Viva La Musica!

A serious Spring clean is underway

I have now been living in Brugge long enough to attend an annual event for the second time, so I must be becoming quite a seasoned observer! In spite of Brexit and incipient old age, I hope to see many more such annual re-visits to many events.

 

Saturday 2^nd July saw the return of Taptoe which is a celebration of marching bands; I cannot think of another way to describe it. It isn't a competition but there is a succession of brass bands which do not simply play with great dexterity and musicality, [as in the UK] they also march while never missing a note, weaving patterns and creating waves and ripples of movement, astonishingly intricate often, and always aesthetically pleasing to watch. The bandsmen wear uniforms, military in inspiration; indeed the whole concept must come from a military background. It would be interesting to discover the pedigree of the marching bands movement but its foundation must surely be in the military.


Not any of the bands to which I have referred; this one
had the smartest, possibly slightly Ruritanian, uniform to add
to the gaiety of nations.
 

This year there were fewer bands; only four, and one boasted a sort of chorus line of girls, none of whom played instruments. They did various routines often involving very large flag-waving or baton-flourishing; they were dressed in bright, non-military style costumes, mercifully body-covering, but even so, there was a whiff of old-fashioned gender roles in that the female non-musicians seemed to appear solely for decoration or distraction. It didn't quite work for me; I prefer the traditional bands [chiefly male but not entirely] in their decorative but militarily-based uniforms. All four bands were very good indeed but the fourth one was outstanding, with a fearsome Sergeant-Major-type leader who could no doubt, curdle milk at forty paces. The drill-like precision of his troops was exemplary and the standard of musicianship, high! But hearts were touched by the first band which had a majority of adolescents and quite tiny children among the marching musicians. They were incredibly accomplished which seemed even more miraculous given that several players looked to be under ten years of age.



My companion and I had decided against sitting in the open, in the tiered gallery out on the Burg itself and chose instead to sit upstairs in Tom Pouce, the only restaurant actually on the Burg, in seats which afforded a marvellous view of the moving panorama below. There we had a super meal with warmth and comfort to enrich the viewing experience. And from that vantage point I noticed that there were three flags flying from the Stadhuis opposite; one for Belgium, one for Flanders and one for Brugge. The Belgians do love their flags!
 



Koor Vagantes Morborum led by
Bart Snauwaert

And today, the music continued; left at coffee time for the beautiful premises of BNP Paribas Fortis on Vlamingstraat nearby. Paribas is my bank; I wrote last year of its architectural beauty and I love the place, so that it was an additional pleasure to go there this morning [Sunday] to listen to the Koor Vagantes Morborum. The huge main hall was almost full when we arrived for the Aperitief Concert at 11.00; entitled Cesur, Viva La Musica, it offered a wide and interesting range of songs, mainly twentieth century though with An die Musik by Franz Schubert and Viva La Musica by Michael Praetorius 1571-1621. Bart Snauwaert was conducting in the absence of the regular choirmaster, Korneel Bernolet, who has kept the choir to an  amazingly high standard. It was a real pleasure to attend. I later discovered that Vagantes Morborum celebrated its Golden Jubilee last year after its origins in 1965 as a student choir which sang mainly to the patients in Bruges hospitals.

There are two other developments of note, chez Clayton; one is that the entire building in which I live, is being re-painted outside. We have been corralled by enormous scaffolding [see picture above] for about two weeks now, with no end in sight. One day, however, we will emerge from the spiky chrysalis, dazzling in our new-found, all-white beauty! The second, more personal, is that I have bought a gorgeous painting by Sigrid Tanghe; it is haunting, mysterious, ethereal as it hangs near my computer desk. It is the last splash of expenditure, post-Brexit, for some considerable time as sterling cowers before the dollar, and, more relevantly for my everyday life, the euro. I grieve for the comparative poverty coming, even as I worship at the feet of the new goddess nearby!

A Referendum, a Wedding and a Garden!

