After a long hot summer, with long light days starting early, suddenly it is still dark when I get out of bed at 6.00 o’clock! It is just light when I leave the building at 7.40 to go swimming and still warm but it is also a gentle reminder of the approaching Autumn with its shorter days. But Autumn brings promises of cosy afternoons and winter treats; and mulled wine and Christmas markets; lighted shops and cafes luring in cold customers. Always something to look forward to in seasonal changes!

Virginia Woolf by Roger Fry c1917

I recently met a girl who had just graduated in French and English Language and Literature. I was thrilled to learn that her dissertation had been on Virginia Woolf. Inspired by this, I scoured my bookshelves to find stuff on Virginia, Vita Sackville-West et al. Cannot believe the immense satisfaction I obtained from looking over my shelves; so many books I had forgotten about; so many to be re-read! I now have a small pile of Virginia books to pass on to my young acquaintance and several other, newly-remembered books stacked up to read again. TWO new copies of The Bells of Bruges by Georges Rodenbach, more familiar, I think, as Le Carillonneur, one partially read; each from different German friends at different times together in Bruges before I lived here. Shame has caused me to immediately begin reading Georges again but admiration is driving me eagerly on!

I had not remembered how wonderfully complex the writing of Rodenbach is; how incredibly well he portrayed the mystical aspect of the town, and how inspirationally he writes about Brugge but always with the melancholy and mystical phrasing I half remember from Bruges La Morte. The story of Le Carillonneur is told through, and overladen with, a haunted, atmospheric dreamlike melancholia which imbues his narrative with a lingering and indefinable sadness. Recurrent images of empty provincial Sundays, of solitude,
of autumnal, often wintry, bleakness, crowd his narrative. The sun never shines on Le Carillonneur.





Interestingly, Alan Hollinghurst writes:

“Rather like A.E.Housman laying claim to an imagined Shropshire while walking on Hampstead Heath, Rodenbach evoked the dead city where he had never lived from his Paris apartment. "One only truly loves what one no longer has", he wrote. "Truly to love one's little homeland, it is best to go away, to exile oneself for ever, to surrender oneself to the vast absorption of Paris, and for the homeland to grow so distant it seems to die.” 

Rodenbach would certainly not have recognised the joyful tourist-thronged town evident for the last several months, full of free events like the Song of Freedom in tribute to the 100^th anniversary of the ending of WW1 over the last two evenings in the Burg where a free film had been screened a few days before. Nor the big Local Heroes celebration in Astrid Park tonight. A week ago Benenwerk, the dance celebration at various venues in the Egg entertained many thousands while Moods, a virtual month-long pop concert at free points around the centre, drew happy crowds in July and August. There is so much happening in Brugge all summer which invites thousands to love it for its life while Rodenbach loved Brugge for its melancholy dying.

Frank Deleu, Carillonneur of Brugge until Sept. 2017

In alle dingen ligt een lied. [Guido Gezelle]

Evgeny Sviridov

It is a curious thing that the MA Festival, currently in progress and accounting for this late entry, was perfect when I came as a tourist and listener; but now that I am a resident and a little older, it has become much more of an effort to attend. It has always been a high spot of the year since I started to come with Eric in 1989. The overall experience of being in Brugge for a week or so attending concerts, often two a day, was perfection. But last year, and more so this year, it is often a huge effort although when I sit and listen, entranced, in the Concertgebouw or, as this morning, in Onze Lieve Vrouw op ter Potterie, the same delight is experienced. Partly it is because I have another life in
Bruges now; partly it is the age-related slowing down and partly, this year, the intense and prolonged sunshine saps the energy and makes the body heavy. I have, at the moment, two lovely guests, one for the whole of the festival, and I do enjoy that but I have recently caught myself with the guilty longing occasionally to be alone!!

The pleasures of being alone are, though normal, nonetheless consciously appreciated by me, though I am sometimes asked if I am lonely. I am not. I keep in touch with my lovely family by email, What’s App, Face-time, even land-line and love the various activities I do. BUT in addition, I need time alone to re-charge my batteries; to follow my own little passions like Mah Jong and enjoying friendship; to think and to read; to potter on the terrace; to take a break from pleasing others or at least, from having to consider others, though I notice I both give, and receive, spontaneous little, “random acts of kindness”. It is all blissfully self-indulgent and easy as befits an octogenarian!! And it incidentally and effortlessly contributes to good mental and physical health. As the title above suggests, there is a song in everything.

