Of Things Mundane But Nectar Too

Oh dear; I am temporarily confined to barracks with a heavy cold on top of ten day old conjunctivitis. After around eight months of excellent health and vitality, this is a bit of a blow! However, looking around the apartment I can see that life could be worse. 

Farrow and Ball-coloured walls, lots of space, seven huge front windows with the sun streaming through; pretty sunlit terrace the other side of the glass door; a sufficient stock of Duvel and Leffe Blond, the current beer favourites, to indulge, perhaps ... But a drop in energy is not welcome. Missed a concert [Scarlatti]; drinks at someone's house on Sunday [first invitation in Brugge]; Dutch class Monday and Wednesday evenings;. While the latter is welcome in one way, I don't want to miss next steps as it were, the present ones being precarious. I still cannot understand virtually any spoken Dutch though the written is progressing. Fingers are still crossed for a visit with a girl friend to Brussels. [Aborted!]

I cannot remember if I have mentioned an annoying health development; I have had, since May, LisFranc arthritis in the left foot which has already progressed in pain volume, to causing a limp. After seeing an orthopaedic surgeon I am having nine sessions of physio which are marvellous and by UK standards, marvellously cheap. In addition I have to wear MBT shoes which, if any reader is so inclined, can be seen online; they are ugly and expensive. The  wearer has, furthermore, to learn to walk a little differently in them as the soles are curved and I shall go to Ghent to investigate. In the meantime, to an orthopaedic shop on the outskirts of Brugge where only two pairs of shoes were appropriate for my problem. Result, bought one pair for 200 euros and they are walking shoes. 

Fab for the Yorkshire Dales and the Lakes but obviously, as the only shoes suitable for me at present, they obviate about 90% on my wardrobe!! The sunny side of this scenario is that ..... my walking is strong, confident and pain-free. The photo to the left  however, underlines the aesthetic pain I continue to feel!

I was amused as I walked across the Burg the other day, to see the nth bride and groom having wedding pictures taken with a lovely backdrop in situ. I think these bridal photographs are taken, as in China, before the wedding day itself. Bride and groom get togged up and trip off with photographer to a scenic spot, of which there is a multitude in Brugge. I must check; it may be done on The Day but the relaxed approach suggests otherwise and there is never a bridal party. 

The couple I saw were soon enjoying the occasion and a small crowd gathered in time to see the groom Struggling to Pick up Bride and Pose. I was toooooo slow to catch a super shot of her hooped underskirt but did take a picture of the mutual high spirits and enjoyment of an hilarious moment.

I had the unexpected offer of a lift to Lissewege where I had wanted to look at a place selling South African wine, a bottle of which I had bought from the Cheese Market [Kaasmarkt] in August or September. It was unexpected; outside the prettiest village on a commercial estate perhaps. Met the owner by appointment and dived immediately into an extended tasting of Eerste Hoop wines, even though I stressed that I wasn't a restaurant owner. Restaurants in West Flanders form the bulk of his customers.

The owner, Lodewijk , spends around eight months of the year in South Africa and the rest in West Flanders where he has a house and restaurant in Dudzele. Amiable, generous, unpretentious, obviously brilliant at wine-making but to my amazement, with very little English. I had supposed that all South Africans spoke English almost automatically, but what the English always refer to as the Boers [not knowing the word means Farmers] obviously do not.  So the Dutch-speaking South Africans must live, to an extent, separate lives or is much of life conducted in Dutch [Afrikaans] in present-day South Africa. This is an interesting and challenging discovery and I must research further! The wines were marvellous.

Rommelmarkt and Kookeet

Had a lovely Saturday morning, wandelen, as the Flemish say, in the warm September sun. But it was nothing compared to a super sunny Sunday when there was just too much to do. A cold start it was, on the stretch beyond 't Zand where the main Rommelmarkt always is. I strolled down Hauwerstraat towards the Beurshalle to check out the countless stalls on this, the third and final major Flea Market for Brugge in 2015. I think it was the best and largest yet; so many interesting antiques and flea market finds just waiting to be found. The crowds were quite thin at this end of the fair, at 8.30 am, [see photo left] and I resisted much but had to buy two Leffe goblets as I have to drink my Leffe beer from a Duvel glass; a Belgian solecism if ever there was one. So I bought them, loved a small Studio bowl for 45 euros but left it, unwillingly but virtuously. One of my nieces, a collector, would have bought it!

