Memories

July 28th 1941 with my mother celebrating
our joint birthdays when we were 1,5 and 7.
Esme, as always, in winsome pose!

 To age is to forget! Not necessarily entirely as in Alzheimer’s, but to some degree, and to some extent. While ageing is, in any case, a story of gradual, often imperceptible, loss, as in swiftness of thought and movement, if we are reasonably lucky, the forgetting of some events and peoples in our past lives, is relatively pain-free and indeed, relatively unrecognised by the person concerned. Many of the details and people in my life in my twenties and thirties have disappeared from view while at the same time, many incidents and people during the same period, remain strongly and clearly in sight. Those remembered, both people and situations, seem to be associated with strong emotions like love or fear; many are SO strong that images appear unbidden to the mind’s eye of an occurrence or part of an occurrence, or of a person much loved, not as they are now but as they were at the time of the memory. There are limitless vivid mind pictures of my children over the years; many happy reels of my mother and my sisters when we were young; only frightening ones of my father [who died in 1969 when I was 35]; snatches of children in my classes over the years, mainly of those is some distress who needed help and many images, some fleeting, others more intensely, of friends at different times of my life. I have been composing a narrative of Childhood Memories, mainly during Lockdown when the time was so accommodating, and surprised myself at how intense some of those times and people recalled, were and are.

The trigger for this blog was an essay in The New Statesman of 27 August to 4 September 2021.

Livia Drusilla 

In an article entitled, Dining al fresco, Michael Prodger has written an informative and delightful article on Livia Drusilla, eventual wife of Gaius Octavius, the future Emperor Augustus. I have had an intermittent memory of a museum, definitely not in Firenze and probably in Rome, which I had visited with my husband, in the 1990s, when I had been utterly enchanted by murals depicting a garden Paradise. That was a memory about which I wished I could identify more. I just knew I had had strong feelings of aesthetic pleasure from this museum exhibit but that was that!

So, imagine my delight on simply seeing the illustration below in the New Statesman article, when I instantly knew that here was depicted this long-lost memory. I felt ridiculously excited before reading the narrative of Livia to discover some of her life story after her marriage to Gaius Octavius. Possibly a part of her dowry, they had a much-loved retreat at Prima Porta, eight miles outside Rome, from which estate they could look down on Rome, the Tiber and the Apennines. Livia expanded this comparatively modest oasis into an idyllic haven with extensive gardens and courtyards covering half of the area, including one terrace surrounded by 150 columns.

"Luscious with fruit and birds."

Although Livia did not die till AD 29, the villa and its gorgeous gardens were abandoned in AD 5 and, astonishingly, lost for over a millennium, discovered but not identified in the 16^th century but not truly unearthed until the extensive excavations organised by Count Francesco Senni in 1863-64. A celebrated marble statue of Augustus and other statuary including a purported head of Livia were discovered [and eventually lost] but the chief delight was a semi-underground room with a collapsed roof but intact walls decorated with extraordinary frescoes showing a garden in full, imagined, impossible bloom with the seasons blended, luscious with fruit and birds.

Prodger quotes the Augustinian architectural writer, Vitruvius, describing walls for frescoes, prepared with seven layers of plaster, with sheets of lead inserted when necessary to block moisture and a top coat of marble dust to give a smooth painting surface. The paints merged with the plaster as it dried, with touching up a secco as needed. Not a quick or simple process then. The room had measured 40 x 20 feet, and had been a dining room or triclinium partly underground to protect against the fierce heat and affording the diners lounging on couches in groups of three, a continuation and embellishment of the fertile landscape outside. The flora depicted represents “a botanical catalogue” with 24 species identified including laurel, myrtle, quince and pine, all of which had symbolic connections to the Golden Age of Augustus. The range of painted birds covers 69 types from pheasants to finches and an empty painted bird cage suggests that perhaps the diners were beguiled by birds singing and flying around them and in cages suspended nearby. So a feast for the eyes and the intellect too.

These so-called Garden Room murals covered all four walls and are the most complete works of nature painting to have survived from antiquity. They are, as I have delightedly discovered, on display in the Palazzo Massimo in Rome which is where Eric and I had originally stumbled over them. Rome was his ultra favourite Italian city where he had done consultancy work over the years and loved to re-visit. Always an effort for me, Firenze being my supreme Italian city in all its Renaissance glory! But the Garden Room is one of life’s total surprises and pleasures.