Catalina Vicens

But to the point. Several stand-out concerts at the MA Festival this year; the most astonishingly gifted violinist, Evgeny Sviridov, laureate from last year’s festival, playing with the splendid Stanislav Gres on the clavichord, various violin sonatas from Tartini to Mozart, was the most memorable. Hail, Bright Cecilia by the Ensemble Correspondances on the last evening was superb but perhaps the most intriguing and impressive for me was Catalina Vicens playing various clavichords. She explored the age-old association between femininity and musicality in early works for harpsichord and virginals. The audience was hugely intrigued by a museum-piece, a Mother and Child virginal, beautiful to behold, wondrous to hear and ingenious to witness played!

Mother and Child Virginal.

Left-hand 'child' can be pulled out like a drawer,

placed on top and played in concert with 

the main keyboard.

Warre Dendievel

In the meantime, Brugge pulsed to lots of more popular music under the title, Moods, played on temporary stages, at various corners and squares in the centre, to the delight of the visiting crowds. And on Saturday August 11^th, this year’s Benenwerk: Ballroom Brugeoise again at various sites. This annual event features different types of dancing, under some professional instruction, to loud and catchy music. The atmosphere of the whole town is one of a loud and happy fairground helped along by numerous beer stands and counters. I walked home from Hail Bright Cecilia at the
Concertgebouw, marvelling at the lights and exuberance on display throughout the Egg. Infectious!

As if I had insufficient concerts this week, on Friday 10th August came the London Welsh Male Voice Choir fresh from a major performance in Ypres in the British Legion celebrations to mark the ending of WW1. Held in Sint Annakerk, the evening proved to be a huge success; plaintive,

 Balder Dendievel

Jappe Dendievel

victorious, wistful, celebratory, sad and joyful. The programme featured Welsh folk songs, well-known tunes from musicals, a mass for peace, prayers set to music, a 19th century trio of American traditional songs plus two very special spots provided by three young Flemish brothers on oboe, bassoon, trumpet and trombone. At 10, 14 and 16, the prize-winning Dendievel boys, Jappe, Warre and Balder  demonstrated great talent and maturity and rather brought the house down, as they say!

The London Welsh Male Voice Choir

Imminent Rants and Sighs of Content

I thought it impossible to meet someone who is even more delighted than I to live in Brugge, but I

Illustration is a cliché BUT the message hits the spot!

now know someone. A young Portuguese man who has worked here for a few months and is exuberantly grateful with his new life though his wife and two small children still live in Portugal; she is a university librarian but Daniel is working hard to persuade her to consider living and working here, if that is possible. The difficulty, of course, is for her to find a comparable job while she is learning Dutch. We breakfasted recently together and I was particularly struck by the fact that in Flanders, he earns 2000 euros a week but in Portugal, even though with a degree, five hundred was the best he could find. He, himself, is thrilled with the upturn in his fortunes but is especially enchanted that his line manager has told him recently that the firm wants to invest in him because he has potential. His face shone as he confided that no one had ever told him anything like that before and he is 40. The whole ethos in Portugal is different, he says; only a select few are valued and ‘ordinary people’ are considered expendable. In the meantime, he loves his job; is learning Dutch, with lessons paid for by his employer; he rents a flat, found for him by his employer; spends money in the local area on food, drink and some entertainment. Shortly, his little family will come to stay for three weeks, with activities planned by Daniel to the last degree, many of which will incur expenditure no doubt. I am a supporter of the European Union but it remains opaque as to why the more successful Western European nations cannot pass on to the poorer members, the message that good employment practice pays dividends. There is SO much the EU could do to improve its modus operandi but even so, the UK seems determined, unwisely, [for 'unwisely' read 'self-destructively'] to Brexit when it could have been a force for good within the citadel. But I must resist an anti-Brexit rant because it is so boringly predictable.