I was meeting a friend at 11.30 for coffee so worked my way down half of the mass of stalls on the actual, main 't Zand toward the Concertgebouw, then stopped, bewitched by a display of mixed Oriental and African items. There were three beautiful Buddhist hangings at the back over which two young Tibetans were agonising when I arrived, and who were still at it when I left. 50 euros is a Lot to pay for something even if it would have been much more expensive in a shop. I saw two wooden masks, from the Congo apparently, and eventually decided to buy both because they are so lovely and primitive. Not ancient; about 50/60 years old, but simple and beautifully peeled and aged. The price might just possibly have come down more than the 10 euros I managed but the old boy selling was re-arranging stuff in his house where the two masks had hung for years and he so clearly loved the items on his stall. I keep in mind, when buying antiques and junk, an admonition from a collector friend years ago. 'Always leave something in it for the other person.' In other words, don't grind the price down to the lowest because you can; leave a little profit for the seller and enhance his accompanying good feelings that come from a sale to someone who clearly loves, and wants to buy, your erstwhile object. Whatever, I left with good feelings too!

We found a table nearby in the sun, the day being still cool, and gradually thawed as we talked until another friend unexpectedly popped up with a German friend who had left his husband nearby guarding a tall column which I would have loved to have examined and will at some point. The two young Germans were flushed with that particular pride which comes to the authentic Rommelmarkt enthusiast who has made A Satisfying Purchase. The feeling is thrilling, quite different from the joy experienced when buying a shirt in a regular shop, for example. It is a mixed sensation of conquest, re the price and the resistance to the lowering of the same; delight at the beauty purchased and, I suppose, the ultimate pleasure of possession! It is the authentication, the validation, the affirmation of one's taste. Ooer, and you thought it was just people buying rubbish!

After that, friend and I wandered towards the station, looking at goods on stalls and grass as we passed, pouncing occasionally when something of real interest was noticed. She tried on several period [Thirties] hats, several of which looked bewitching on her. I dithered, then bought a black wire basket on feet beneath a black and white tiled top. Ostensibly for the terrace but it will stay inside to be used as it looks great on the black tiled dining area floor. Ten euros worth of heaven in fact!

We were on our way to beyond the station to a large area at the back, the beginning of Sint Michiels, for Kookeet, the third, and judging by the huge crowds, popular celebration of food, cooked by named excellent local chefs and restaurants. [Peter Goosens, right, guest chef from Hof Van Cleve restaurant] It was a Tasting Bonanza and it was utterly delicious. One could choose where to spend the tokens purchased on entry so we bought wine then small dishes of food to sample from several well-known restaurants. It was delightful to see the many, many hundreds of people, catching the late Autumn sun, chatting in family and friendship groups and relishing the gourmet fare offered. The workers sustained a rapid processing of eager customers in long queues while managing to stay calm and  friendly; customers seemed to reciprocate; the communal good humour was palpable and the whole affair seemed to be the embodiment of Good Capitalism At Work for the employers/sellers and A Great Day Out for everyone else.

On the wander back from the station, we re-joined the crowd of eagle-eyed bargain hunters nearby; [the flea market stretches down virtually to the train station] and I felt we had finished shopping but were 'just looking'. Contrary to expectations, Katie bought a gorgeous Art Deco decanter and glass set, and I acquired a set of five wine glasses with black 'feet' and design plus a sixth, almost the same! Also a large, austere large brown jug for which I had to borrow ten euros as my entire war chest had mysteriously disappeared. Such a Good Day was had by all, or at least, by Us Two though everyone else also appeared to be coasting happily along, looking and purchasing and dithering.

I now have to show off the other mask as it is SO elegant. I had originally thought of them for the terrace which I am slowly, and often tentatively, decorating with beautiful furniture and some plants. I am unused to a garden with only pots and on the third floor of a building; quite different from the small shady garden and courtyard in Wye which I knew well. So, one pot of a beautiful grass died within three weeks of the effects of heat and wind. Thus, after examining the two Congolese masks, I have decided to keep them indoors for the winter at least; they are of a light-weight wood, quite frail and weather-worn already so think they must be treasured inside the apartment for now. I am now considering how one displays them. I could do with a small, heavy base of metal or wood, with a thin column like a stick on which to perch the face/mask. That would work but where to find?

Before I close, Luc has enquired and told me where I should find small display stands from a shop in Sint Andries so off I go to catch the No 15 bus on Saturday morning, to explore Sint Andries which I don't know at all. 

Emblems of Identity

A record of a lovely shopping morning to begin this week's effort. Tuesday last, set off to beat the imminent rain, to go to Kruidvat, a cheap shop selling all manner of cosmetics and shampoos etc plus a ghastly section of sweets. Boots it isn't [how occasionally I yearn for Boots] but it is the ideal place to go to top up on certain heavy items like John Frieda stuff, toothpaste etc. There is a phalanx of private chemists here selling perfectly ordinary necessities like Listerine at eye-watering prices. I had not noticed before I came to live in Brugge, that private chemists are virtually non-existent in the UK, Boots having, over the years, made that impossible, I suppose. Life sans Boots certainly changes the landscape for the British shopper.

