Brugse Belofte

 

Every year, the Procession of our Lady of the Blind, Brugse Belofte, [Bruges' Promise], passes through the streets of Brugge. It honours a vow made after a battle, [one of many] between Flanders and France in 1304, the Pevelenberg, two years after the famous Battle of the Golden Spurs. To fulfil this vow, the Bruggelingen offer a votive candle to Our Lady of the Potterie Chapel, on the Potterierei, at ten o'clock on the morning of August 15. Before the ceremony, the pilgrims, dressed in authentically-reproduced historical costumes and signalling their approach to the insistent beat of

drums, slowly cross the centre of the city to Our
Lady of the Potterie for the dedication of the candle and a Mass, before processing back to the Chapel of Our Lady of the Blind in Kreupelenstraat, off the Smedenstraat. It is described as a small procession but the costumes in mediaeval style and the other accoutrements like weapons typical of the era, banners, huge cart and monumental wooden ship are impressive and colourful. I was delighted to learn, as we watched, that the blue-hooded stalwart who, as Robrecht van Bethune, Earl of Flanders [Graaf van Vlaanderen], read from a manuscript the announcement of the vow, is actually named Boudewijn van Vlaanderen in real life today. