Mimosa

Today is Saturday and when I awoke around 5.30 a.m. and flipped open my Ipad it said, Bruges weather: heavy rain for next 13 hours. And so it has proved!! Even 13 hours later,the force shows no sign of diminishing! Even so, I resolutely strode forth and went to 't Zand to the temporarily diminished market, to buy flowers, with tulips in mind. I bought some lovely tulips too but was quite thrilled to find Mimosa. The old boy on the stall said dreamily in response to my delight, 'Ah, Grasse; St Tropez …' and finding Mimosa DID seem somehow special, a harbinger of Spring on the wettest day in the year. In fact, when people spotted what I was carrying, like the young man in In and Uit, the tourist centre where I next repaired to buy a ticket for tomorrow's guitar concert in the Concertgebouw or Dumon after that, to buy chocolate to take to the U.S. in a fortnight and have a super cup of coffee, one and all, smiled a little sweetly and
murmured, 'Ah, mimosa', implying the certainty of better weather and more romantic times to come. Now I come to think of it, the Americans call Buck's Fizz, Mimosa, which I always thought charming though lacking the descriptive bubbly quality of the English. And Italian men give mimosa to their loves on one special day in Spring, the name of which I have long forgotten.

Continuing my minor film-watching wave, I saw the Belgian Problemski Hotel at the Lumiere. Based on the novel by the West Flemish/Russian author, Dmitri Verholst, it follows the changes that occur in the lives of random people born in areas affected by war or armed conflict. Their bewilderment at the strange events around them co-existing with the strong desire to live normal lives, is depicted graphically as the characters struggle to make sense of their suspended reality in the often Kafka-esque absurdity of this no-man's-land. In the midst of the turmoil, a love affair blooms between Bipul and Lidia. The character of Bipul is beautifully observed; he is the Everyman to whom assorted refugees turn for help with interviews, form-filling, personal difficulties. He is a dignified man of integrity in a cruel world, and his anonymity is emphasised by the fact that he  has no recall of his true name nor of his country of origin.

Thursday I had a lucky offer to accompany Luc to a press presentation at the French Embassy in Brussels. Housed in a grand building, the high, gilded room accommodated quite an audience which was treated to at least nine accounts of particular facets of life in Aquitaine, [the region under promotion] such as the Lascaux caves, delivered in quick-fire French by chic young things whose moment had arrived. After perhaps an hour, I silently vowed, 'Never again'. But that was before The Buffet was revealed. When I commented on the wonderful canapes, tiny delicious amuse-geules, the cheeses, hams, breads, etc AND on the heavenly Bordeaux red, I was told, 'It is Always super here; if the food and drink weren't marvellous, no one would come!' The later tartes were superb and the coffee and Pierre Marcolini chocolates, da morire as the Italians say. I didn't eat again all day, just treasured the memory! But I am interested in exploring Aquitaine by way of thanks!

I haven't commented on the empty streets of Brugge; January is obviously a tourist-free month though it may be worse than usual with the suspicion some tourists feel following the disclosure of the Brussels connection to the Paris killings in December. Friends from the UK have rung me to ask if it is safe in Belgium! Seems an absurd question given the parochial, slow, safe pace of life here. Whatever, some places look closed, the markt today was only half its normal size and at that level, still not busy. Buses are comfortable; sidewalks roomy, supermarkets bearable, cafes and restaurants, often [but not always] only partially full. Last week was sunny to boot and it was a very Heaven, I must say. Above, the illustration is by Henry Victor Wolvens, of Rue Deserte a Bruges 1945 and gives a perfect rendition of some January streets 2016! Empty but nonetheless, picturesque.