I strolled along Steenstraat, pulling the old-lady-bag-on-wheels, now heavy with purchases, to try to remember which shop had sold me the best shoes which I have worn for months. I now know that, despite the picturesque quality of the cobblestones everywhere, they are uncomfortable to walk on and my Maruti sneakers are cushioned to aid the weary elderly totter across the same. Found the shop, with almost no other shoes by the same Italian maker but I did find another manufacturer's smart flat [important] black ankle boots though the cushion within the soles is thinner. The dark grey/black animal print at the toe end, was irresistible!

On something of a shopping high I then bought some warm pyjamas which can only be described as 'cute' [oh dear] and a fab black T shirt which reads My Favourite Princess is ME in silver across the chest. Intended for Genevieve who will applaud the sentiment but it was the last one and is for an eight year old while she is four and a half, or nearly five as she insists. As she has recently gone to California to live and is big for her age, I am hoping it will be almost fine by next February/March when I visit.

In Etam, now French-owned apparently, the chirpy blonde who served me was great; full of bounce and self-belief, she 

insisted that the cartoon cat-face on my new pyjamas was NOT juvenile; 'It's joyful' she said, and confided that coming to live in Brugge in 2000 with her husband, had awakened her soul as she described it, and she now paints naif pictures. She has to work as a sales assistant to contribute to the family budget, and paints when she can, feeling sure that, in the future, she will sell and make a living from her painting. One of Life's Enhancers, I decided as I left, admiring, and cheered beyond belief.

This blog tends not to aim to be a diary but to highlight places and people I have come across who are interesting or eccentric or historically noteworthy in some way. It is an exercise in idiosyncratic self-indulgence I suppose. That written, the paragraphs above are slightly diary-like but no apologies for that!

Off to find Sint Janshospitaal last Wednesday, the hospital not the museum, and reflected on the bus, on the pluses of life in Bruges. Passing a crowd of swans on the canal along Gulden Vlieslaan, I admired and vowed again, to find out why there are so many here. There is bound to be some legend about, or even a reason for, their presence. They do add grace and elegance and somehow, an aura of permanence. The orthopaedic consultant enlightened me about my arthritic foot, which only appeared in May. It is called Lis-Franc arthritis, is the hardest to treat and the most painful to have. Ironically given my triumphant find of the chic black boots the day before, I discovered that I have to wear MBT shoes to restrict flexibility in the foot, thus reducing the pain. The doctor told me that ladies did not like them which I subsequently discover means that they are ugly and expensive. I go in search to Ghent next week!!

Although this blog is a tribute to my adopted city, sometimes I leave Brugge briefly and on Sunday 20th September, with a friend, I set off for Krakow on a mission, long overdue, to experience Auschwitz. Krakow proved to be an appealing city with some wonderful period buildings, numerous enormous churches, beautiful tree-lined streets and park areas BUT an unappealing wealth of graffiti everywhere and with many large buildings in a state of gentle decay. Auschwitz was an effort, to reach by bus after one and a half hour journey; to queue for and to almost enter; to be turned back because the handbag was too large for the specifications.

But the place itself was an amazing experience. First, it was unexpected to see the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of pilgrims, as it were, milling around, queueing, reading the many information boards. Once the guided tour [excellent] had begun,

it was the long, long room with the glass down 
one long side, behind which was an extended mountain of shoes and boots, all worn, with a few more dainty, flirty pairs arranged along the front edge, which made one catch the breath. Similar silent testimonies to long-dead, long-murdered owners were evidenced in huge heaps of cooking pots and utensils, luggage marked with owners' names, children's shoes, hair, prayer shawls. It was not only the intimacy of the formerly treasured possessions which shocked, it was the countless numbers of these, the sheer multitudinous display bearing eloquent testimony to the barbaric fate of the owners. There were myriad photographs of a small proportion of the victims in striped uniforms, and information panels to further enlighten and depress. The sheer scale and ingenuity of the sustained attempt to kill all European Jewry, was unimaginable. It was a draining, but valuable experience.


I normally assume that virtually no one reads this blog. Even so, I received two comments last week; one offering information on Louis Reckelbus, the artist whose home I visited during the Open Monuments weekend recently, which I would love to have and the other commenting on a place featured in the blog several weeks ago. The second read: 'Frou Frou; seriously the best hat shop in Europe if not the whole planet'. I took a copy over today to Mardy who owns Frou Frou which is almost next door to me, and she was Seriously Thrilled, so thank you Mary! A copy of your most welcome comment is now in [another] window of Frou Frou!  

In case anyone from Brugge happens to read this, Frou Frou needs new premises; fairly central, inexpensive, if such be available, attractive windows awaiting fabulous displays!