Xenophobic graffiti post-Brexit
[I remember the marvellous Polish airmen who fought for Britain in WW2]

A rather splendid few days in many ways threaded through with absolute despair at the result of the Brexit referendum. In spite of a beauteous garden and a low key wedding to visit at the weekend, the overwhelming sense of doom and bereavement have persisted. Disbelief, early Friday morning, with the helpless sensation of a veritable house of cards about to tumble down with no power to stop it or

mitigate against its worst effects. The awful realisation of the huge divide in the UK; the less educated, poorer, low paid, obsessed with EU 'regulation'  and UK supposed loss of sovereignty, plus huge fears over immigration, all confirmed to them by the right wing media and the Leave leaders' right wing ideology. This enormous part of the population feels dispossessed, ignored, overlooked and angry. Opposing views from Remainers came from Scotland, London [the financial powerhouse of the nation] and more affluent, educated pockets. As usual in the UK it is a class thing involving inevitably, income, education and culture. But perhaps more noticeably than usual, the old were ranged against the young in the saddest aspect of the whole exercise.

It is only Tuesday June 28, but already the UK has lost an A rating meaning more expensive Government borrowing, leading to more cuts in benefits, or more taxes or both, value of sterling has dropped; large international firms are talking of moving out; three banks have lost over a third of their value; punitive signs come from the remaining 27 EU countries who won't, and can't, make an exception to cushion the UK departure; the two main political parties are in meltdown with little governing being done and Labour in a particularly self-destructive frenzy. Fingers are crossed against recession which would mean more unemployment, more austerity. Added to which, there have been alarming, unpleasant and downright menacing xenophobic behaviours released with unashamed vigour. Suddenly this doesn't feel like Britain any more. Referenda don't exercise real democracy; the UK has the ancient Parliamentary democracy; referenda over-simplify and release pent-up tensions and dark hatreds, leaving division and incipient chaos.
 

14th century City Hall
 

Les Amoureuses

But to other distractions! The daughter of an American friend who was living in Brugge for seven months last year, got married the afternoon of the EU Referendum result. What a story! Jen came over to visit her Mom from Arkansas where she worked and after they had explored some of Europe, she stayed for three or four days in Brugge. They went out for a beer, sat at the bar, and a young man came in and sat next to the daughter. This was last October and on Friday last, they got married in the magnificent fourteenth century City Hall. She had given up her job and home, came over in early Spring, a brave, brave step for an American girl, and then experienced huge problems with the necessary paperwork from two different U.S. States. In fact, an American can only stay in Europe for 90 consecutive days and her paperwork permissions arrived almost at the wire; the wedding, hastily arranged, was two days before her 90 days were up! It was a joyous occasion indeed. The setting was superb, the sun shone [after two days' heavy rain], the bride and groom and guests, enjoyed the part Dutch; part English ceremony and afterwards we all drank champagne sitting in the sun, in the Burg near the statue of Les Amoureuses. Altogether a delightful afternoon following, for me, the dark beginning of the day!

 More pleasure was in store; on Sunday to the Kasteel van Oostkerke, a handsome building set in wondrous gardens, not far from Brugge. There remain some remnants of the Kasteel still from the fourteenth century, the moat is early too with the handsome round brick  towers also from the fourteenth century. Over the centuries there came warfare, looting, occupation and arson and in the 

Second World War, the Germans removed ancient beams from the Kasteel to use as fortifications against the advancing Allies thus desecrating the building. Immediately after the war dreadful flooding in the area completely destroyed the gardens too but in 1946 Baron van der Elst, the owner, commissioned the notable landscape designer, Mien Ruys, to redesign the ruined gardens.