Rob Michiels Auctions opened, opposite my building, several months ago and held its first auction last October. The second sale is tomorrow and looks to be specialising in ceramics and statuary. I popped in this morning just to look as, though I need nothing, I  DO mourn the two statues and the many large pots I gave to my family before leaving the UK, as I was set on finding an apartment and thus no garden. I don't have a garden but do have a terrace so, after much consideration, I singled out two items in the auction; one comprised three little columns each narrowing into a mediaeval figure though they were undoubtedly nineteenth to early twentieth century in the making. The second included four stone consoles [I think] rather like little stone tables for the wall with mediaeval figures sculptured below in the support. They were charming but one was way best its best and a second, well on the way to fading out. Sunday morning through the everlasting rain across the square to the auction room! I  quickly dropped out of the bidding for the group of three; they went for  220 euros which was too much. The second I definitely wanted but I also didn't want them at any price and I dropped out at 250 euros; they eventually went for 480 euros; way too much. Disappointing but my first foray into a Belgium auction had been fun and instructive. I used to go to auctions in the late sixties and the seventies and my, things have changed. Bids were coming in to one long table, by phone, and to a second similar, online. The sale room was pretty full and instead of the old-fashioned display of each item, it was all shown on a small screen at the front. SO quietly efficient!

Such sadness to hear of the death of Henry Worsley, the Shackleton-inspired Antarctic adventurer and explorer. I think it was in 2014 that he came to talk to Wye Arts in the hall of Spring Grove School where, I think, he had once been a pupil. His talk on his trek following in the footsteps of Shackleton, was riveting and the Wye audience discovered that he was the most delightful and

modest of men. Small wonder that he inspired so many others and so desperately heart-rending that he died alone, almost within reach of his life-time goal. But, at least, he was in the land of his heroic inspiration.

And a perfect ending to the weekend was provided by an uplifting concert of South American guitar music played by Four Times A Lady, with real skill and panache. First time for me to hear both the group and the music and it was worth the undoubted effort to go, my flat being so much more inviting than the windswept, rain-sodden streets. I rarely take the bus both ways but made an exception to return home for two expected FaceTime family sessions and a beer to end my dry January!

Music and Light

At the risk of providing unwanted testimonies for films I have loved, just must mention that I caught the last showing in the Lumiere o Son of Saul. The assistant on the desk said in English, 'Hope it's OK for you. It is in Hungarian with Dutch and French sub-titles!' I recklessly said 'Yes' because I had heard how good the film was. But I wasn't prepared for the intense, gritty realism, the strong feeling of involvement with Saul, who, assigned to the team burning bodies from the crematorium in Auschwitz-Birkenau, came across his son who had miraculously just survived, only for him to be murdered immediately by a doctor. The narrative is of his struggle, which becomes an obsession, to

find a Rabbi to bless his son's body while also playing his part in in a covert mutiny.  This film is unsparing, immersive, with a moral intensity that grips the mind of the observer and never lets it go. I

have never been so totally involved  in the stress and brutality portrayed in a film. For virtually the whole length of the drama the camera is on Saul's face, head, shoulders with the terrible events shown

behind him, often out of focus, but clearly visible. This device of shooting the head and shoulders of the lead character throughout, could have meant monotony; instead it adds immediacy, intensity and suspense. The director was Laszlo Nemes  and his virtuosity in directing this, his first film, must make him One To Watch.

Saturday morning a rare visit from my landlord, an architect from Gent. Months ago I had knocked over a large jug of lemon juice I had made to help get over a heavy cold. I was horrified to see the effect the juice had on the black flooring; an indelible scar was left showing the path of the deluge with the splash marks which nothing seemed to remove or disguise. I owned up to the landlord, Luc, by e-mail and though he seemed unperturbed I felt guilty each time I saw the footprint of my accident. This morning, unexpectedly, he appeared bringing half a can of something called Stamina which may well help. Interesting to note it is an English product bought from Folkestone, about 14 miles from where I was still living this time last year!
 

I gave Luc coffee and delicious tiny, light-as-air cakes bought hurriedly [when I knew he was coming] from a splendid new place opened recently on Geldmundstraat. Love the nonchalant name; Aux Merveilleux de Fred and was entertained to see the assistant draw back when I offered money. This establishment is so hip and happening that no one touches money; there is a little machine which accepts the loot so that no germs are allowed into contact with the frothy creations for sale. This is Seriously Healthy except, of course, that the delicious little gateaux are made of chocolate, cream et al which may be less healthy but none the less welcome for that! I was so impressed with the quality of the cakes as well as the serious charm of the premises, that I Googled Fred [seen in above picture] to discover that he started his first artisanal patisserie in Hazelbrouck in 1982 and opened the second fifteen years later in Old Lille. I am unsure as to the specific definition of artisanal [probably 'made by hand'] but it hardly conjures up the sheer Parisian elegance of the new premises in Brugge. If you are in Brugge, go and experience it, especially if you have pretensions!

Over coffee he showed me photos on his iPhone of an eighteenth century abbey which he and his wife are buying and renovating, about twenty miles outside Brussels. Next door to it stood a twelfth century church, demolished during the eighteenth century, and with resonant imaging, he has discovered the footprint of the church both outside his abbey and also inside his newly-acquired home-to-be. He is planning to mark out the area of the church foundations inside the abbey during renovation, with subtle differences in the paving so that the area of the ancient foundations will be visible. WHAT a project; mouth-watering!
 

Music has abounded in my weekend; Kahlil Gibran wrote that 'music is the language of the spirit' and must account for the fact that my spirits have been so high since Friday! Friday evening to the Concertgebouw to hear John Butt and his Dunedin Consort perform Bach with Iestyn Davies [image to the right] from Wales. I first heard Iestyn's beautiful voice at a Stour Festival concert in Boughton Aluph Church and fell for it immediately. There has been a five day

Bach festival here this week and Iestyn's concert was one of the last. It was heavenly, subtle, full of nuance and feeling. Among the offerings was the nicest of the Brandenburg concertos, No 6, a violinconcerto and the most delicate and heart-rending Lament of Buxtehude. The Italian/Dutch violinist, Cecilia Bernardini accompanied and was impressively described in the programme as Concertmeester. I am not alwayss sure of what titles mean in Dutch, or at least, what they imply. As in this case!

And then, this morning, the penultimate Aperitief Concert at the Crowne Plaza Hotel, the very same where I head each morning for a swim on the eighth floor! Today, jazz for a change. The Jazz Consort, Brugge, was performing jazz, blues, swing and bebop to a most appreciative audience. Not the typical jazz audience I wouldn't think; many worthies, stalwart Bruggelinden couples and Serious

People were there plus a few possible subversives. But it worked very well and afterwards there was an appreciative buzz as people took their allotted glass of bubbly and headed for the standing tables and the nibbles. It is a most sociable occasion as well as musical and reflects well on the organisation behind it; de Negen Muzen. The Nine Muses. And one wonders, who are these public-spirited but musical people who dream up and execute such a delightful concept for a winter Sunday morning?

As I sat waiting for the concert to begin, couldn't help but notice many curled and primped heads of hair, testimony to recent visits to traditional hairdressers. I too had been, not curled, but scalped, only on Saturday by Patrick who is a Master Cutter but, in my case at least, One Who Goes Too Far. He is modest, gifted, charming, self-effacing but once the scissors come to hand, he can't stop until he has changed the 'small trim' into a whole new hair concept. So I emerged with a gamine appearance, possibly at odds with the ageing face and Quite Different from the slightly dated hairstyle of yore. Saw a friend en route home who loyally said that it made me look

younger so I cling to that fairy tale for now. Above is a photograph of the beautiful place where the carnage to my locks occurred!

No one should grow old who isn't ready to appear ridiculous. John Mortimer

Hideous wind and rain here as I write, so not much different from the UK though, despite little road lakes, no floods. I check on the iPad each night on the weather in different parts of the UK where family live, and in Brugge. Thus have I discovered that Bruges is consistently very slightly warmer in comparison to the UK. Surprising as I expected the opposite. But now, on Sunday morning, snow and ice on the terrace first thing followed by the most glorious, sunny, wind-less, blue skied day imaginable.

Have now bought the splendid Dutch for Dummies and also found a little group which meets twice a week for a couple of hours of Dutch conversation. Bliss. Still can't understand the Dutch spoken by either natives or immigrants [you try understanding Nepalese Dutch!], but so enjoying it. One session's 'leader' [amazingly, no cost to me; all volunteers presiding] gave me one of those squares of letters in which are hidden words to find; the sort of grid beloved of many Primary age pupils! Took me fifty minutes to find them all and a lot of enjoyable effort. Also have to translate a short news paragraph and present that in my own words next Tuesday. Have found two I like, one on decreasing birth-rate in Belgium [OK but not world-shattering] but the other is thrilling for me to discover. The oldest illuminated Bible in the Benelux countries, the Codex Eyckensis, written in the scriptorium of the Abbey at Echternach in the eighth century, and now kept in Sint Catherinekerk

in Maaseik in the province of Limburg in Belgium, has been awarded finance to digitalise its contents and to promote it. This is the sort of news I love to read! I am going to find out where Maaseik is, and later this year, post the foot operation recovery probably, go and find the original which I hope is accessible to the non-scholar. Brilliant project! The illustrations I have seen, courtesy of Google, are just beautiful.