Secrets of Brugge

Another very busy week; yet another hour in the dentist's chair; two evenings of Dutch classes, three and a half hours an evening [which feels a little excessive, given the slow pace of progress!]; a thank you lunch with a friend who gave lots of help earlier in August at a brunch for ten which I did; coffee at Hotel Martin with the English-speaking 'ladies'! And so on.

But, best of all, two Jane Austen Kent Branch friends came for a couple of days and I had lots of fun showing them a few of the interesting features of life in Bruges. I am not certain but I think the top of their hit parade were the magical restoration works of Sint Donaas, the tenth century cathedral demolished in the late eighteenth century by the French and then the last session of the year of the ringing of the Dumery bell by foot to commemorate the work of Joris Dumery [17] the carillon-maker who installed the carillon in the Belfort [the Beiard]. They were much taken by meeting the foot bell-ringer, Paul vanden Abeele and his super wife, Jo. And I was delighted to meet Maria, a 94 year old friend of the Abeele who lived nearby and who always comes to witness the Ringing of the Bell. She insisted on taking me into her immaculate four-bedroomed house to show me masses of family photographs, including one of her husband in his wartime naval uniform. He was unbelievably handsome!

And, after their departure on Saturday afternoon, I joined friends to go to a property in the weekend's annual Open Monuments Day, rather like the Open Houses in London at this time of year. The first one I could make was the Minnewaterkliniek on Professor Dr J Sebrechtsstraat, a huge place comprising virtually one whole side of the street. Opened as a hospital and built at the instigation of the redoubtable Dr Sebrechts it is now an old people's home, complete with a splendid chapel and in-house medical care both for the inmates and others outside the home. It is a marvellously tranquil place with gardens to the rear and ample parking in what was almost certainly part of the original huge garden area.

A view from the garden of the chapel and a small part of the extensive buildings

of the Minnewaterkliniek

The last visit of the afternoon was to the house of Louis Reckelbus, 1864-1958. I had never heard of Meneer Reckelbus but discovered that he had been a watercolour artist of landscapes, city-scapes and so on, eventually appointed to be Curator of the Groeninghe Museum. He was among the first Belgian refugees during the First World War, to flee to, and settle in, St Ives in Cornwall, an artists' colony where he soon found an active place in the community and where he also sold his paintings to raise money to help his fellow refugees. He described St Ives, when he returned home to his birthplace of Brugge, as 'a little unspoiled Paradise', quite a tribute from one born and bred in Brugge.

A Reckelbus painting, an artist unknown to me till now!

His house too was a little Paradise; he had bought it in three separate parts, the first in August 1909 and the final in September 1937, gradually renovating it. Today, after earlier threats of demolition, it survives as an architect's stylish offices with a lovely garden at the back, bounded by a canal, and with a kitchen of particular note. It has been 'modernised' relatively recently but with sufficient of the original tiles left in place to make one long to see it as it was. There is a treasure, apparently guarded in secrecy by Louis Reckelbus, at the top of the stairs; it is no more than significant fragments of a fresco depicting the Nativity, probably fifteenth century; the face of the Madonna is particularly serene and beautiful and must have given the artist untold pleasure each time he clambered up the rather difficult stairs. It was a privilege to be allowed to see inside this building. And wonderful to have discovered Louis Reckelbus and his art.

Magical to have such an exquisite fresco remaining in part, in a private house.

Michele, my invaluable translator, and I had a full programme of Open Monuments on Sunday with the morning promising exceptional interest. We had a guided tour of the on-going restoration work in the Gruuthuse Museum and also in Onze Lieve Vrouwekerk, the Church of Our Lady, the huge and important church where Michelangelo's Madonna and Child are on display. I think I found the Gruuthuse tour particularly good with a super guide and an early mediaeval building for which one felt an instinctive empathy, its earlier grandeur slightly down-at-heel; its magnificence, a little shabby. Rather like an ageing Queen caught without the usual attention to detail. It was obviously being rescued from serious deterioration with wet rot abundant, tiled floors under centuries of dirt and wear, painted wood and walls faded beyond recognition. The restoration so far is Seriously Good, beginning towards the end of last year, and to continue until an advertised 2015 though, as the guide told us, almost every step of the way, as one piece of restoration is begun, another need for remedial work becomes visible. The finish date may well yet be pushed back to allow for more work as more decay is uncovered. Undoubtedly there is EU money involved, probably finance also from the city and from the regional government too. 

Restored crests amid both old and new wood.