Since then the gardens have been loved and tended by successive van der Elst owners and have come to be considered perhaps the most beautiful in West Flanders. There are several separate garden areas, [at times, reminiscent of Sissinghurst] a courtyard, and the long, wide rose garden, planted amusingly when we were there, with several metres of healthy-looking leeks among the luscious roses. There is also a marvellous vista looking down an avenue of tall trees, all arched to the right as if before the wind, to the focal point, the body of an old stone windmill. As a mellow, historic background stands the lovely old house garlanded at various points with climbing roses against the mature brick as if created by Nature not planted by hand. There is a feeling of plenitude, of abundant beauty and a sense of peace as the eye takes in the gardens, while the Polders beyond seamlessly extend the panorama.

Eutopia



A most interesting time was had on Monday morning last when three of us, English women, met by invitation with the editor of a regional newspaper called the Brugsch Handelsblad, in his Brugge office. Brexit or not to Brexit was the basis for a discussion in English incidentally reminding me again of the linguistic dexterity of the Europeans. Stefan took down notes on what we said, presumably translating later, unless, of course, he did instant translation as he wrote! Whichever, impressive!After our conversation, Stefan took us for a photo-call in front of the College of Europe, displayed to the right.

We didn't include a committed Brexiteer, all of us being fervently pro Remain, but Patricia, a retired barrister, claimed she could argue any case, and did! Our discussion lacked the anger and hostility of the public debate in the UK though I couldn't help noticing that together we were much better informed than most of the English to whom I have spoken in the UK or who I have heard giving their opinions in Radio 4 interviews. I don't mean the interviews with current affairs people, politicians, presenters, etc, who are well informed but some of whom choose to be bigoted or outrageously exaggerated in their pronouncements, but with ordinary people who claim not to have been given any facts or who just parrot prejudice about immigrants. Incidentally, the third member of our little group, works in the E.U. in Brussels and is, refreshingly, under 30. She was/is stunningly well-informed on Brexit, as is logical, but also heart-warming with so very many young British people apparently disinterested in politics in general, and E.U. membership in particular.
 

Though I thoroughly enjoyed our discussion it did serve to concentrate my mind on the In/Out

decision ahead and made me quite gloomy afterwards as I read again about the Brexit people being in the lead in the opinion polls. Turkeys voting for Christmas came to mind. Apart from my own warm feelings for Europe and my belief in the benefits of the UK being 
part of a much larger whole, the uncertainty over this question has already affected markets. In my own tiny example, my monthly transfer from my English bank account is now worth 400 euros less than a year ago. If the UK leaves, the result will not bring certainty for a long time; civil servants on both sides of the Channel will have to search for the best ways to unpick over forty years of European Union legislation and decisions. And the pound sterling will weaken immediately. All those economic organisations' forecasts can't be wrong!

The day of the UK poll, June 23rd, will see an evening labelled Eutopia hosting a discussion entitled To Brexit or Not To Brexit take place in a Political Cafe in Brugge when six politicians will  consider the topic. Inkom gratis as they say! I may not go as my Flemish is so tiny as to be useless in such a situation. But I am impressed that the event is taking place. Increasingly polarised standpoints have been rehearsed on the BBC radio and TV, sadly paused for three days out of respect for Jo Cox, the super young Labour M.P. who was murdered last week by an ultra right-wing fanatic allegedly uttering cries of 'Britain first', or similar. A frightening development in, and debasement of, the European debate. It added to the irritation, indeed anger,  I have increasingly felt towards David Cameron for calling a referendum in the first place. This has given the wholly predictable opportunity for an unnecessary dialogue of the deaf and unlimited space for xenophobia and uninformed jingoistic, isolationist claptrap to be provided. I am now going to lie down to recover from my vapours!

Think I will publish this now, on Tuesday 21st June, and add a victory roll or heartfelt lament, on Friday 24th. As one daughter's birthday is June 22nd and one grand-daughter's fifteenth on June 23rd, surely luck and a following wind are on my side?

