's Abbey ruins

Lovely to see Canterbury again; I used to go for coffee and shopping twice a month when I lived in Wye and always enjoyed it. I am more sensitised to city gates since living in Brugge so that I nodded appreciatively to the Westgate, England’s largest city gate still standing, as I passed by. Canterbury has its own UNESCO designation covering the wonderful Cathedral, the atmospheric remains of St Augustine’s Abbey and St Martin’s. The Cathedral with its exceptional early stained glass and memorial

 6th Century St Martin's Church

to Thomas Becket, the Archbishop murdered there in 1170,  boasts Bell Harry Tower which has dominated the city for hundreds of years and is a notable landmark for miles. St Augustine's, founded by St. Augustine in 597 A.D. was a centre of learning and spirituality for almost a thousand years until the unfortunate intervention of Henry V11in 1538 with the Dissolution of the Monasteries, while St Martin's, the first church built in England and in continuous use since the 6th century, stands nearby. A truly exceptional and historical trio in this World Heritage Site.
 



Not entirely beautiful outside, but a great
addition to Canterbury life. 

Memory lane took me to Caffe Nero and for a quick peep at the Marlowe Theatre nearby, scene of many a past theatrical evening out. I happened to pass the Chaucer Bookshop which I love and from where I once bought an old [and expensive!]map of Kent for in a special present plus one or two from the delicious array of second-hand and antiquarian books. It is a real bookshop for book-lovers. I just had a couple of sunny hours in the centre of the city and located the recommended but new-to-me Curzon cinema, tucked away in a side street and now open for two years. It has the flavour of a cinema club with a cafe and it is adventurous and delightful. I really savoured the mid-town atmosphere with more students than I have ever seen there before. Canterbury felt young and thriving and I was inspired to pop into Cath Kidston’s to buy a handbag in the sale. I shall remember that delightful afternoon every time I behold its rich blue, spotted solid shape.

Wye on the following four days was even more beautiful than I had remembered and just as friendly and welcoming as expected. It was a real delight to be back and even my Monday evening talk to the Arts Association went down well in spite of sauna-like temperatures. Almost best of all was the lunch

 Wye, 1934 vintage

for wimmin born in 1934 of whom there were eight of us identified when I lived there. One of us was indisposed but the remaining seven had a most relaxed and amusing time lazing the afternoon away in a lovely garden, with timeless views of the golden village cricket field beyond.

And during that Wye weekend, it was back to the Stour Festival, an annual feast of' Early Music in All Saints Church, Boughton Aluph, about two miles outside the village. Mark Deller, son of the fabled counter tenor Alfred, runs it still though it was launched by his father in 1962. There are five concerts each weekend over the last two weekends in June and the setting is idyllic. Marquees for food and drink , rural Kentish landscape and Baroque music in a beautiful old church; what more could one ask? The Festival is a whole world somehow caught in a social aspic; one sees the same people, in certain fashions; courtesy and bonhomie abound; friendships are renewed; wonderful music is shared and savoured and even if it rains, the sun always shines somehow.

All Saints, Boughton Aluph, before
the annual Baroque Festival.

The first half of my ten away-days took me to Nottinghamshire, to my sister’s farm, and little outings with my sister in her wheelchair; the very best was a visit to the lane where we had grown up, only about seven miles from her present residence of nearly sixty years. The tiny house, number 14, was identified and miraculously the wood adjacent to our house where we had played with our gang at being ‘bombed out’ in WW2, and where we had climbed so many trees over seventy years ago, was unbelievably, still there! It is now part of a small country park and ‘our’ part remains. We wandered in the sun, delighted to be back, with memories re-kindled and brains sharpened. A great idea from my sister’s younger son re-kindled some of the best experiences of our childhoods, accessing a veritable store house of submerged memories.

 My sister, forgetting she has Alzheimer's,
and I on a lovely sunny outing to les temps perdus.