Time to stand and stare.

Along the far bank of the Groenerei. Artist unknown
but a beautiful work of art together with the backdrop of
hortensias.

A little time to stand and stare after a busy period. So for a Goodbye drink with Edmond and Patrick; leisurely lunch with Michelle Sunday; a coffee date and another lunch-with-friends coming up later this week. Perfect. Starting Dutch next month as is my vague intention, will be a shock to the system, especially as I have not spoken one word of it since March! Brugge is not the ideal town in which to  feel highly motivated to speak Dutch when the Bruggelingen tumble effortlessly from one European language to another, without a pause. Even the lowliest road-sweeper can speak some English!

In my more leisurely wanderings, I saw for the first time after an early swim, two men with a wheelbarrow, an amount of wet cement and two shovels, in Jan Van Eyckplein, adjacent to the

famous statue of the artist, carefully lifting, cementing and replacing upstanding cobblestones of the variety which caused havoc to my jaw last October. I felt a warm gratitude. An employee in some official capacity told me earlier this year that one person is employed just to walk around Brugge spotting troublesome high cobblestones. Plus, apparently, at least two more to re-sit the offending upstarts. Brugge, I salute your wish to escape litigation from troublesome tourists as well as enhance its mediaeval beauty!

Taking advantage of my lack of time pressures, I paused to notice an interesting little phenomenon in St Jansplein at the corner between Chocostory and the Belgian Pigeon House. The tarmac and under-rubble have been stripped back to the earlier cobblestones, covered when Brugge was
perhaps less concerned about historical preservation. New cobblestones are being laid; perhaps the original or earlier stones are unfit for use now, or cannot be re-used decently or are too large? The newly-laid stones will look great when the job is finished; tourists will be impressed with the continuing authenticity of the streets and the sleight of hand, as it were, will be mainly undiscovered! More stage presentation than necessity perhaps and none the worse for that. I remain incredibly impressed with the huge effort and expense to which the city goes, to preserve and enhance its mediaeval beauty. I further noticed today [Tuesday 29] that large-scale work is going on further down the same St Jansstraat and the road is closed to all traffic with buses re-routed etc. Nothing done by halves here!

 Reflections above and to the left. The original
window image of the mediaeval house
is much better in the actuality than
in the adjacent photograph.

Other little charmers noted on my more sedate wanderings these precious few ‘winding down’ days are the reflection on my terrace window of the tower on the Zwarte Zusters [and the semi-permanent crane] opposite; an exquisite little image in coloured glass [one of several] in a window in a notable house on the Potterierei, and a lovely lithe and liquid statue recumbent before a little bank of hydrangeas [hortensia] on the far bank of the Groenerei.[see above] All aesthetic life-enhancers previously and frequently unnoticed or not noticed with any serious sense of gratitude! I shall display this panoply of images for the delectation of the reader!



Procession of the Gouden Boom

Wandering with my Festival guest a few days before he left, last week, we went into the Basilica of the Heilige Bloed. I had been only once before and loved the ornate Gothic decoration and the venerable building, erected between 1134 and 1145 but my distaste for relics and my initial disbelief that today there are still people who venerate them, probably blunted my normal enthusiasm. That said, this time, I stayed longer, appreciated more and actually explored the crypt-like area below ground. It was beautiful, simplicity writ large, and together with the more ornate Gothic decoration in the main basilica, makes a whole, small site of perfection. All this was apparently appreciated by the continuing throng of overawed tourists who shuffled through the basilica in stunned silence and, in some cases, reverence.

The Holy Relic, carried during the
Procession of the Holy Blood.