Not so. In deepest gloom this Friday morning at the worst possible Brexit news. Just had angry email from oldest grandson including a graph showing that nearly 80% of youngsters up to 25 years of age voted Remain with the Leave red gradually overtaking the Remain blue as it progressed through the age range. So, a dreadful campaign in the UK and a result opting for the age-old solution of pulling up the drawbridge. After seeing several sessions on UK television I have idly wondered if the ferocity of the opposition to Remain, centred as that support is in London and the South East, doesn't also include quite strong anti-Establishment fervour. Wonder if Scotland might let me transfer my nationality to shelter under the tartan cloak?

On Ageing

I have just read a long newspaper article [Daily Telegraph. Sat 11^th June, 2016] on 'The Middlepause; On Turning Fifty' based on the eponymous book. I really admired the wonderful writing of Marina Benjamin though I was quite bemused by much of the anguish which she expressed. Bemused, principally, because I didn't remember experiencing those anxieties and sadnesses myself at such an early age. Of course, I have endured quiet losses and I do remember thinking that I really must get a Headship before I was fifty because, mysteriously, the task would become so much harder after that. That reflected the conventional wisdom mirrored in what one could see happening. But I don't recall any angst about declining appearance, thinning hair, memory problems. There must have been some but not enough to cause remembered agony. No indeed, but these unwelcome developments have presented themselves in my upper seventies. I can't say that I worry about them however and I certainly don't look at photos of the youthful me [I only seem to have one picture anyway!] and beat myself up over pointless comparisons. Why would anyone do that? So the Telegraph article and my subsequent bemusement, have caused me to ponder my own ageing, and my attitude towards it. Hence the Bruggeblog is temporarily metamorphosed into a spot of introspection!

Physically, the photograph I have of me-as-a-young-woman is lovely; interestingly, perhaps like

many young women, I now see, she had no idea just HOW beautiful she was. That realisation took about fifty years to percolate through and by then the potential power of it had waned or perhaps, disappeared. Not that I did not comprehend that the beauty I had, brought with it sexual potency and the constant feeling of entitlement to attention; it was more that I wasn't interested in exploring the extent of that power. I just took for granted all the easy, effortless attention I received in the street, restaurants, buses, meetings, work, play, parties, dances, Life. NOW I do notice the lack of attention I receive, the lack of physical interest I arouse, and have come to terms years ago with the fact that at almost 82, these pleasantries cannot be expected. However the invisibility of the old does concern me, in particular, of course, My Own Invisibility! It encompasses and reinforces the general view in society, of the relative unimportance of the aged, acknowledging their declining powers, of their lowly status, less equal to the rest in the citadel of Life, more languishing, somehow reduced, in the cellars; of their comparative worthlessness in the population balance sheet. I long to shout, and wave my temporary crutches, that the pretty girl is still there, swathed in sag and wrinkle perhaps, but still attractive in a certain kind of way and infinitely more interesting and well-informed than her younger self. The foot may be arthritic but the mind still works and the optimism and desire for fun are the same though the necessary energy is reduced. Not one of the many, many younger people who pass me in the street every day without a glance, could believe that I still regard myself as a sexy, attractive, beguiling woman. The response, if they heard that, would be disbelief, incredulity, hilarity. However, their responses would cut no ice with me; I know who and what I am and I have confidence in who and what I am!

Which leads me on to the sunnier aspects of ageing, the greener uplands beckoning. Confidence and belief in self are strong; an almost complete disinterest in the judgement of me by others is there with a keen interest in events and people around me locally and  in the further world. My expectation that people behave well, in spite of evidence to the contrary, bolsters my own self-regard and security, and contributes to my general sense of well being and optimism about the future. Gone are the ambitions of a previous professional life; replaced by more modest hopes of things I want to do or achieve or places I want to visit. I see my family relatively rarely but I feel in touch through emails and Face-time and intermittent visits, and through my family, I love and feel loved. I have few friends now where I live but left behind many where I lived in Kent for over thirty years and the latter, or some of them, keep in touch with news and memories. The friends here are becoming more special and perhaps increasing in number! And from them, and the kindly, day to day recognition and friendliness from local neighbours, owners and waiters in several cafes and restaurants and shops, comes a sense of belonging and a quiet mutual appreciation, providing beneficial reassurance that, in small ways, I matter and I belong. And it is the small ways that really do count now; the grander needs and gestures are long gone, no longer needed. The old become interested in the essentials of life.