Almost every Wednesday, after the weekly slog to the Markt for the week's fruit and veg [hauled home in my old-lady-bag-on-wheels] I go to the Hotel Martin to meet other members of a group of English and English-speaking women who live in the area. I do enjoy it though a Belgian friend who went with me once or twice, was critical of the apparent lack of courtesy shown as we shout across the centre of the group, all talking at once! I love it more and more as I get to know different individuals. This week, after an early start, I left the flat a little late so, contrary to all my little rules, I hurried. I normally walk relatively slowly partly because of the quite heavy orthopaedic shoes I must now wear, and partly because of the often treacherous conditions underfoot. Wednesday, all was forgotten as I pressed on to the inevitable! In Jan Van Eyckplein, nearby, I tripped so hard that I fell full length, and hands and forehead [which re-bounded against the cobbles, such was my walking speed] took the brunt. Could not believe it as I surveyed the square from the prone position! Swift help came, especially from an elderly lady who had done the same in the Markt two weeks before, and a young man who hauled me to my feet, found me a chair, and, with impressive speed, located and applied a cold compress to the burgeoning lump on my forehead! I felt both silly and grateful and eventually tottered off to see Alice, in the nearby apoteek. [Pictured below, viewed from my guest bedroom. A handsome building.] She reminded me that her enforced weeks in a wheelchair last Autumn because of a broken ankle, had been the result of a similar contretemps with a projecting cobblestone! And she, like many other Bruggelingen, grumbled about the state of the roads here. Eventually, across the road to home, a day inside, coffee with friends,

missed, hot chicken from the Markt for lunch, missed, evening concert in the Concertgebouw, also missed! Though I did, by chance, enjoy that concert in a live broadcast on Radio Klara. Walking slowly is now reinforced as the grazed knee and the king-size, discoloured lump on the forehead gradually diminish.

Saturday morning, to my Mecca; Sarah Pacini on Zuidzandstraat, home of incredibly chic clothes which are barely affordable even in the sales now on. Added
impetus was given because son and wife had given me a generous S.P. voucher for Christmas. Regina, my favourite assistant and now friend, was on duty and nearly two blissful hours were spent in Retail Therapy before I left to go to Sint Paulus my bakery on Vlamingstraat near home. They had been closed for ten well-earned rest days but the lure of the black, seeded bread called Probody was insistent. It is a fab bakery with a huge variety of breads, cakes, croissants, brioches, plus other essentials like cheese, butter, jam and eggs, available. It is one of the lucky aspects of living where I do that the best bakery in town is a couple of minutes walk away. Location, location, location as someone used to say!

And to finish a perfect Saturday went to the Lumiere to see Carol with Cate Blanchett. Most surprised to see a queue as I approached and it took me ten minutes to reach the pay desk. I assume  that the publicity must have mentioned the word, Lesbian, or was it the possibility of an Oscar that
caused the Blue Room in the Lumiere to be almost full when I did arrive? Whatever, it was a superb film with a spare dialogue that spoke of a wonderful director and with excellent characterisation from the actors.                 

 

Disposable Lamps and an Angel

Ooh, a long hiatus between blogs while three whole weeks were spent in England over Christmas to enjoy family seasonal celebrations, catch up with other dear family members, participate in the funeral of my first husband and finish with a lovely flourish on the annual family theatre outing on Jan 3rd. The funeral, while sad, was also a joyful celebration, echoed and magnified afterwards at his spiritual home of nearly fifty years, the Golf Club. Crowded and full of reminiscences, the wake was a delightful goodbye to a much loved person and one of which he would have definitely approved.