The oldest document concerning the relic of the Holy Blood dates from 1256, a century after the arrival on April 7th 1150 in Brugge of Count Thierry of Alsace who had reputedly received the holy relic from his brother-in-law, Baldwin 111, the King of Jerusalem in 1150. This considerable gap might mean that the relic arrived in Brugge later than the accepted date. In 1203, Constantinople fell into the hands of the crusaders and the imperial city was sacked in 1204. Baldwin 1X, Count of Flanders, was chosen as the new emperor and it is likely that he sent looted relics back to Flanders, and particularly to Brugge, where his daughters, Johanna and Margaretha, ruled in his absence. This probably accounts for the presence of the holy relic in Brugge while  the design of the rock crystal flask containing the relic, indicates an origin in Constantinople. It is astonishing to this Johnny-Come-Lately that this degree of historical information, nay accuracy, is available today and I am indebted to the Brugge Guide and Historian Cum Laude, Eric Van Keirsbilck, for these details!

After which, another busy week; on Saturday morning I repeated the quite arduous climb up the 366 steps of the Belfort, with Frank Deleu, the Stadsbeiaardier, to watch him play the carillon and  

 The Brugge carillon

send the so-familiar cadences to the crowds in the Markt below. I was with a Very Musical Friend who was staying for a few days and who really appreciated the opportunity to see a master at play! I love to go above the eyrie where the carillon is housed and see the array of large bells above. And, more than anything, to scan the Bruggean panorama on all sides; it is a delight and a puzzle and an aesthetic fulfilment. Were it not for the wind, one could surely luxuriate in the magical views for hours. I was also pleased to meet the Tower Guard, a very comfortable-looking, totally non-aggressive man who remains aloft for the whole day.

Every five years the Procession of the Golden Tree parades through the streets of Bruges and so it occurred on Saturday and Sunday afternoons [19 & 20th. August] My guest and I found a perfect spot at the side of the Stadtheater off Vlamingstraat and my only mistake was not to take a chair from the terrace; standing for nearly two hours on an arthritic foot is not to be recommended! The procession itself provided an enthralling spectacle, with giants, floats involving ships, dragons, thrones, treasure houses, gallows plus a veritable menagerie of animals and 1700 colourful characters all celebrating the city’s existence, affirming its identity and commemorating its history. The first section of the pageant takes you through an evocation of scenes from Flemish history. The second part recreates the legendary festival of the Gouden Boom. This grandiose cavalcade originally wound

Charles the Bold

 Margaret of York

its stately way through Brugge in 1468 to celebrate the wedding of Charles the Bold and Margaret of York. The contemporary tribute creates a special atmosphere; there are crowds of residents and tourists alike, all anxious to soak up the ambience, richness, diversity, unexpected little mishaps and little vignettes inches away from their eager lenses! Clearly the people of Brugge are rightly proud of their impressive Parade of the Gouden Boom.

I was less surprised than formerly to see a little flock of sheep; a dromedary with a baby; a

 I am unsure as to the historical accuracy of this orderly but
lively line of daschunds

considerable number of large horses which remind me of the English shire horses which used to pull beer-carts, though these horses are of several different breeds. Reassuringly, there were the mediaeval peasants with primitive besoms clearing up the droppings from various animal participants! There was the Brugge bear represented plus a finale of towering stilt-walkers of formidable dexterity.



 One charming sight among hundreds.
This Gouden Boom procession occurs every five years
and the trouble to create authentic reproductions with
the attendant expense and wide participation of
Brugge residents is hugely impressive.

Nothing demonstrates the continuity of the history
of Brugge more than the list of Beiaardiers
kept in the Belfort tower.
[Despite efforts, this photo refuses to fill its
allotted space above! SO, independence
as well as continuity.]

L'Inconnue est arrivee

 Le Concert Etranger

Coming to the end of the busiest and best of times; the MA Festival and many friends here from Cologne and Holland; one staying chez moi but the meetings, lunches, brunches etc somehow fitted in to the normal week, can be challenging but fun. The energy runs out more quickly these days but the spirit remains high.