More of the Painted Garden of Livia.

Livia's orange tree.

Augustus Prima Porta discovered
in the Senni 1863/4 excavation.

De Tuin van Heden.***

 

Sint Godelievesabdij, Bouveriestraat, Brugge.

Last Friday, a visit with a friend to Sint Godelievesabdij in Bouveriestraat, open to the public for a month until September 12. I had read that it is ‘a hidden gem’ and this phrase rather under-sold it! It is truly magnificent both in its immense structure; its atmosphere which provides an almost mediaeval ambience, and the beauty of the various rooms and spaces which suggest the Benedictine nuns have recently departed. [They left in December 2013.] The magazine [produced by ToerismeVlaanderen] provided with the free entry is in itself a splendid catalogue of the history of the place and contains many nudges to the reader to consider the various features such as the silence, and the beauty, and to imagine what might be the future of this place. This opening up to the community is part of Open Monumentsdag but it is more than that. It is a huge exercise in consultation in which ideas from as wide a community as possible are sought so that local opinion in particular can be considered as long-term decisions are made on the future purposes of this august space.

Depiction of the strangulation of Godelieve.

Sint Godelieve was born in 1050, an aristocrat married at a young age to Bertolf van Gistel who treated her very badly and eventually had her strangled with her own scarf by his servants who dumped her body in a nearby pool. The Bishop of Tournai canonised her on 30 July 1084. She was buried in the church at Gistel and the daughter of the murderer, Bertolf, born blind but who had gained her sight through a miracle attributed to Godelieve, built Ten Putte Abbey on the spot where she had been murdered. It is now one of the oldest Flemish women’s abbeys. Godelieve’s scarf which ended her life, became her virtual trademark, then called her attribute and it always appeared on any representation of her in paintings and sculpture. There are numerous examples of women saints adorned with scarves in the Bouveriestraat abbey and Sint Godelieve would have been instantly recognisable to the illiterate peasants in the Middle Ages.

The sisters of Sint Godelieve are Benedictine nuns and they live chiefly in silence, devoting their lives to prayer and meditation. They follow the rules of Saint Benedict [480-547 A.D.] praying seven times a day and eating no meat. Their motto is Ora et labora/ pray and work and their days were spent working in the garden, producing all the food needed for the inhabitants of the abbey, and also in contemplation and in religious celebrations. But as the attraction of the monastic lifestyle has waned, so

 the number of sisters has declined until the last five sisters finally closed down this venerable institution on December 23rd 

Abdij Ten Putte, Gistel.

2013. At its height there would have been at least a hundred sisters living there. The original Abbey in Bouveriestraat was begun in 1626 when the first six sisters moved into the modest two room building known as Het Fountainken given by Henricus vanden Zype, Abbot of the Capuchin monks in the same street. The sisters fled from Ten Putte Abbey after Protestants had attacked it and wandered hopefully in search of a home for nearly 50 years before finally settling in Brugge, though over the ensuing centuries they had to leave several times fleeing violence, from the effects of the French Revolution when the Abbey and its contents were sold at public auction and again during the two twentieth century World Wars. Frankly the history of these sisters and their Abbey needs a book to retell in its entirety!

Choir stalls in the Church.

The Abbey now, empty but redolent of its holy past, has most of the furniture and accoutrements from the past four hundred years [excepting those lost at the State-initiated public auction] The main rooms currently on view are St Godelieve’s Baroque church; the Abbess’s Room [the Mother Superior’s office]; the seventeenth century kitchen; the Sewing Atelier [established in 1663]; the Recreation Room and the Chapter House. In addition to the hard work cultivating mainly vegetables and herbs for the vegan community, the nuns also earned income by repairing, washing and ironing liturgical textiles from the numerous churches and convents in Brugge and this continued into the twentieth century. The Recreation Room was used for guests’ dining, [near the Refectory but separate from it]; singing classes for the sisters and Bible classes; a silent space for reading and contemplation while gazing at the garden beyond. The Recreation Room was also used for the training of novices.

Order of service board showing particular
responsibilities for nuns when seven only
remained in the Abbey.

The Chapter House with its democratic seating around the walls to enable all to contribute, was a place for discussion on order and discipline in daily life; the entry of new sisters; special celebrations and commemorations and news from the bishop. The principle of silence was suspended here. The wooden interior of this room was destroyed in WW1 and eventually restored by the carpentry shop of the Zevenkerken’s Abdij in Sint Andries.