 

The fact that I have voluntarily and cheerfully uprooted myself to live in another country, in another language, with other customs and norms, surprises some but not me. It is a tiny bit adventurous, a little psychologically daring, simply because there was no imperative externally so to do. I thought I would have a little adventure and gratifyingly, I find I have. And equally gratifyingly, not only is my life more fun, more challenging, more satisfying than my former, much-loved and much-enjoyed life, by chance, not by design, I find I am keeping the brain exercised and the body in reasonable shape [for my age!] Must comment that these parentheses are now so often implied; by doctors ['You're doing well (for your age)]; acquaintances and friends, [You're looking good [(for your age!)]; museum staff etc. But I am amused by, and rather like, all of that. They are scraps from the Top Table both well intentioned; and well-received!

As I may have mentioned [repetition can be a hazard!]I know who I am now; I am burdened with neither false modesty nor excessive arrogance. I know my limitations and my possibilities; I know that I can deal in a mature way with death, grief, sadness, regret. I know that I chiefly lack the capacity for envy and grudge and that my greed is modest and governable. I know that I live effortlessly in the present and take pleasure sometimes in remembrance of times past, or with others, in events from our shared history, or in a sudden idea for a future holiday or visit. I think I hardly need the approval of others but when it comes, it is a beautiful surprise and a reassurance I didn't know I needed. I do need other people; though I choose to live alone, I need to be with others at times, outside home, surrounded by others or at least in contact with others. Equally I need to be alone, with my thoughts, books, pictures, computer, terrace, familiar possessions, all of which provide nurture and delight. In the last few weeks, seven so far, I have spent the vast majority of the time, alone in my flat, and the pleasure experienced has been immensely enriching. Just to be, to read, to write, to look around, to sit, in a space that has become so dear to me, has reminded me of how very lucky I am. It is quite possible that living in the here and now, so beloved in counselling and therapy, has happened for me almost by chance; at least, almost without conscious intention. Just following one's instinct and expecting the best, seems to work! 

My conclusion is that ageing, that inevitable development, is, at the very least, OK. Set against the losses, there are compensatory gains; set against the diminishings there are new possibilities. And the inevitable physical and mental decline can be comfortably acknowledged, managed, mitigated, disguised when necessary! At least, so far. Dream on, some would say. And I do!

Crutches on cobblestones

Not so easy to write a blog when most of the time I am alone in my apartment. What do I do? Occasional bursts of studying Dutch! Quite frequent reading of War and Peace by Tolstoy, bought for post-operative therapy almost as a joke and a delight to discover that I don't want to put it down! Tolstoy is verbose, dwells rather too lingeringly on War, and on Freemasonry, and has lengthy

 Leo Tolstoy

discursive  deliberations on various facets of the period and subjects which interest him, BUT his narrative is compelling and his characterisation, superb. Unbelievably, after five weeks with only four of those weeks in his company and I am around halfway through the 1360+ pages, and painlessly too. More than that; I really enjoy his prose.

 

Nazi Brown-shirts in 1933 enforcing a boycott of Jewish stores

In addition to War & Peace, I have The Final Solution by David Cesarini, recently bought after a rave review in the New Statesman. Slightly taken aback when it arrived, to discover that it is over 1000 pages long though the narrative itself runs only to around 800. It is the story of the Jews in Germany from 1933 to 1949 and, though early days, it is riveting and incredibly informative. I had long wondered why German Jews didn't heed the dire warning signs before the onset of World War Two and now I realise how diffuse were the laws, and the official reactions, the apparent indecisions of the government set against the rampant anti-Semitic sentiments of the Nazis on the streets and in the ordinary population, especially in rural areas, released and encouraged deliberately

by the state which intermittently pulled back on its worst excesses as these negatively influenced everyday commerce. The author, David Cesarini, died during the publication process of this book but he has left a work of profound scholarship on, and insight into, what he called his 'reappraisal' of Hitler's Final Solution.