The tour started in the attics where an apparently new mediaeval tiled floor stretched before us. The restoration of this huge pavement had revealed two unsuspected colours of tiles forming a regular pattern and we saw another floor area in the same attic, still untouched, and simply unrecognisable in its dirt and ageing with a heavy mantel of earth and centuries of use. The ample beams and lower roof timbers had all been restored and the motto of the Gruuthuse family, 'Plus est en vous' [que vous pensez, being implied] was written in beautiful script over many of the beams. This was the motto of Lodewijk Gruuthuse, 1422-1492, who built this palace originally, and means that there is more in you than you realise. A splendidly inspiring motto for a group [as in Gordonstoun which has also taken this same  motto] but our guide emphasised that it did, in fact, refer to the great man, Lodewijk, himself, almost everything he did being an extension of his ego! The numerous repetitions displayed upon the attic beams of Plus est en vous were not, apparently, done on behalf of Lodewijk, but the result of a little over-exuberance on the part of the firm, Delasenserie, which undertook a major renovation during the 1920s and which is, interestingly, in charge of the present operation.

Lodewijk, diplomat, soldier, aristocrat, patron and his motto

Plus est en vous

The tour took in various rooms, in differing stages of renovation; the little chapel, virtually joined to the OLV church next door, had been almost gutted in the restoration process, though its beautiful ceiling which merged into an apse at one end, was entire. Below the apse, a window seat with windows which opened on to, and into, OLV and which permitted the less-committed church-goers in the mediaeval Gruuthuse, to claim they had breathed the holy air, when both windows at one end and door at the other, were left open.

The beautiful little Gruuthuse chapel, awaiting further attention

The church inside, was highly polluted with thick layers of dust and soot, cracks in walls and vaults,  and damage from fungi and beetles. The current phase of renovation takes in the choir, the choir aisle, the sacristy and the transcript. The renovations in the huge church itself  are impressive with the main enemy, again the water. It is quite a feat to keep open an important and busy church for the faithful, plus accommodate an unceasing army of visiting tourists anxious to tick off the Michelangelo on their list. It is being accomplished with the major part of the building closed behind scaffolding and plastic sheets for restoration and will be thus until the end of 2015. There is a fixed budget [of 1.538 million, the majority of which has come from the Flemish community.]  so difficult decisions are being made as further unsuspected decay is revealed and plans for expensive gilding, or some replacement, have to be shelved. Renovation on this scale, and under the twin pressures of worship and tourism, is a daunting task but the renovator who spoke to us showed photos of utterly painstaking work being done with a tiny scalpel and infinite patience. Astonishing and humbling.

One restored corner of a large stone tablet rather sums up the power of restoration.

So many secrets of this ancient city uncovered in just one week. The Open Monuments weekend is intended for Bruggelings, not tourists, [hence only Dutch spoken] and it was heartening to see considerable interest and pride in their civic inheritance, displayed in the numbers attending and the keenness shown. But the great interest in the hidden Sint Donaas Kathedral and the esoteric ringing of the old bell in memoriam, by tourists like my visitors is also gratifying. Brugge really is a treasure trove for those who look a little beyond the beautiful surface, stunning though that is.

Music is the language of the spirit.

Voetklok.. Foot bell. Brugge never fails to amaze and delight and Friday 4^th September, there was a ten minute display of bell-ringing by foot on top of a wooden platform, a little belfry I suppose, in Boeveriestraat. Five times a year, in June, July and September, Paul Van den Abeele commemorates the life and work of the man who cast and installed a new set of bells between 1742-48 in the Belfort following a disastrous fire in 1741. To whit, Joris Dumery, who died in Brugge in 1787.

       Joris Dumery

He was a master bell founder and maker of carillons and indeed made and installed the carillon in Bruges. The first carillon was installed in the sixteenth century and served to regulate the lives of the inhabitants; fire alarms, work hours, political, social and religious events were all thus marked. Quite why the memorial is where it is, and why it is operated by foot, remains to be discovered. Certainly, it is a cost-effective solution to the occasional need to ring a huge and heavy bell in memoriam. Spectators last Friday, were sadly sparse; few outsiders seem to have heard of this summer ritual and many Bruggelings appear disinterested, but it was nonetheless a charming and idiosyncratic tribute to Meneer Dumery.

Friend and I were fascinated in fact, on Friday morning, to see Paul unlock the bell, clamber up the ladder and begin the arduous task of ringing the 700 kg bell for ten minutes. He wore no safety harness and had nothing to assist his efforts beyond the power of his 83 year old legs! He was security-free, and unusually fit. It looked, and is, potentially dangerous and one couldn't help but smile nostalgically at the thought of our own dear 'Elf 'n' Safety regulations. Here, there were none. What there was, however, was good will, a huge pride and interest in Bruggean tradition and a strong sense of community continuity and responsibility. Paul has rung the bell for 27 years, and for a total so far of 192 times. He aims to make that 200 at least! The audience of five was enthralled and afterwards we spoke to Paul and his energetic wife, Jo [84 and brisk!] and went to the nearby OCMW [Social Security] which, unexpectedly to me, served drinks to its clients and presumably to locals like Jo and Paul. I so enjoyed our long chat, together with another friend of theirs, Lieve, met through the ringing of the Dumery bell on an earlier occasion. Paul is a carillonneur by training and went up to the Bruges carillon first when he was six. His professional life was spent in art restoration. He is sad that he can find no younger person to take over his Dumery responsibility eventually; he says that young people ask how much money will they be paid and show little interest or respect in continuing this special Bruggean tradition.