I have a group of Bruggelingen which meets for coffee, tea, beer and wine with English conversation, once a week. They have become a dear group of friends and they/we are amazingly congenial when one considers the random nature of how people became members. There are no rules; attendance is on a ‘when one can make it’ basis; there is no teaching so any learning is purely accidental or at best, occasional; one can leave whenever, so the leaving arc is roughly between 7.30 and 10.00 o’clock. However, I am considering a little lesson on the double negative [suggested by a member, possibly tongue in cheek] so that the relevance of Trump’s Putin remarks and pathetic, post-event, forced ridiculous ‘correction’, can be properly savoured. I would like to indulge here in a frenetic, anti-Trump, disbelieving, mystified rant about this vain, mendacious, lying, amoral carpetbagger temporarily using the White House as an El Dorado for himself and his family while he trashes American democracy, but I won’t because the New York Times does it so much better. Brugge is where I discovered the delights of the political reporting of the NYT and it entertains and challenges me every week. Yet another Brugge Plus. As I have possibly mentioned before, Brugge does seem to be the perfect place in which to site my ascent of the higher slopes of Later Life.

Oh dear. I see that the above two paragraphs both include an admonition to avoid ranting. I SO don’t want to become A Grumpy Old Woman. Surely this is a recent personal phenomenon, the rant, [not the avoidance of same]? Is it old age or is it the complete inability to understand majorities in two nations voting to shoot themselves in the foot so comprehensively which is the cause? Is it the mayhem in the U.S. and the threatened meltdown of trade and inter-continental movement including ease of holiday travel for the Brits, causing my inner bewilderment and anger OR is it merely age-resistance to change? I won’t discuss!!

But a closing mention of a traditional delight of the elderly; my terrace is a particular joy. It is floral and fertile; decorative and divine; private yet offering a sweeping architectural view to die for. It is ideal for me because I am the sole seigneur with all that solo power of decision-making yet with the scope to share it with others who may only admire. Patio Nirvana!

A corner of my terrace a year ago! I cannot work out how to

transfer photos from my new iPhone.

Hate new technology!

Putative rant stifled.

Motivation .... and inequality

The Waistcoated Wonder in action.

I regularly receive a bulletin from The Guardian, often containing some interesting articles on a variety of topics. One such this week was on the outlook and ethos of the present England football team, about to play Belgium for third and fourth places in the World Cup. I am not normally interested in any sport including football, the nearest thing to a national religion the U.K. has. BUT I have been impressed with the opinions expressed about Gareth Southgate, the England manager, and with his quoted remarks. He doesn’t sound like the hyper-masculine, conventional manager with crude opinions and language and the unspoken assumption that He is The Boss, second only to God. Southgate is emotionally intelligent, modest, reflective, empathic, thoughtful, restrained. I might be writing about a psychologist, a doctor, a professor not a football manager!

Pippa Grange, Head of People and

Team Development England Football Team

Because of this discovery, I clicked on an article on the England team and its psychologist, Pippa Grange, who has worked closely with Southgate and team members. Her message for the England team can be summed up in a few, brief points:

Don’t fear failure. Be courageous in aiming for what you want, overcoming the fear of failure.

Positive thinking is not helpful alone. Focus positively on the steps needed to achieve your desired outcome.

Try different approaches for different people in your target group.

Kindness, listening and empathy can be very effective. Use praise to motivate others.

Wisdom in a few sentences. [I may send this to Trump!] Coincidentally the first two points above sum up the approach which I have learned over many years, works for me in problem-solving. My posture is mysteriously failing; clearly the cause comes under the heading of Old Age but improvement, or at least, delay in deterioration, must be sought. My chief strategy at the moment is to import a personal trainer once a week, unaffordable though the clear hope is that weekly exercise, alone under the instruction of a trained instructor will help my problem. I am optimistic and realistically positive, she writes as she sits, round-shouldered, at the computer! After two sessions, I sense a slight possibility of improvement!! If it works, as I feel sure it will, it must be afforded!

To the Urb-Egg cafe in the garden of the Poortersloge [part of the Triennale] on Wednesday afternoon, to meet five local women who want to join the Thursday evening chat group at the Amsterdam but
cannot as there is really no room. Joined by one husband and his male friend, we enjoyed a thoroughly convivial afternoon at a scrubbed table beneath the shade of a large tree in the midst of a number of similar tables and groups.