 Timeless Jan Van Eyckplein

Saturday, with friend and neighbour Michele, to buy a newspaper and to drink coffee and chat, not at Blackbird, in Jan Van Eyckplein, which had no room for us, but at the coffee place nearby. This proved to be first class and we sat long and discussed much on various topics including the UK Referendum which originally seemed to me to be an unnecessary sop to Cameron's right wing and which is backfiring anyway as the Conservative Party tears itself apart in increasingly bitter recriminations. It is such a gamble; the UK cannot afford the possibility of a quasi-economic wasteland if it casts itself off the moorings of the E.U. But I know so many people who really believe it is worthwhile going it alone because of the bureaucracy and because it actually believes that immigration is a) bad and b) Brexit will reduce numbers. Madness to put at risk a reasonably successful economy. It is amusing anyway, to hear commentators in favour of Brexit, like the boss of Witherspoon's, on Radio Four this morning, stumbling as he tried to find explicit examples of the alleged bureaucracy. There will be some but they do not seem as universal as the popular mythology suggests and so what? Remaining within the EU means fighting for change from a stronger position within, instead of waving, powerless, from outside.

And so, via continuing physiotherapy, to Tuesday's funeral for a certain friend's untimely death. There was a slight air of bewilderment that it was her funeral anyway, this healthy, lively 80 year old who cheerfully rode her bike everywhere and seemed to have lots of energy. A small crowd gathered at the Brugge Crematorium which is a most tranquil and green place to end one's journey. The service, put together by her three daughters, was really a sweet loop of memories from the family with several short apt readings by friends which would have been greatly enjoyed by the subject of the tributes! Afterwards, in her light-filled house, there was talk and laughter with the food and wine and an enchanting eight year old grandson 'handing round' plates and glasses in an impressively mature way. The best thing I heard was the slight boast of the home-schooled young man, that he had thirty three friends.

The funeral and wake afterwards, followed the three hour appearance of my much-missed cleaning girl, not seen since early March and hugely welcome. Thus, Tuesday was a particularly special day for the Physically Challenged One. And Wednesday even better; for an Xray then a final examination by the surgeon who gave me the go ahead to try to walk as much as possible. The final flourish was to board the No 13 bus to town and walk what seemed the endless distance from near the Stadtheater on Vlamingstraat home. I took the precaution of telling the driver when I would want to get off and asked him to give me plenty of time with the crutches! He did; the Bruggean bus drivers are marvellous!

Since then, out to lunch on Thursday at Trium on Academiestraat nearby and quite a long walk to the Biekorf, the Library to read The Times. An hour's rest and off across the square to the Oud Huis Amsterdam to meet some of the Thursday English group; always a real pleasure. This was a Busy Day for anyone  physically-challenged!

Innocence

Greetings from my smaller world! That is, from the world inside my apartment; going out is a tremendous effort so it is rare and only when necessary. Yesterday to AZ Sint Jan, the hospital in Brugge for a check-up on The Foot which, despite being much larger than normal, is healing well. The image, left, is a reminder of the beauteous treachery of cobblestones for crutches; cobblestones, may I remind, are normally one of the most admired characteristics of Brugge, normally being the operative word.