After lunch in Covent Garden we went to see The Play That Went Wrong at the Duchess, a charming little Victorian or perhaps Edwardian, theatre. Garlanded with an Olivier award, the farce proved to be eye-wateringly, guffawingly funny so that our group, aged from 14 to 81, all loved it. It was slapstick at its most brilliant with impeccable timing and peerless performances. We lurched, wiping our eyes and resting our faces, into the dark for a final communal drink and fond reminiscence

of the play's finer moments, nearby. I had decided to stay in London overnight and to the unknown delights of the Great Northern Hotel at St Pancras, I wandered. As this isn't Trip Advisor, I shall restrict myself to saying that I have found another place where I could happily live out my declining years! I now find I LOVE too many mirrors, thick carpets, obsequious staff, free champagne and chocolate. By the time for my Final Exit, I am pretty sure I shall have cracked Life; that is to say, I will know Effortlessly what works for me [without perhaps the ability to access it!]

A whole week after returning to base, and still no completed blog; discipline lacking a little perhaps here. I went into the centre to pick up a book I had ordered: Dutch for Dummies, which may well be pitched at my level. I intend to try to learn the language solo, gradually and at my dining table thus escaping the two compulsory three and a half hours evening shifts of last Autumn, bookended by a half hour slog on foot through wind and rain and darkness [I exaggerate only slightly] I shall miss the delightful young immigrants, all bravely pursuing their destinies with such energy and light-hearted optimism but am grateful to escape the many, many games and the total incomprehension of their Dutch.

However, do need to learn to speak Dutch, quite a different thing. After a search I found a Praatgroep, fronted by the delightful Zuster Noella who acts as a sort of receptionist. Only ten minutes walk away and part of a voluntary organisation called Integraal I think. So far, on Friday, I attended and to my delight, found a really small group on which I shall report later.

Quite sad to see the last of the Christmas market being disassembled as I strode across the Markt; all the magical trees and the skating rink had gone and the horse-drawn carriages were safely back in place, queuing for tourists. I decided, on a whim, to sample the Sales; January sales are Big  here. And thus found a new shop. Tuyttens an old-established computer, camera, phone store had, to general consternation, closed last Autumn after yet another burglary and its huge space is now filled with Juttu [You too], a Finnish name for a Belgian store. Brugge is second only to Antwerp in having a Juttu which may be in the process of the colonisation of Belgium.
It is seriously gorgeous; expensive in its thick, woolly, suitable-for-really-cold-weather, up-to-the-minute clothes for sale with a few smart accoutrements for the home available. Frankly it is possibly the most achingly hip joint I have ever patronised and I enjoyed every viewing minute. I bought a few tiny things for almost 60 euros but I am [importantly] now on their database! Sad to see the aged pointlessly pursuing a tiny bit of electronic status.

Having decided I should replace the side table lamps in the guest bedroom so that guests will be able actually to see to read, I ventured into D'Haenens, a mega lighting shop on four floors. From the enormous choice, sadly all not in any sale, I decided on two and just have to report the latest phenomenon to engage the ageing intellect. The assistant explained gently that the new concept 'made sense' and agreed that older customers were inclined to disbelief at this aforementioned good sense. I asked where I would buy a replacement bulb, after she had trumpeted the two year guarantee and the 50,000 LED hours available

and thus I learned that when the bulb [is it still called that?] dies, is finished, exists no more, there can be no replacement so the lamp itself is thrown away. Dear reader, I bought them after asking if any non-throwaway but similarly attractive lighting was around. It is, but  at around 500 euros each as opposed to the derisory 64 euros of my chosen ones. She didn't spell out  that, in a guest bedroom, the 50,000 hours of lighting before disposal, would probably see me out but I got the message from somewhere! There is something so vastly entertaining about the surrounding theatre of life that makes practically every day a Joy!