There is a wealth of furniture, utensils, books and cupboards, part both of the old and recent every day monastic life and, essentially, all made for the place where they remain. The kitchen has recipe books lying open to be read but its essentially enchanting feature is the Delft tiling. ALL the walls are covered, floor to ceiling in hand-painted Delft blue and white tiles depicting 46 different scenes of children’s games like flying kites, blowing bubbles, bows and arrows plus older games long since forgotten. It is a delight to see and suggests both the temporal innocence of the nuns and their inevitable childlessness.

Well in the Garden of Remembrance.

The exceptional
garden, a square in the centre of the Abbey buildings, is named here as de Tuin van Heden, a Dutch play on words to describe The Garden of Eden but also to suggest The Garden of the Present. It is a place of beauty and reflection and was also a garden of remembrance as sisters who died were buried here until the French Revolution. This earlier conjunction of the dead and the living was more comfortably accepted in the past than perhaps today. In addition to this splendid central garden are other green spaces; the orchard and the vegetable garden; the herb garden with culinary and medicinal plants; the bee hives among flowers; the modest farm with chickens and a cow, the main home farm being in Gistel. There was also an outside oven where bread was baked and a brewery for the beer supply, safer than water often. The whole enterprise was aimed at self-sufficiency within silent and graceful surroundings pervaded by a deeply religious ambience.

More Delft  tiles decorating a fireplace in the earliest
part of the Abbey.

Archway approach to part of the extensive gardens.

Whip and top

Bowling hoops

Catapults?

*** De Tuin van Heden.

A play on the Dutch to mean both

The Garden of Eden               and            The Garden of the Present.

Sint  Godelievesabdij is a must to see now and a place to keep in focus as decisions are made for its future use as it is transformed from a monastery, a sacred space, to ................ whatever is decided. 

An indication of the former size of the Abbey community.

Covid Trials and Tribulations.

 

Covid test

Oh the difficulties of getting the right solution to the problem of having a compulsory Covid test on arrival on holiday from England into Belgium. Recently my son, having had two vaccinations some time ago, needed only a Covid test before travelling to see me in Bruges last Sunday after quarantine for British visitors to Belgium was axed. OR rather, abolished for visitors from England and Wales; visitors from Scotland and Northern Ireland still had/have to do the quarantine which is 

Testing for Covid.

something to do with the technology used for Covid tests in those two countries! On Day 1 or Day 2, the English visitor to Belgium must then have another Covid test. But where to go for this essential part of happy tourism? My local pharmacist supplied the name and phone number of the appropriate pharmacist in Zedelgem and an appointment was made for Monday morning and taxi booked. After the taxi ride there and back [90 euros], my hapless visitor discovered it was the Wrong Test; a P.C.R. was necessary, available only in hospitals [I think] The kind second pharmacist made an appointment for a P.C.R. at Knokke Hospital Monday afternoon, AZ St Jan’s Covid testing queue being full. SO son and I to Knokke by train as I have no car. I will spare some of the details of the afternoon which involved waits in bars; taxi rides to and from the hospital [by the pretty route through countryside, the main route being very slow due to road repairs] and a fairly tortuous procedure in the hospital to get and pay for the P.C.R. test.

The taxi dropped us off perfectly, outside what appeared to be a garage on the edge of the hospital campus. All was straightforward. Details taken by an efficient girl behind glass; stroll through to the

AZ Zeno Knokke-Heist.

adjoining room, empty save for two medics and a routine swab was taken. The surprising thing was the next requirement; we had to walk [through fierce wind and rain as it happened] quite a long path to the entrance to the hospital [superb new building] en route to the office for him to pay for the test! Help was quickly given to direct us to the appropriate office where paid 89 euros. The unexpected next move was the return of his test in a plastic bag for him to deliver to the laboratory! This turned out to be situated in the basement at the opposite side of the hospital! None of this was difficult but it did seem to fly in the face of sanity as he was supposed to isolate until he had received a positive test result. We waited for the return taxi in the tempest outside, just managing to miss the Brugge train by one minute, arriving home around 18.00 hours, cold and tired. It had taken my visitor most of the day in effort to comply with the current Covid rules during a short break of three days plus a morning!!

Ancient method of bartering.