Poortersloge. Urb-Egg Café

to the left of picture.

I was struck, as I looked around the makeshift café, by the many sociable opportunities in pleasant surroundings available to a wide portion of society. The quality of life for many is so good while millions of others, refugees, the Poor, illegal immigrants struggle against injustice and ignorance and yes, poverty. I read in The New Statesman this week that Britain has the widest gap between the very rich and the rest than in any other large European country. Society in the UK is the most unequal it has been since shortly after the First World War. And there are many studies to show that countries achieve more, produce more and become more successful and contented societies, when income inequality is narrow. Danny Dorling [in the N.S.] writes that, in Britain, we live in a time of peak inequality with dire consequences for mental and physical health.

He suggests that all the signs now are pointing to a time of great change approaching in Britain and introduces the irony that greater equality helps the rich as well as the poor, pointing to the fact that wealthy people in more equitable societies like Germany and Scandinavia live longer and happier lives than their British counterparts.

Walk Quietly The Beautiful Trail

To begin at the beginning; with a post script to the previous post! Just to record an example of astonishing synchronicity on the Eurostar. In fact, initially, while trying to board. On Monday June 25 St Pancras was Seriously Crowded at the Eurostar terminal; the Paris train on the previous day had been six hours late and a surplus of passengers had perforce, spilled over into the Monday. So, with no immediate entry to Departures, I was wandering alongside a serious queue towards the distant end when I heard my name. Voila, in the queue, two English friends bound for Lille so I queue-jumped shamelessly to join them and catch up. Coincidence enough but more amazing synchronicity was to come. We were all bound for the same train, and sitting in the same coach, at the same table. Unbelievable.

I checked on Jung’s theory of synchronicity which I thought proposed the concept of underlying, unseen patterns of coincidence and discovered, perhaps, Too Much Information!! In fact, Carl Jung had discussed his ideas on those surprising juxtapositions that scientific knowledge could not rationally explain, with Albert Einstein before World War One and first used the term, ‘synchronicity’ in a 1930s lecture but the term did not appear in print until 1960 in his Collected Works, Volume 8.

He proposed that synchronicity be the name for ‘a meaningful coincidence in time, a psychic factor independent of space and time.’ He felt that it forced a basic reconsideration of chance, probability, coincidence and singular events in our lives and was a revolutionary concept both challenging and complementing the physicist’s classical view of causality. Oh dear, this is intellectually deeper than what I thought I knew about Jung’s concept and impossible to explain and summarise. Nevertheless, the Eurostar experience did feel beyond rational explanation.

A friend recently passed on a slender book of lyrics and legends of the American Indian which she had bought in America in the Seventies. It is a charming celebration of the Indian’s view of himself and his world, illustrated with examples of American Indian art. The legends are based around the idea of the Indian as the offspring of Mother Earth and Father Sky and a deeply-held, core feeling is of the harmony of man with nature. The Indian reveres the natural world and all its creatures; he carries the music of his forefathers in his head and is as one with his universe. The poetry throughout the book is imbued with all the most important elements of Indian life; love and courtship; war; the Hunt; the Great Spirit; Beauty and Manhood; legend and myth; prayer and poetry. One long poem on Persimmon Wine is typical in its poetic intensity.

Sundown over Little Chief. Sweet is the                           And when the future finds us, let them

sound of silence. There is a sudden                                       say, “They were a magic people in

flight of mourning doves. The                                                     this ordinary place.”

sun-lashed rain is catching in our hair.
(We shall make persimmon wine.
You come!)

The title of this blog is the title of the book: Walk Quietly The Beautiful Trail. It comes from a Navajo Benedictory Chant chiefly a tribute to Beauty, which ends:

Above and below me hovers the beautiful,

I am surrounded by it

I am immersed in it.

In my youth I am aware of it,

And in old age

I shall walk quietly

The beautiful trail.

Although this marvellous little book has apparently nothing to do with Brugge, nevertheless I realise that it speaks to me precisely because I am doing just that; attempting to walk, quietly, the beautiful trail!

Here is a late postscript, nicely rounding off a blog which began with reference to a postscript.
P.S.