I was amused, while awaiting the surgeon's critical eye, to read in my current New Statesman, that the Remain campaign in the UK is cribbing from the Ireland same-sex referendum, the same strategy to win over older women. Obviously, it goes without saying, that I am already a huge supporter of Remain, feeling European to the core, but the strategy is for young people, who back a Remain vote by large margins, to 'Talk to Gran' by writing to, or emailing, their grandmothers to encourage them to vote to stay in the E.U. [Research shows that this approach does not work with elderly men!] I realise that I haven't sounded out my grandchildren on Vote Leave/Remain so am about to launch a free Listen to Gran emailing service to five of the six grandchildren [No. 6 is only five years old and lives in the U.S.A. at present] encouraging them a) to vote and b) to vote Remain. Surely, this will be infallible!! Incidentally, en passant, one does wonder why Jeremy Corbyn hasn't thrown his shoulder to the EU Remain wheel with more passion. Being in Europe is part of voting Labour, I think, but his tepid statements on Europe rather echo the pale political performance he has exhibited so far.

And on the topic of Europe, I was thrilled to see, on May 8 and 9, the European flag flying from the Belfort tower in Brugge to celebrate the anniversary of the end of World War Two. Do wonder if flag-flying featured in Blighty and if so, would it have been the Union Jack or the much more appropriate flag of Europe waving in the breeze? Interesting times.

Two days after the hospital visit, an old friend of my husband's arrived. Derek does a little month-long UK tour every year [from the Boston area in the U.S.] which used to include Wye, where Eric and I lived, but which also includes a trip to Germany to see old colleagues who have become 'like family'. Since last year the German visit has included Brugge for a long weekend. After one first dinner, prepared with the aid of my now-beloved zimmer, we ate out nearby, with me choosing crutches over the slightly lowly wheelchair as transport; this was chiefly in deference to Derek's age [89] and the fact that he had mentioned in another context, that he gets rather out of breath going up small hills these days!

Felt quite triumphant as we 'strolled' up Genthof to buy a newspaper and drink a lengthy coffee at Blackbird, the award-winning coffee and lunch place in Jan Van Eyckplein, about fifty metres away! Saturday passed in an enjoyable haze of reading the Daily Telegraph, my usual Saturday treat, [never thought I would write that!] reminiscing, drinking coffee and later, beer, sitting on my sunny terrace and eventually, early evening, retracing steps courtesy of the crutches beyond Blackbird a little way, to Trium, my son-in-law's favourite pasta place. In my present state, this passes as a whirl of activity.

And another was to follow on Sunday when we tottered down Genthof towards the canal, to Terrastje, tucked into a corner facing the canal and where we were warmly welcomed by Ian [ a Brit] and Patricia [Dutch with perfect English] Derek and I had a marvellous sort of fish stew called Waterzooi with a Brugse Zot, a local beer and returned home for a short rest before partially re-tracing our steps to the Galerie Pinsart which had a vernissage on Sunday afternoon for a water colour artist called Sigrid Tanghe. There was an introductory viol recital by Gunda Gottschalk which was loudly applauded but which I found not to my taste. Loved the paintings which were rather dreamy, insubstantial echoes of images, strange and touching at the same time. Right is Sigrid Tanghe's Deerwoman, Hertenvrouw, which is sooo enigmatic and touches the soul.

 

And so to home and for me, post-crutches fatigue, while Derek valiantly re-packed for perhaps the twentieth time since leaving home a month before. After he had left next morning early, I thought about the past three days and how we had managed to carpe diem pretty well in spite of ageing and surgery. That motto, Carpe diem, my motto in fact since my husband died, surfaced again in my mind when I learned later that day that a friend in Brugge, a couple of years younger than I, had died after suffering a catastrophic brain haemorrhage on Saturday. 

 Below is another shot of my newly-acquired Innocence to remind of the wisdom of Seizing The Moment.

m

Blogadoodledo!

And now to end the silence on the blog front, self-imposed because of pressure of other activities.