And the final triumphant note is sounded by my new musical Angel. He is something I didn't need but he now graces the top of my Georgian linen cupboard, once quite valuable, but now, in this IKEA world, worthless! I have bought him gradually, over several months, from income and thus got to know Lieven the interesting young man who owns the small shop crowded with statues, putti, crosses, candlesticks, wooden flourishes and generally fascinating old impedimenta, near the Burg. He showed me a recent addition to his stock; another recumbent wooden angel which I could have at one third reduction because of purchasing Number One. When I demurred, quoting lack of space he said loftily, 'There is always room for an angel'. And before I left, I was shown a shining, polished putto, magnificent in its 18th century glory but beyond reach at 5000 euros. My own may be late nineteenth century according to Lieven but kindness on his part probably means early twentieth

And finally, finally, the wonderful Blackbird [in Jan Van Eyckplein nearby] coffee shop with lunches and breakfasts and vast array of interesting teas thrown in, has won a  Hospitality Award for 2015 for the Best Coffee Shop in Belgium and the Most Friendly. I wrote about Blackbird soon after it opened in April because I was dazzled by its chic décor and then found what superb quality its coffee has, how yummy are the breakfasts, the apple pie, the iced teas .... I could go on. So, well done Blackbird.

 

 

Mini Blog

Must just do a mini post because I so enjoyed the time since the last blog a few days ago.

Met friends who were spending a few days in Gent to celebrate a birthday, to go out to lunch with them. Biting winds in Gent could not detract from the lovely feel of the place. I don't know Gent, and in a no doubt biassed way, I think it less pretty than Brugge. That said, it IS lovely with some splendid buildings and canals. What it does have which is less evident in Brugge, is a supremely youthful vitality; so many young people and trams crammed with them. The feel of a university town IS different; the energy is almost palpable and the speed of passers-by double that of citizens in an ordinary town! There's a joy, a light-heartedness around which is intoxicating. I had quite forgotten how much I love being around the young and can see how staid everyday life is here in Brugge. It being understood that Life is a trade-off, I still prefer at my age and stage, to live here. Damn! I meant never to become staid but staidness creeps up on a person unseen until some contrast throws a light and all is revealed!

 

The restaurant which my friends had found or rather been guided to find, was called Belga Queen, situated in a restored warehouse I think. The food was super but the atmosphere and the décor were very, very appealing.

I have attended two more events at the weekend of 12/13; Gastronomia in the prestigious Belfort and Dance by Jan Fabre. Gastronomia, a food festival, looked great; some super stalls with champagne, wine, beer, pate, sausages and hams, cheeses, pasta, oysters, Natural foods, jams and liqueurs. I had a great time and bought a number of products as well as sampling a new beer from a brewery set to open in central Brugge in April. All quality products but surprisingly poorly supported on the Saturday when I was there. Perhaps lacking sufficient publicity? It was certainly a delightful festival though chiefly unsung.

Later the same day, to the Concertgebouw to see a work by Jan Fabre, a famous European sculptor and choreographer. I did not enjoy it at all. Jan, co-creator, is keen on nudity and that was fine for me; one soon grows accustomed to breasts and penises moving rhythmically with the communal march. The nudity, the lack of narrative, perhaps the repetition, are all part of a certain rebelliousness against convention; the imagination, it is claimed, reigns supreme and the choreography is presented as the individual bravery of the performers who defy convention and scorn the need for a story. The first 45 minutes consisted just of lines marching and counter-marching; so boring that I had difficulty in the warm concert hall keeping awake. The accompanying thud of an insistent drum added to the drama in a way but became much more distracting as the volume increased and other huge and discordant sounds and instruments were added. For the last hour or so, my ears hurt and I felt a little nauseous; I concentrated on trying to reduce the impact of the noise while promising myself that I would never go to experimental dance performance again. I did appreciate that the pace of the action increased and changed but the huge and painful distraction of the accompanying sound took over, rather pushing any creative on-stage movement to the side-lines. I sprinted off as soon as the lights went up, amazed at the audience reaction; a standing ovation, cries of 'Bravo' and general joy unconfined expressed through wild applause. SO the good burghers of Brugge are not so staid after all and Jan Fabre's December Dance, with its 'warriors of beauty' was a success. Meanwhile, as an unelected, unknowing representative of the Old and Out Of Touch, I hurried off gratefully into the cool, quiet night to savour the joys of a solitary and silent walk home.

 

 



Looking back.