Looking for an illustration of Red Indian art, I chanced across this beautiful pictogram:

The Winter Count

The Winter Count depicts a series of annual events from about 1752 to about 1888 and was probably created by someone living on the Rosebud Sioux Reservation where it ended up in the collection of a non-Indian couple who ran a general store on the reservation. From there, the folded sheet of muslin, adorned with 136 years of pictographs, eventually landed at the bottom of a relative's trunk. Dr Timothy Tackett, a history professor whose aunt had owned the store, discovered this precious artefact in his mother's California home in 1998. It is now housed in the National Museum of Natural History. It includes a depiction of the Leonid meteor shower of November 1833 and the final image was added about a year before the Wounded Knee Massacre of 1890.

N. Scott Momaday, writing in the January 2015 issue of The Smithsonian Magazine, says 'What interests me most about The Winter Counts is their relation to language, to expression verbal and visual -- language in the abstract. It is a crucial link between oral and written traditions, not unlike the Rosetta Stone, the Dead Sea Scrolls, the walls of Lascaux. It is reflection and enigma, history and myth.'

American history is close enough to touch!

Birthdays and the theatre

Think I am running late with this post. I have been away for a week in gorgeous, golden Suffolk chiefly, staying with my sister and seeing younger daughter and middle grand-daughter on the 17^th birthday of the latter. SO, birthday lunch and witness to the Party Preparations, Getting Ready and most of the arrivals before escaping to a quieter haven. Again I was struck by the utter confidence of young women to wear what they want and to be comfortable with their bodies. It took my generation half a century before achieving the same level of confidence!

Before the Party of the Year, my sister and I with two friends, went to see Hamilton, much
anticipated by me. I stayed in London for two nights and had the rare experience of walking a short

distance to Oxford Street, specifically to M & S and Zara. This may have been the first time ever for me to actually shop on Oxford Street and, in the interests of energy conservation, I cut down the experience to two shops, close together. I bought in both and was able to compare the customer care, as it were. M&S, impeccable as ever in service and civility though with some frightful clothes. BUT there were also some super linens and white shirts and the woman in the changing room [empty save for me at the early hour] was a delight; knowledgeable about stock, great with suggestions and finding replacements, and an accomplished conversationalist to boot! I stayed chatting at least ten minutes in the still-empty changing area, after the operation was complete.

Zara, again with some frightful clothes, but also with some which were fab and perfect for me, not their target age group, I would guess. The girl [much younger] in the changing room was sweet, rushed, and with little idea of stock available. I had forgotten that I would probably need a bigger size [always the case in ‘young’ shops] and asked her if she would get me a bigger size. She couldn’t go as she was alone on duty so she called a young man. After a ten minute wait, I re-dressed and left, found the required trousers nearby, returned, tried on and bought. En route out I passed the same young man, the messenger, laden with clothes and decided he had not been able to locate the trousers for me, and had just blithely carried on with other duties. Is this difference in two large
shops generational? Company practice? Training? Perhaps the chiefly young clientele for Zara don’t need more courtesy and informed help; they do need trendy young assistants though. M&S, always reported these days as ‘struggling’, has a wonderfully trained staff and customer-focussed ethos. It is always a pleasure to go in [rare for me these days as the Brussels branch has closed] though nothing to buy as super as the palazzo trousers I bought in Zara.

Alexander Hamilton

One of the Founding Fathers of America

Hamilton, with its innumerable awards for Best Musical, its slickest of slick production values, its stunning choreography and dancing; its superb singing and acting, nevertheless failed for me. I was astonished that I couldn’t understand the hip hop and hence the narrative. I felt angry with myself and disappointed, not to say, stunned! But by the interval I had only a very partial idea of what was happening and longed to leave. There is a certain level of shame in the last sentence but there it was! A much younger woman in our group understood it all and loved it and clearly found my incomprehension, incomprehensible!! This only added to feelings of embarrassment and shame on my part!! However, I am now in the market for a decent biography of Alexander.

Wonderful to return to Brugge and my lovely terrace though ‘my’ blackbird has disappeared and the paeonies are finished. The last couple of months have been chiefly a personal paean to peonies which I have bought every week from the Wednesday market, marvelling at the sheer blowsy beauty unfolding and the luscious change of colour from deep pink to almost cream, happening almost as one looked.