Jo and Paul Van den Abeele

Because of that morning activity, Michele and I were invited to a concert in the Belfort in the evening where we joined the Vrienden of the Beiard. We had the most splendid time, not knowing, on arrival, what awaited us. On stage there was a decent-sized orchestra with wind instruments, violin, portable carillon, synthesizer but with the majority of players equipped with banjoes. Apparently, originally formed when the members were schoolboys and the Directeur of the school, a banjo enthusiast, the orchestra had re-formed for this concert after a lapse of thirty years, recruiting two young women musicians en route. The music was impressive, and there were lots of songs from the chiefly old i.e. dated, popular European canon, including an American negro spiritual. The large audience frequently sang along and the whole affair was just so joyful and somehow, innocent! A happy touch was added as the audience filed out, with a free glass of Brugse Zot beer for everyone. Small wonder that we wandered into the dark, humming along, remembering the songs. Life-enhancing or what?!

In fact, this Friday evening music presaged a musical Saturday. A friend Tatjana,[above] harpsichordist, and her husband, Martin came to stay from Cologne, for Tatjana to give a charity concert in the Orgelzaal, part of the Conservatorium in Muntplein in the evening. For me, her super recital followed an afternoon concert of Early Music in the Sint Jeruzalemkapel by a choir from Veurne. I have mentioned the wondrous Sint Jeruzalem church before; it is special and tiny so that the approximately thirty spectators were crowded together to listen to the choir which sang from behind a screen on a gallery above. The main space of the ground area is taken up by the splendid mediaeval tombs of Anselm Adornes, the founder and benefactor of the church, and his wife. Frankly all three concerts, hugely different, were such a composite pleasure and made me reflect on my good fortune in thinking of coming to live here at this rather late stage in life. I like the following quote from Kahlil Gibran [from which the title of this post was taken]

'Music is the language of the spirit.

It opens the secret of life bringing

peace, abolishing strife.'

A view of the gallery above the tiny nave, where the Veurne choir stood, to sing. 

And so to Sunday and a visit to the sixth Kaasmarkt in 't Zand, a celebration really of artisanal cheese-making in the area. There were perhaps two dozen stalls, music [dire] and a couple of wine stalls too. I think I had expected more but 24, if that is what there were, is pretty impressive. As I walked home carrying cheeses, I scanned back over a crowded week, which included the first lesson of Level 2 Dutch on Wednesday evening, and marvelled at the little life I am creating, if that is the right word. Finding, perhaps, is better.  Give a human sufficient warmth, food and shelter, and a life will ensue. Which brings me to ponder the European problem de nos jours; refugees. Have to mention this and use the graph below.

This graph appeared in the Belgian press a few days ago, [and also I think, in the Economist] as I heard David Cameron insisting that the UK was leading the way with helping refugees. While acknowledging the considerable UK financial contribution to the funding of refugee camps, I think this says it all; there is no UK among these European nations in the graph which is measuring the numbers of refugees taken in, per 100,000 of a country's population. France, with all its huge space, is disgracefully at the bottom of the list but at least, it is on the list, just.

The graph is for last year so that the huge contribution made by Germany this year, during the current tsunami of desperate people fleeing to Europe, is not acknowledged.

Wandering into culture

Such an interesting and varied day on Saturday last, in company with Michele, my neighbour on the floor above. I call her The Oracle as She Knows Everything, especially about life in Brugge and about Brugge!

The weather blessed us as we wandered through empty, quiet streets towards the Guido Gezelle Museum, itself a serious oasis of peace. I think it has relatively few visitors, [most tourists don't find it and don't, I suspect, even look for it or know that it is there.] But G.G is a nationally important literary figure in Belgium and is considered one of the most important poets in Dutch literature. Born in Brugge [1830] and living most of his life in West Flanders, he worked as a teacher and Roman Catholic priest in Roeselare for many years before returning to Brugge, to the house where he was born, close to the English Convent on Carmerstraat where he became its official priest. As well as producing a huge canon of poetry and other writing, he translated the poetry and prose of others, for instance, Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha [1886]

His house, with its huge and splendid garden, is now a modern museum devoted to his memory with numerous photographs of the great man and his family, and also artefacts, some furniture and beautiful engraved window glass. There is also a striking extension constructed within what seems to have been a long barn during his lifetime. This provides a beautiful space for external exhibitions, presently one called Passe Compose showing a small part of the extensive collection of the Gruuthuse Museum. Gezelle had strong connections with that museum; the town archivist, Felix D'Hoop, an English art historian, James Weale who spent most of his life in Brugge, and G.G. set up the Archaeological Society of Brugge in 1865 and in 1876 the city of Brugge bought the Gruuthuse, an early mediaeval building constructed at the start of the fifteenth century, to house the rapidly-expanding collection of the Archaeological Society.