Funny old week, early part spent grappling with the mysteries of the Dutch tongue, for the last written test of this Level. I am still dumb in Dutch but the written is progressing sloooowly. This was relieved by a trip to the Lumiere to see Suffragettes which I much enjoyed. It reminded me forcefully of the poverty and deprivation of working class life a hundred years ago, endured as inevitable by my parents and grandparents. And it caused me yet again, to mourn the lack of interest in political voting by many, many young women today. Young men too no doubt, but the women's vote was won at such great cost by the bravery, foresight and endurance of the relatively few. Upper class suffragettes were chiefly regarded as a dotty embarrassment; working class girls were regarded as insane and morally unrespectable. Both layers experienced considerable societal disdain and exclusion and were treated as traitors by the police and Government. An enjoyable coda to the film was the long list of countries with the dates when each allowed the vote for women. The two most memorable were Switzerland, 1971 and Saudi Arabia 2015.

But, chiefly my mind has been on more superficial things, like illuminations! I love the 'trees' at the skating rink in the Markt and the way the real trees in Simon Stevinplein are graced with light. The Christmas market is a selling opportunity primarily but the expense and imagination involved in decking the already beautiful streets of Brugge with light, is breathtaking and imaginative. Apart from the occasional Gluhwein, I have bought nothing from the many little chalet/stalls but to walk through and among the crowds, experience the fun of so many and see the lights and sights, gives a very real sense of involvement and shared pleasure. It almost seeps in through the skin, and I return home, smiling.

 



On Friday morning, returning from a scalping by a master cutter on Gentpoortstraat to whom I had patiently and unsuccessfully explained again, exactly what 'trim' meant, I saw quite a sight. Next to the Vismarkt sat a man clad entirely in white, at a little round cloth-covered table on which sat an old-fashioned red telephone into which he was talking. There was no card of explanation nor begging bowl so he wasn't a first cousin of the living statues so beloved of tourists everywhere. Shortly after the picture below was taken, a fluttering, twittering flock of Japanese tourists descended delightedly on him, kissing him, stroking his cheek, taking off his hat and ruffling his hair while taking innumerable selfies and other photos. He seemed very happy indeed with the warm attention; his smile grew broader and his conversation into the red phone, more animated. It mattered not that the phone was unconnected. Passers-by were smiling and a grey morning was lifted.
 

 

Almost inadvertently, today I visited the Ice Sculptures near the Station. There was a long wait for a bus, Sundays being leisurely here, bus-wise, and so I took the opportunity to cross the few metres of cobblestones to go and look at Snow and Ice. Apparently forty artists have been involved in its creation, even more impressive given that the temperature is -5 Celsius. 300 tonnes of ice and 400 tonnes of snow were used to make the display and I have not the imagination to begin to understand how it was all accomplished. The thermal wooden tent, as it were, was full of excited families and even the ice bar in the middle of the coldest trail ever, had crowds around it. I hit a slack time I think as I only queued to enter for about then minutes and ....

 

then possibly achieved the fastest observer status as I sped through, desperate to exit for a large coffee in the station. It was seriously cold. The exhibition was and is, impressive.... but difficult to photograph! I have reduced the size of the two pics here as they look so unspeakably lurid though I don't think the original sculptures did! To be fair, my photographs don't do them justice. The time I spent in ice-gazing was so short that I was especially pleased that I now have my ID card and am old. These two attractive features reduced the entrance fee considerably, rather more in line with the time I spent in refrigerated viewing.

But I have been looking back also over earlier days after a significant death in the family a few days ago. It is good to live, as children do, in the here-and-now but memories, when stirred, also offer joys and reassurance as well as regret and pleasure. I have spoken to people, some of whom I hadn't spoken to for several years; distant relatives and near, reminiscing and laughing, sighing and reflecting, swapping memories redolent of the past with added resolutions to stay in future touch. But soon enough, the ripples on the water will widen and vanish, and the memories will be put back in store for occasional private reflection again.

So no blog for a few weeks; back, earlier than intended, to the UK on December 15th for the funeral and nearly three weeks in Britain, without my computer. I won't be going Ipad-less into that good night but don't think I can blog on that!

Robin Hood in Italy?