As I don’t know the difference between a lateral flow test and a P.C.R. having assumed that there were simply ‘Covid tests’ I can hardly criticise the system here but, to be fair, it does seem opaque to the non-Dutch speaking visitor! This has strengthened my determination to stay at home as long as possible until the pandemic has passed OR until Christmas comes round, when I would like to go back to join the family over the festive season. Wonder if the Belgians will administer booster doses to the vulnerable which seems to automatically include those in their 80s. This might be useful!!

Interesting information gleaned during my son’s visit. He never normally uses or carries cash; he only carries his phone which has a slim space to store a plastic card; e-mails are out-dated and used much less; train and plane tickets are online not in the old paper versions; C.D.s are antique, only Spotify will do. This invaluable info makes me feel like a pedestrian version of the Ancient Mariner weaving my way via peregrinations in a strange land! It will soon be time to go back to live in England and speed up my e-capabilities.

Blissful Post Script

Just seen online: 

"The Compact Disc was quite a revolution when it came out ...."

[I received three as birthday presents 3 weeks ago!]

Amazon description:

C.Ds   " You know, those round shiny things collecting dust in the back of your closet. You can now exchange your C.D.s for Amazon.com Gift Cards. These can be used to purchase anything on Amazon including any of Amazon 19 million MP3s."

No longer an endangered species;
now extinct!

N

Brexit Hides Behind Covid While Boris Lies and Blusters

 

 

Matt Hancock

As I have now revealed to everyone including myself that I will return to live in Britain some time in the New Year, I think I will share my feelings about the current state of this Promised Land. The view from here is not good! Inexorably, the country, my country, is moving to the right and doing so on a tide of Boris lies, half-truths and dishonesty worthy of …. let’s not mince words …. Trump or Orban or Bolsonaro. Obviously Boris is more adorable than most wannabe dictators with his ruffled hair, disregard for suitable diplomatic language, impressive classical allusions and apparently unwise, off-the-cuff remarks demonstrating his devil-may-care attitude so admired by white males. Meanwhile he attacks popular targets like the judicial system and the BBC plus other non-compliant media with a bumbling insouciance.

Brazil's Jair Bolsonaro

He ignores inconvenient behaviour by Cabinet ministers loyal to him and Brexit, ensuring that it is almost unheard-of for a minister to resign over charges of inappropriate behaviour such as bullying for instance, or for labelling lawyers “human rights activists” [Priti Patel] The recent resignation [a newly-minted move] of Matt Hancock came only after Boris refused to sack him and after the public clamour grew so loud, especially from older Conservatives in the South-East whose votes Boris needs.

Priti Patel

Astonishingly to yours truly, there seems to be comparatively little criticism of the ill effects of Brexit which continue to grow in the economic damage being done to the country. The only cris de coeur I hear on the BBC are from desperate exporters of a wide range of goods who have lost huge swathes of business because of punitive tariff procedures and bureaucracy, plus the difficulties over, for instance, a real shortage of lorry drivers. There just does not seem to have been a plan, like a National Plan for post-Brexit Britain to formalise a productive path through the minefield left after the contentious end of a forty year period as part of a union of 28 countries. Post-Brexit trade deals merely replicate chiefly what the country already had within the E.U. despite the latest agreements being sold by the preternaturally perky Liz Truss as new and better. They aren’t, and Boris’s non-existent Northern Ireland border running through the North Sea, is predictably stirring up worrying signs in Northern Ireland such as delays at Customs and supermarket shortages plus ominous rumbles of nationalistic tensions. So much for Boris’s “no border whatsoever” and his airy advice to Northern Irish businessmen to bin any

customs forms. Now the predictable problems rearing their ugly, potentially dangerous, heads are attributed by Boris to the E.U. as the cause. This is as if the agreement signed by the U.K. and the E.U. a few months before, never happened. Predictably, the message from this dishonourable, deplorable dishonesty for the rest of the world is, “Don’t make treaties/agreements/arrangements with the Brits because they cannot be trusted to keep their word.”