Passe Compose [ there should be an accent on each final 'e'. It means, as we all know, Past Perfect, a beautiful title] shows a range of exhibits but my absolutely favourite exhibits were the small stone figures, some mediaeval, some as late as the nineteenth century, originally gracing churches or grand houses, and depicting, predictably in this town of Mary, the Virgin, saints and including one stunning statue of Tristan and Isolde.

The personification of the mediaeval legend of romantic love.

 Between Tristan, the Cornish knight and Iseult, [Isolde] the Irish princess.

We went for a coffee break which turned into a beer break at the Cafe Vlissinghe, nearby, currently celebrating its unbroken 500 years of commercial activity! We sat outside where there is now a stylish terrace, a covered seating area and the updated but ever-present, petanque alley. When Eric and I first discovered it, the outside area was somewhat rougher! The interior remains the same however; old Brugge writ large I think; dark, beamed, dark wooden tables, chandelier. Really cosy and atmospheric in winter and now alas often crowded with tourists who have read about it on Trip Advisor. I remember Eric's oft-repeated cry, 'Bring back elitism darling', which used to appal me but which always pops irresistibly to mind in the Vlissinghe. When Michele and I went, however, it was blessedly almost empty.

For lunch we decided to grace 't Terrastje opposite the Carmerbrug at the end of Genthof and tucked neatly into a sheltered corner. Ian, English, and Patricia, Dutch, own it and though they work very hard, often helped by Patricia's parents, they never seem to take it all too seriously and often swan off on some holiday or other, leaving the locals without a nearby terrace to sit on, should the rain ever stop.

After which, more culture in the Volkskundemuseum which advertised a little exhibition on the Vlissinghe's 500 years, as well as its usual panoply of everyday life over the last hundred and fifty years. It is fascinating; schoolroom, apoteek, domestic interiors, grocery shop, saddlery; the list goes on. The Vlissinghe exhibition was unexpectedly small and disappointing and the man on the door, incredibly grumpy and disinterested but the saving grace was De Zwarte Kat, the little bar at one end of the museum, run by a hugely cheerful volunteer and popular with the punters. Until April, Aristide, the resident black cat, was an important part of the experience but sadly, Aristide has disappeared, now presumed to be strolling the meadows of the Elysian Fields as he contemplates his erstwhile fame. Down below there were several posters in the area pleading for his return. Only later did I discover that Aristide did a runner when news broke that the Museum was to close in the face of economic stringency. So the rather disillusioned chap on the door must have been a perhaps unwilling volunteer!

As we began to stroll homewards, we decided on impulse to go to Sint Jeruzalemkerk and to my delight, Veronique, whom I know, was the volunteer on duty there [and she is the example, par excellence, of the committed, engaged volunteer] and she allowed us to climb the tower and enjoy the marvellous view. It is my favourite church in Brugge, built by Anselm Adornes, business man, diplomat, aristocrat, knight. The church, really a little family chapel  was inspired by the St Sepulchre Church in Jerusalem, and was consecrated in 1429. It is small and utterly special. There is a mansion adjoining the church and an interesting museum behind in low buildings which were originally twelve Godshuizen, almshouses; six now remain. It is amazing that the whole complex is still owned by the same family today, the present seventeenth generation being the Count and Countess Maximilien de Limburg Stirum.

In all, our Saturday spanned nine hours and satisfied, par excellence, the cultural appetite. I suppose if your interests are for football or perhaps famous people, then Brugge might be found wanting but for anyone with even a little interest in the life historical, it is fascinating and never fails to engage this visitor. I am, in fact, after seven months, nearly a real resident, nearly the possessor of the much-needed ID card; the commune promised two to three weeks and that was about two weeks ago. And, oh yes, on the subject of football, there was some important match last evening HERE between Man United and Brugge. Didn't even know that Bruges had a proper football team. I have just checked the local news on the Internet and see, approvingly, that Sir Bobby Charlton was here to support and is pictured drinking the local brew, Brugse Zot, with the Burgemeester, in the Markt yesterday. Less approvingly, I read that three Man United fans beat up a Bruggeling, a young inhabitant of Brugge. Oh dear.

Exhibiting Interest.