The paeony Sarah Bernhardt

Return of the Blue Whale and other weighty problems.

I think a really good photo of the Blue Whale is called for; I pass him every day, several times, and nod to him in a familiar, fond manner. Last week I had a lovely friend staying and she persuaded me to go into one of the boats-for-tourists on the canals, something I have not done for many years. I see these boats, with their microphones and tourists packed in, all the time and feel no wish to join them. But last Friday, I did and thus confounded another of my prejudices. It was a delightful experience; the captain was well-informed and excellent in his commentary; the view of Bruges from the canal was great and the other passengers more 

than tolerable. In short, we enjoyed it immensely and in future I shall include in my advice to guests, to ‘do’ the boats! The earlier mention in this paragraph of the Blue Whale reminds me to comment on how dull and strange the back view of the whale is from the boat. Not at all the interesting and amusing front view which I have come to love, in common with thousands of visitors to Brugge.

The Pump Room at Minnewater

The Floating School, Minnewater

I have done three visits now to the Floating School on Minnewater, part of the Triennale. It is excellent and gives a whole new perspective, wandering round the structure, climbing the stairs to enjoy the view of the Minnewater bridge in one direction and the Pump Room in the other. The Nigerian architect, responsible for the Floating School concept and design, involved three local schools in the structure and ideas for its usage. It is an exhibit which is not alone in this splendid Triennale to create ideas for living and working on water, utilising unused space in an innovative way. A constant theme of the Triennale is the need to live in a sustainable manner, using as few resources and as little space as possible. On this particular theme, visitors need to see the exhibit in Oud St Jan. Food for thought everywhere.

And indeed the news that the much-loved huge bronzefountain which stood in ‘t Zand since the mid-80s, and which was removed last year against the wishes of many Bruggelingen during the renewal of ‘t Zand, has been stolen, was a recent bombshell! It was to have been re-erected in the area behind the Concertgebouw and the sheer implausibility of stealing the huge group of bronze figures. stuns the imagination. How much lifting gear and huge lorries; how much manpower was needed to steal hundreds of tons of bronze figures and for which subterranean lair was this huge masterpiece intended? Local uninformed opinion suggests somewhere in Eastern Europe and not for aesthetic delight, but for melting down. In the meantime, checking on descriptions of the complicated fountain, online. I read many heartfelt messages praising and admiring it.

The group of statues itself, by Stefaan DePuydt and Livia Canestraro, contained virtually four separate sculptures: a mermaid reclining on a polder; a group of cyclists representing local culture; a third group of fishermen from Zeebrugge and a fourth, of four sturdy, battling females representing the Flanders' cities of Antwerp, Brugge, Ghent and Kortrijk.

And ALL unbelievably lost.

 A Paean as a Postscript.

Just to note that Brugge Wednesday market has had weeks and weeks of the most marvellous paeonies for sale and a regular supply has found its way to my apartment. I have enjoyed as much pleasure from the paeonies as from the melodious blackbird mentioned recently.

Pleasure in small things is a mark of the happy elderly I suppose.

And indeed the news that the much-loved huge bronze fountain which stood in ‘t Zand since the mid-80s, and which was removed last year against the wishes of many Bruggelingen during the renewal of ‘t Zand, has been stolen, was a recent bombshell! It was to have been re-erected in the area behind the Concertgebouw and the sheer implausibility of stealing the huge group of bronze figures. stuns the imagination. How much lifting gear and huge lorries; how much manpower was needed to steal hundreds of tons of bronze figures and for which subterranean lair was this huge masterpiece intended? Local uninformed opinion suggests somewhere in Eastern Europe and not for aesthetic delight, but for melting down. In the meantime, checking on descriptions of the complicated fountain, online. I read many heartfelt messages praising and admiring it.

The group of statues itself, by Stefaan DePuydt and Livia Canestraro, contained virtually four separate sculptures. A mermaid reclining on a polder; A group of cyclists representing local culture and this group also included the figure of Till Eulenspiegel, a character from folk history and much-loved by many people. The third group comprises Fishermen from Zeebrugge and the fourth, of four battling females, represent the Flanders’ cities of Antwerp, Brugge, Ghent and Kortrijk. And all, unbelievably, lost.