Peter Oborne, the journalist who wrote, The Assault on Truth describes his co-Conservative and former friend, Johnson, as having a pathological relationship with the truth. Oborne makes an important point illustrating what really drives Boris and the Brexiteers. He sees, behind the amoral and dishonest Boris behaviour, a sustained and growing attack on the judiciary, and the rule of law, the Civil Service and Parliament and the gradual, insidious move to authoritarian rule in which an unassailable Government makes un-monitored executive decisions. In a splendid article by Annette Dittert in the New Statesman, 23-29 July 2021, she attacks the media, in particular, the Murdoch Press and increasingly, the BBC 

Peter Oborne

for the their unwillingness to hold the Government to account. Press empire owners like Murdoch and the Barclay brothers, universally support and applaud Johnson’s lies and subterfuges as the perfect vehicle for a huge ideological project involving a systematic effort to dismantle oversight of the executive. Without a written constitution, just centuries of fudge and nudge and reliance on the ultimate integrity of governmental leaders, Britain seems almost defenceless in the face of an extreme right-wing government which is also integrity-free. An indication of Boris’s direction of travel is in public body appointments. Charles Moore, a professed ‘chief opponent’ of a public broadcasting system’ was first proposed by Boris as new Chairman of the BBC, and on his eventual disappearance from the field, Richard Sharp, a member of the right wing Centre for Policy Studies and a considerable Government friend and Tory donor, was appointed, Hardly the independent chair of the British public broadcasting service. Similar to the lack of a written British constitution, there is no written document guaranteeing the independence of the BBC, preventing centralised access to the BBC by politicians of any stripe.

Richard Sharp

I have always admired the Scots and their communal ability to sniff out a phony. Scotland has quickly judged Boris for his lies; unethical, often illegal, behaviour; his deeply dishonest Brexit campaign with Dominic Cummings; his vow to get back the British sovereignty which was never lost; his obfuscation as he hides behind the carefully-cultivated, lovably incompetent public persona to make empty gestures of governing when, for instance, there is no trade policy, post-Brexit [referendum, five years ago], and living standards in the Red Wall can never equal those in the rich South East for a variety of reasons such as the lack of the sorely-needed educational reforms in the North not being seriously funded. Small wonder that the Scottish independence movement is surging. Oh dear! The times I have sneered at the Posh Boys’Club as Little Englanders but I hadn’t expected to be taken this seriously!

Boris-as-naughty boy P.M.

Annette Dittert

On Changing My Mind.

F

Familiar sight of Hans Memling on his 
Woensdagmarkt pedestal.

As I sit and type I hear the lovely clopping sounds of horses’ hooves as four carriages pass along Genthof  en route to the Markt for the happily-increasing numbers of tourists. When I came to live here in early February 2015 I already adored Brugge but it was the soundscape from my flat which unceasingly enchanted me. The sounds of the hooves trotting rhythmically along the road each morning ; the register of different church and convent bells, some muted some tiny and hesitant;

others triumphant; the tumbling notes from the Belfort tower; these were new and delightful to me and they continue to please enormously. In fact, these sparkling melodies are addictive and have become part of my every day pleasure. They remind me daily of how good life here is and how we need to nourish the present by referral to the past. 

The familiar Markt with the Belfort in the centre,
horse-drawn carriages to the right and the statue to
commemorate the Battle of the Golden Spurs, 1302.

I shall miss these familiar Brugge sounds when I go back next year to live in England. I was dipping into previous blogs earlier this week and came across the one I wrote a year ago after I had stayed briefly with my daughter in Bury St Edmonds.

"I hope not to have to leave Brugge till the Final Curtain, but if I did have to return to the U.K., provided the mind remained open, I would now choose Bury St Edmunds for its gripping historical continuity and its beautiful old stones and walkways. It is an historical and aesthetic gem."

18th century houses within the ancient abbey walls.
Bury St Edmunds.

Visitors exploring Bruges by horse-drawn carriage.

 

But in one short year I have changed my mind about remaining here till The End! I guess that Lockdown has played its part as I haven’t seen family for between a year and eighteen months and I have missed them. It didn’t matter pre-Covid that I lived here, as friends and family visited quite often and it wasn’t difficult for me to return or someone to come here. But now, it is still impossible without quarantining which no one wants to do. But there is more, and this is the most important strand. I have aged during this last year; not at all disastrously. I do not need any medication; I walked, chatting with a friend, for two hours this morning along canals and empty streets, slowly it is true, but surely. As far as I know, I don’t have anything disastrously wrong with my health. The memory is a little less effective; annoying but nothing to worry about. I don’t think I look a year older but I DO feel older! Chiefly, my balance is less good and that is irritating but also impossible to change. No but importantly, I do feel strangely more vulnerable and have also discovered an unsuspected desire to live closer to family. I always listen to my feelings and now they tell me to move closer to family! So, next year, when I can find somewhere beautiful to live in Bury St Edmunds, I shall go and have been busy telling family and friends of my as-yet vague plans.