I know I wrote about the Triennale some time ago but keep going back to single items as I pass them in transit, as it were, and find continual fascination. Eighteen international artists were asked to consider 'What if the five million tourists who visit Brugge every year, should decide to stay?' Bruges is represented as Urb-Egg [on a map, Brugge is egg-shaped within the outer canals] and the Triennale seeks to crack the Bruges 'egg' from the inside to reinvent the city. The installations and 'interventions' by the selected artists try to pose questions about the future of the city and its potential. They ask about urbanisation, citizenship, lifestyle, community, economics, energy, space, sound, and guiding values. The results of the artists' efforts are intended to cause reflection and wonder. And each little visit by me has done just that; it has made me stop and think about the ideas and questions posed.

The one illustrated below is in the Burg and is probably the one I notice most often as I pass by.

The explanation for this presentation, displayed nearby, is as follows:

The Burg is the geographical and metaphorical heart of Bruges. With the town hall and the administrative services on one side of the square and the Basilica of the Holy Blood on the other, it represents both a political and religious centre. The words above, picked out in lights, come from a radio interview with a New York resident who said that for the city to move forward after the 9/11 attacks, it would have to find a new way to think and to perceive that would lead to "a place beyond belief."

But now to matters more domestic. I have had Michael, my stepson, staying for a few days and so have taken him to a number of different places and sights in Brugge, chiefly on foot although on Tuesday 18 we went outside the city to Stock Americain Vermeersch to look for pots for the terrace. It turned out to be an astonishingly enormous place where different tradesmen go to buy the necessary, for maintenance and installation. The variety of pots stocked, proved also to be wide and the availability of a strong resident porter, who gave, in addition, advice and counsel, invaluable. After which, two more little chairs for the terrace, purchased and transported today, are now in place. Gradually getting to grips with that outside space at last though still trying to appreciate the terrace conditions; shadow for half the day; sun, when it comes, without any shade; cooler up here on the third floor at all times save when hot and breeze-less; no wind to a light breeze to the occasional spine-bending gale. Rather different from the small, sheltered garden and shady courtyard at No 1 in Wye! But how often I have wished I had brought a couple of statues and the fairly numerous small trees in large pots, with me to Brugge!

Seeing Bruges through a visitor's eyes is interesting; much of it is now chiefly familiar for me but there is a renewed sensation, with a companion, in breakfast at Le Pain Quotidien, or a wander around Astrid Park, or lunch at de Belegde Boterham. We saw a superb exhibition at Manna Art in Heilige-Geeststraat with one room full of large swirling portraits of African faces, impressionistic, powerful and penetrating in the way each 'spoke' to the observer. Yesterday, after the gardening pots expedition we went straight on to Lissewege where I wanted to see the 21st exhibition of sculptures, the  Beeldenroute. This year, there were many, many exhibits in the huge Knights Templar church, and dotted around the tiny 'white' village, het Witte Dorp.

Loved this one, outside the Church; reminiscent of Eric Gill

It seemed especially accommodating, creative and imaginative, of the Church authority to allow an exhibition of modern sculptures in the enormous, traditional and sacred cathedral-size space. It worked so well too; the soaring mediaeval space and the boundless light served to enhance the exhibition and at the same time, the venerable building was itself made more relevant, accessible and beautiful.

And then, about two kilometres outside the centre, [but still in Lissewege] up a long narrow lane, to Ter Doest, a little settlement where there used to be a mediaeval Abbey. Today there remains only the huge and magnificent abbey barn, a wooden cathedral of a space, stunning in its own right, and a couple of other ancient buildings, one the beautiful Hof Ter Doest, a restaurant and small hotel with its own sweeping terrace. Alas, it was a rainy day, and we compensated by going inside to warm up with a great fish soup and a beer, after wandering around the large green area in front of the barn, looking at the many, many sculptures on show. It is always a thought-provoking exhibition, but this year's exhibits seemed more numerous and interesting and riveting, sometimes literally.

To finish off a perfect day, despite the drizzle, we called in at Damme en route home where I had been to a Book Fair last Sunday [and bought a book in English on Mercator, a Belgian, a fact previously unknown to me.] Another little jewel of which West Flanders seems to have a box full. An interesting exhibition despite the lack of our Flemish, on the construction of the Napoleonic-era canal, with drawings, calculations, pictures and artifacts, in the Town Hall. I may have seen the largest pair of workman's sabots ever, there! Difficult to imagine life in Damme two hundred years ago, before the canal.

And here, the lovely little boat which takes passengers between Brugge and Damme and which I keep intending to take, but the fact that walking is quicker has, so far, managed to deter me! Incidentally, this is a lovely cycling mini-excursion, and picturesque too alongside the canal.

I went along to the Katelijnestraat celebrations the day before my guest arrived and couldn't resist a shot of this pretty old lace-maker. There were several others busy with their lace-craft, though hardly dressed for the part, in the Walplein area, with tourists snapping away but this old dear, in spite of her guileless charm, was totally on the ball. She held her hand in front of her face while gesturing to the little pot of money at the front edge of her table. When I had obeyed the mercantile command, only then did she smile so winningly.