 La Sollazzo Ensemble

The title of this year's Early Music Festival has been La Divina Commedia: Tussen Hemel en Hel and the music has perforce echoed that virtual journey through the afterlife. Dante's masterpiece has him travelling through Hell [Purgatorio] and Paradise [Paradiso], accompanied by the immortal Beatrice and includes the distressing metaphor of war as an inferno. Great scope here for many splendid concerts then! And there have been. My own two favourites were Conversations Avec Dieu by Le Concert Etranger with the incomparable alto, Lucile Richardot,  on Monday evening and on Friday morning, the Sollazzo Ensemble in Dante's Troubadors. These two were the closest possible to perfection.,

Strolling with my house guest vaguely en route home one afternoon, we crossed the lovely Sint Bonifacius bridge, so beloved of the tourists with its mediaeval shape and colour [actually a replacement built in 1911] and the early mediaeval house at one end of the bridge was open for an exhibition. I have often longed to see the architecture inside so we took the opportunity presented. The art display was absolutely not to my taste, but the house belonged to the artist, and that WAS so deliciously perfect in its mediaeval

 A mediaeval view to die for!
Onze Lieve Vrouw in the background

charms. The bottle glass everywhere with a tiny roundel of a coloured glass portrait in two windows; the window shutters and the lower half of a cupboard, all ancient linen-fold; the old wooden arch leading to a small garden with a background of the stately Onze Lieve Vrouw church beyond. Just perfection, as was the old studded wooden door used as a table laid on modern legs. To live there means daily hours of noisy tourist traffic virtually touching the building as it flows over Sint Bonifacius and beyond, a modern unwanted counterpoint to the mediaeval simplicity and beauty of the little house.

A quiet smoke in a rain-sodden garden

One day the German boys gave a super lunch, intended for the garden, but rain, rare in Brugge for months, chose to make a vigorous intervention so we dined inside by candle light. My brunch later in the week, suffered a similar fate, so somehow we seated thirteen at tables inside my flat, while I, mainly unseated, did valiant service as waitress. Both events were such fun and a real expression of friendship. A parcel arrived during my brunch which I had collected and hastily stowed away for later. Then, much later, after the great clearing up, I opened the box, excited to see the contents. I had read a most touching article in the New York Times in July about 'the most famous person to have died in the River Seine who has no identity at all." In the late 19th century, the body of a young girl was pulled from the Seine, without blemishes and presumed, therefore, to have committed suicide. The pathologist at the morgue was so struck by her beauty that he spontaneously called in a mouleur, a moulder, to preserve the image of  her face in a death mask.


 L'Inconnue de la Seine.

In the following decades the mask was mass-produced for sale and became a muse for poets, artists, writers like Picasso, Man Ray, Rilke, Nabokov. Albert Camus had her mask in his studio and he called her 'the drowned Mona Lisa'. Today it continues to be reproduced and sold by L'Atelier Lorenzi  in the southern Paris suburb of Arcueil. Founded in 1871, by the Tuscan great-grandfather of the present owner, l'Atelier Lorenzi has a nineteenth century mold of the face; it may be the original; no one knows but no other atelier makes the mask. I found the Lorenzi email address online et, eventually, voila, the box I received contained my plaster cast of L'Inconnue.  A coup de foudre followed the unveiling!  She really IS stunning; round cheeks, smooth skin, eyes closed with eye lashes still apparently wet, hair parted in the middle and drawn towards the nape of the neck in a typical nineteenth century style. There is the suggestion of a half-smile on her face as she lies there, half sleeping.

Her identity was never discovered and she has been imagined as a victim; an orphan who drowned herself in the Seine after an English aristocrat seduced, then abandoned, her. Other stories have her as a witch who destroyed a young poet, and as a seductress who witnesses a robbery and a murder in a clockmaker's shop. With no surviving documents in the police archives, we have just this extraordinary glimpse of a tragically short life which has nevertheless, brought beauty and a poignant narrative to countless subsequent lives.

And I must mention the so-called Zandfeest on August 6th; always the first Sunday of the MA Festival. A rommelmarkt of large proportions, stretching from t'Zand, down side streets, behind the Concertgebouw almost to the station. An event not to be missed by even people like me who have no need of any more objects in their lives! This did not stop me bargaining for, and buying, two African masks and six wine glasses. My guest accompanied me and obviously could not understand how SO many people could be excited about sifting through piles of less-than-necessary, less-than-beautiful, objects.