I can’t begin to enumerate the things here which I shall miss; it will be a removal from a subconsciously -sought haven of beauty and tranquillity. But I need, at my age, 87 at the end of July, to try to keep ahead of the curve and place myself in the best place for me, Old age is a time for self-centredness and forethought as well as poor balance and the increasing difficulty of remembering names! And I comfort myself with the worthy thought that my living in England will make it easier for my children as I stumble towards the Final Waiting Room! This honourable thought should not detract from the original intention of self-preservation; I mustn’t pretend to be too worthy! So it will be adieu Beloved Brugge next year. I predict a long, and possibly tearful, good-bye. That said, I already feel excited about the move to live near my daughter and grand-daughter in Bury St Edmunds.

Along the Coupure, a favourite walk.

Sunset, Brugge.

Part of my terrace which has been a constant
joy during Lockdown et al.

Birthdays? Bring 'em on!!

 

Birthday bubbly, after Mah Jong
before Chinese feast!
Chef to the right of the picture.

I have delayed this week’s blog till next week in a burst of birthday festivity. First as I opened up my Lenovo this morning, it was charming to read on-screen, “Averil Clayton’s birthday Tomorrow all day.” Even my computer loves me once a year, I thought! After Petanque [much-loved but seldom-played these last several weeks!] was cancelled yet again in the face of robust showers nicely timed for 9.00 a.m. I was thus home when a delivery man called with TWO bouquets. He was happy to catch me as one bouquet sender had specified, After 17.00 and the other, Before mid-day. Lovely to discover the beautifully-coordinated roses were from California and the other with my favourite Agapanthus shining azure in the floral midst, from local friends. How lucky am I! The subsequent activity involving throwing away the last two weeks’ flowers after rescuing still-living stems and blooms for small vases, and incidentally scattering many petals from the fading flowers over the black-tiled floor nicely-timed to be sprinkled around by the stiff breeze from the open terrace door. It took forever as I arranged, clipped, selected but eventually after finishing my truly enjoyable chores, a friend arrived to pick up something before her departure for France tomorrow and she left promising a birthday bottle of French wine!! This birthday lark should definitely occur more often though the mounting numbers might give pause for thought!!

I wrote the above four days ago since when I have received a total of FIVE bouquets, all gorgeous! One from my Suffolk daughter; one from my son; one from my Oud Huis Amsterdam friends; all these added to the one from California daughter and the one from three local friends. Today, resting in my floral flat, I am still very tired after a succession of lovely activities, small in scope but more frequent than the normal rate of action!! The usual coffee with the girls, on my birthday by chance; brunch with my lovely friend and neighbour Michele at Cafe Adriaan on my birthday plus a couple of hours of family Facetime too in the evening.  Thursday morning Mah Jong with bubbly and Nancy’s wonderful Chinese lunch with barely sufficient rest time before I tottered over to the Oud Huis Amsterdam and more bubbly with my group. Friday too tired to move though did my weekly training with weights etc by a miracle, and entertained a friend, bringing a cadeautje of beer, in late afternoon! Today, Saturday, to the market to buy a plant to take tomorrow to a friend after which I located de Bruhne in Sint Salvatorskoorstraat which a friend had recommended for its take-away.

De Buhne turned out to be amazing! Anna is the owner with her husband and frankly I was so entertained and impressed by her. In her early seventies I would guess, she was delightful and forthright. She only uses organic ingredients and prefers not to use eggs. She flashed a card featuring a handsome cockerel [Belgian obvs!] to underline the fact that “We don’t use chicken from Vietnam!” I caught a glimpse of her husband [grey hair and similar age] in the kitchen and discovered that that is the entire de Buhne team. Her containers, plastic to you and me, are beautiful and special, as she noted, and suitable for both microwaves and normal ovens. They can confidently and stylishly be taken to the table, as Anna pointed out. She asked me about myself and when I explained she said it was a beautiful story. She supervised my descent from her front steps before returning inside to serve the next waiting customer and frankly I floated away on my post-Anna cloud. Astonishing how a short transactional meeting with a restaurant/take-away patron can colour the day positive!!

This gives barely a nod to the delicacies available
chez de Buhne! All made by Anna.