April 27^th operation on left foot with normal walking expected to resume in two to three months. SO now equipped with wheelchair, zimmer and crutches plus huge special protective boot. From an overnighter in hospital, to De Haan, an absolutely charming little seaside town, for revalidatie, or convalescence. The home is in the middle of the delightful Art Deco area of the town and Dunepanne [the home] is super; chic, elegant, with lovely food and staff. So why did I cut and run [metaphorically speaking] six days after arrival instead of staying for the whole fortnight I had booked? 'Twas boredom, dear reader. Fifty residents, all recovering from something, and amiable in the extreme, but fluent Dutch and some

fluent French meant conversation for me was a tad limited though good intentions and interest were there aplenty. Virtually no wi-fi in the bedrooms but centred in the bar, where it was variable, meant I did feel a little frustrated at my inability to send and receive messages though no other resident minded much as only one other appeared to have an Ipad though one younger man homed in on the single computer every morning during his few days there.

So after the compulsory visit to the hospital in Brugge, I came home with a darling ambulance man who waited for me for over an hour and a half at A Z Sint Jan's and then carried up my case and made sure I was home and dry. DO like the health service here; one pays, modestly, then has around three quarters re-imbursed, with quick and efficient medical service. Once home, I tottered around the flat on the zimmer looking and checking, then through to the terrace and it was just the best feeling to be back. I put on a CD and sat lounging, absorbing the sights and sounds both in the flat and outside, on the terrace and in Woensdagmarkt. It was rejuvenating and nourishing neither of which the alternative had been.

A couple of days later, son David arrived to do my bidding!

Always a treat to have the luxury of an adult child alone staying, however lovely the partner. For the last week until three days ago, I was able to go out with him, shopping for stuff for the terrace, going out to lunch, attending a concert, going to the bank, though occasionally felt ridiculous being wheeled around prior to the fumbling and hopping around involved with crutches. I especially enjoyed a day in Damme, about four kilometres up the canal, though we went by car on the road adjacent to the water. First, there was the monthly seasonal Book Fair on Damme market from where I have bought several books in the past few months. Had an interesting chat with one stall holder who had retired from running a large print shop and, loving books, started to sell them to fund the acquisition of his five grand-children's sports gear! Then came the journey to find a restaurant with a space for two; many, most, were booked up it being a Sunday and the weather blissfully inviting. We eventually found a pavement-side place and enjoyed a super meal with a local beer new to me. [Name has escaped due to lack of pre-organisation, that is, I had forgotten to pack the usual pen and little notebook in the excitement of Going Out.]

After lunch to Damme church for an afternoon mandolin orchestra concert, conducted by friend Luc.

We had time to look around the exhibits in the church, a small part of a large exhibition in Damme, before the excellent concert, and I enjoyed again the lovely, haunting faces by Nadine Callebaut whose work I had come across in a previous exhibition in the Belfort last year. Yet another artist whose exquisite paintings are out of my reach, not an existential condition suffered by the likes of Victoria Beckham one assumes. But, c'est la vie Averil!

 

The major exhibition, Madammen in Damme, included works by more than 50 artists exhibited in eleven different locations in what is effectively a pocket-sized village [stunningly beautiful too] and we visited only four as the effort was considerable! But it was enough to judge the range of works from relatively modestly-talented artists to many at the opposite end of the talent continuum. 

After the concert, David manfully pushed me around to several spots looking to find the sculptures of Annie Vanlerberghe after whose work I have lusted for several years! Her sculptures are increasingly in bronze and thus too expensive for me to buy but one can have dreams! 

 

Eventually the gorgeous green space of the garden of Kristoffelhoeve was discovered and I swung my way around Annie's exhibits which did not disappoint. Interestingly, among the desirable bronzes were three terracotta statues and I lingered long, balancing on the crutches, pondering, my nose quivering slightly like the pointer in search of prey. In the end I bought one of the three and felt excited that I had done so, experiencing quite a little burst of personal power as opposed to the comparatively undignified powerlessness of the invalid state!! So this acquisition is not only about art appreciation but also about reasserting my independence, I suppose!