A Time for Reminiscences

Damse Vaart



 Café/restaurant at Fort Van Beieren

A small and delightful discovery, courtesy of a friend born in Brugge. Went for a lovely rural walk in the Fort Van Beieren area, outside the centre and near the Damse Vaart, the Napoleonic canal built to replace the Oud Zwin watercourse which had silted up. I don’t notice that I have missed the regular rural walks around Wye where I used to live, in Kent, but it was certainly recuperative and restorative to wander beneath tall trees and stumble over a grassy patch dotted with large, fresh mushrooms. Quite reminded me of childhood when picking blackberries and finding mushrooms were seasonal forced tasks, partially resented because they tended to occur very early Sunday mornings and were closely supervised by a finely-observant father [eating blackberries while picking were not allowed], but partially enjoyed because of the eventual fruits of the forest to be enjoyed at home. My mother’s blackberry and apple pies were to die for!

 Tyne Cot
The Northumberland Fusiliers saw resemblances between
German pillboxes on site in WW1 and
typical Tyneside workers' cottages.
Area liberated by Belgian forces in September 1918.

A notable occurrence in Flanders this last Sunday and Monday of July, was the BBC-orchestrated memorial services at Tyne Cot and Ypres. I didn’t go; difficult without a car but the events, shown on TV, were moving and poignant. As observed before, the memories of the First World War seem more deeply held, more locally plaintive here, no doubt because Flanders was the hideously war-torn theatre of war and many families have ancestors, civilians and servicemen who died, often tragically young, and in large numbers. Normal life ceased in places like Ypres for four long years and family narratives are long-lasting, influential and heartfelt. I did reflect, after this heartfelt weekend that a golden opportunity had been missed to include in an important and equal way, German representatives too. This ideal is inherent in the concept of the European Union.

I read a poignant little story about a memorial to a lost Welsh poet, Hedd Wyn, who won a poetry competition in a National Eisteddfod with his The Hero. He was not there to collect the honour as he had died in Flanders’ fields a few weeks before; the ceremonial bard’s chair was accordingly draped in black cloth.
Ellis Humphrey Evans  had taken the bardic name, Hedd Wyn, Blessed Peace, after he achieved some poetic success. He was a Christian pacifist and a shepherd/farmer before World War One. 


Hedd Wyn's grave

Every first Monday of the month up to 100 locals gather in the Sportsman bar, just off the main road from Ypres to Langemark, West Flanders to hold a simple ceremony in memory of Hedd Wyn who died across the road on the first day of the Battle of Passchendaele which began at 3.50 on the morning of July 31st, 1917. Marc Decaestecker, the owner of the bar, has created a little shrine in one corner. A charming story of a continuing tribute to one man, a pacifist and poet, and a tiny link between Flanders and Wales, two small nations, part of bigger countries, still trying hard to preserve their individual cultures.

Friday August 4^th is the start of the MA Festival, the very reason which brought Eric originally to Brugge about forty years ago and which, in turn, brought me here for the first time in 1989. MA Festival is a feast of early music [Musica Antiqua] and we always went to every concert in the mornings and the 20.00 slot plus afternoon rehearsals for the competitions. Late night concerts, starting around 22.00, we attended sometimes if not too weary with all the music and extra enjoyment of Brugge. Now I avoid the Late Night ones which I regret missing but cannot guarantee full attention for, and I find the Full Monty otherwise is quite challenging. I don’t want to miss other activities I enjoy normally, in Brugge, so there is a judgment to be made and I now miss a concert to play the much-loved weekly Mah Jong, for instance. Every year a group of friends from Germany, the Cologne Mafia as we say, give a lunch for all of a little circle of concert friends from Germany, Holland and Belgium. They rent an apartment with a lovely little garden which lends itself to a splendid sort of picnic. My own lunches have now transmogrified into Brunch which is not only fashionable but also Much Easier to prepare. And, given a spot of sunshine and a following wind, there is the terrace to luxuriate in!

 Desolation at Passchendaele 1917
This is one important reason for the support of my
generation for membership of the E.U.

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.