I had received a birthday note from beloved Sarah Pacini in Nordzandstraat giving me 50 euros deduction as a present. Lovely gesture for me and shrewd move from S. P. Sales Manager!! I needed a pair of black trousers and would not have gone to S. P after spending a mind-numbing amount on an outfit there last week. [Excuse to myself then: I will save it for the first of two family weddings next year!] And that amount had been after considerable sales period savings! But, today, riding on my Anna-cloud, I went straight to Sarah Pacini and bought the needed black trousers and a super chic black and white knitted sort of cardigan for the Autumn, suggested by the assistant, the lovely Tinette, because of additional astonishing savings. I had, by amazing synchronicity,

hit the first hour of Final Reductions! She did, in fact, say, “Now this is a little bit naughty of me but do look at this; amazing savings!” Etc!! Result: My birthday high spanned four entire days so that I hardly noticed the increased age number!!

.

Back view of fab black and white 
Sarah Pacini cardigan.

Scent of the Season

Sajid Javid, Minister of Health

Rishi Sunak, Chancellor of the Exchequer

First, a quiet chuckle of appreciation that Boris and Rishi have belatedly accepted the need to isolate after a meeting with Sajid minutes before he felt groggy and discovered, despite being double-jabbed, he had Coronavirus. Needless to say, the volte face came only after heated and widespread criticism of their intended taking of daily tests, not available to the general public. I do not enjoy the spectacle of the illness of others, merely, in this case, the delicious irony that a day or so before Boris announces the much-vaunted end of all restrictions in The Great Leap To Freedom for everyone, the sheer recklessness of this Governmental decision is demonstrated. As is the irritating over-the-top Boris joy at the finish of medically-approved Covid restrictions far too early in the present Delta variant up-swing in Britain. Also nice to see politicians remembering that, eventually, they will need the votes of the nearly-ignored!

Biskajersplein.

In the meantime, in beautiful Brugge, the air is so sweet as one wanders around; I suppose it is the scent of the summer season but it seems more fragrantly pervasive this year, particularly in the area of the Biskajersplein under the linden trees. Aromatic and full of promise. I walked along the Goudenhandrei yesterday to discover that, at last, Jon Lott’s The Bruges Diptych is finished. The Triennale opened officially on May 3^rd so I suppose July 18^th is only a little late in arriving at completion. I hear that there have been bureaucratic hold-ups, physical difficulties, neighbourhood problems of the ‘not in my backyard’ variety, and perhaps some delays over materials. BUT all is resolved, though I do privately wonder why on earth the neighbours might complain instead of welcoming the honour. True, the Diptych is Seriously Large and may well block light from the 
houses behind; true it rather overwhelms the allotted space but it IS 

The Bruges Diptych, Goudenhandrei.

temporary and will disappear soon after October 24^th. In the meantime the idea of the architectural diptych containing the new temporary pavilion in one half with the other half filled by the rear of the original waterfront house of Jan van Eyck,[though long-gone but still imagined] is pleasing. In keeping with the theme of the Triennale, we can conjecture the difference, perhaps the space, between what can be seen of the pavilion and the nearby house and what might take place behind the city’s facades. My own totally mundane question is over the COST of materials and labour to produce what is almost a house; an elaborate construction even for the Triennale and almost ready to house a homeless family! But it is beautiful and imposing.

I have seen almost all the Trauma exhibits and keep coming back to my favourites; The Strangler in 

Part of the Danse Macabre in Sint Maartensplein.

the garden of Gezellehuis [Hector Zamora]; the Bruges Diptych on the Goudenhandrei [Jon Lott] and the Danse Macabre, Hans Op De Beeck’s full-scale merry-go-round outside St Walberga. This stunning carousel is beautiful; it has all the festive elements of childhood fairground recall but all is covered in a thick grey monochromatic layer of dust? Or grime? Does this signify the petrification of childhood dreams and memories? The utter sadness of unrealised potential and possibilities? Why does Death feature so strongly in the images? What a conundrum but the roundabout draws the spectator back again and again, wondering, wondering.

In the meantime, gradually I have resumed coffee with the girls on Wednesday morning; Mah Jong with eight players; the get-together at the Oud Huis Amsterdam on Thursday evenings; occasional, weather permitting, Petanque at Minnewater. Plus the occasional walk with a friend for coffee. Etc. Normality is creeping back though the older citizens like me intend it to be a slow return to what used to be. Double-jabbed I may be, but caution reigns!

The Strangler

In the meantime, my terrace blooms on in profusion!

Entire Danse Macabre.