Went, as part of the Dutch course I am attending, to see Brabanconne, on Wednesday evening. It is a 'feel good' kind of film, not a great one but funny, slightly laughing at the Belgians [ the eternal Flemish v Walloon rivalry] and with a light-hearted script which slopes off into song from time to time. Charming. SNT, the educational group which organises lots of different language courses, plus special interests like photography, funds an annual week's film festival at the Lumiere cinema in town and a visit to one film is part of the Dutch course. Tried to understand the almost impenetrable Dutch dialogue but the French, spoken by the Walloon characters, plus sub-titles in both languages, were a great help.


While standing around waiting for the group to assemble to walk to the cinema some distance away, I was totally amused to spot a flyer labelled Robin Hood. As I was born in Robin Hood country and indeed, lived in Notts for about the first 34 years of my life, I have a certain proprietorial attitude towards this noble outlaw.  The flyer was entitled: Una Leggenda Veneziana: Robin Hood. I didn't recognise many of the cast but yes, there were Marianna, Frate Tuck and Zanni il Piccolo who, just possibly, might be Little John. A magical evening to remember is promised with ironia, gioia and musicalita. In the narrative on the reverse side of the publicity material, I see that Robin is described as 'nacque a Venezia' [born in Venice] and as Principe dei Ladri [Chief of the Robbers] but also as Il Salvatore dei Poveri, the Saviour of the Poor. The show [Lo Spettacolo], by Teatroimmagine will be in the Commedia dell'Arte style. Possibly this production is the result of some Italian course at SNT because its name is on the publicity but there are also the names of L'Incontro [the meeting], a group of 'amici dell'Italia a Bruges' plus 'Teatro Immagine'. I love the idea of the whole thing; so many little Italian eccentricities are endearingly dotty and it is a bonusissimo to find this in Beloved Bruges of all places! The images above show the Italian interpretation and the statue outside Nottingham Castle which depicts the more traditional view of the Outlaw in Lincoln Green who Did Good unto the Poor and frequently did battle with Alan Rickman, the evil Sheriff of Nottingham.

I went to see Brussels Jazz Orchestra on Friday evening not knowing what to expect. Was stunned by the size of the outfit; I don't think ALL the members of the orchestra were on stage but there must have been between 80 and 90 musicians; there were, for instance, at least eight of the listed ten cellists playing. The energy and expertise were impressive and the music, by

Ades, Ravel and Peter Maxwell Davies, was vigorous but [ did you feel a 'but' coming on?] it was just too overwhelmingly loud and not my [conservative] idea of Jazz. The music was described as being between Klassiek and Jazz and the audience certainly loved it. For the first time ever, I left in the interval, feeling a bit of a
Philistine.

The photograph above from the BJO website is chosen, not for its close-up clarity but in an endeavour to suggest the sheer size of the outfit!

The following evening, back to the super Concertgebouw to hear Le Banquet Celeste, unknown to me but impeccably Early Music. The leader of the group, Damian Guillon, is a counter-tenor and he and the guest soprano, Celine Scheen, were delightful. There was Vivaldi and Scarlatti and in the second half came Pergolesi's Stabat Mater which was exquisite. The Pergolesi was recently voted top of the
 favourites list by the audience of Radio Klara pushing aside Bach, the perennial choice.

It was a wonderful performance and my evening was made when I bumped into friends in the interval who also gave me a lift home. Rare treat to be in a car these days and able to escape the longish walk home in the cold and rain. I had done that the previous evening, thoroughly enjoying the Christmas lights and stopping off in the Markt, to buy a Gluhwein. The Markt was crowded but less than normal as sadly, many tourists have cancelled bookings for late November and December because of the Paris attacks and the strong Brussels connection and subsequent four day lock-down there. A friend who rang this week from Wye said the British papers all say how dangerous Belgium is. Such absurdity; it is no more dangerous than the UK and less so than London of course. Bruges in particular always feels so intimate a space and so safe; nothing has changed since the dreadful carnage in Paris.

Many thanks for this lovely photograph sent by my grandson Dan, taken when he was here last weekend. The three of us had been wandering among stalls of the Christmas market and were having a drink of Gluhwein I think, when he spotted an impeccable gentleman walking his equally dazzlingly sartorial dogs in the rain. He quickly photographed them with the ever-ready phone, my efforts with camera being much too slow. The dainty doglets were dressed with superb colour co-ordination and care and were quite unaware of the impact they had on the observer!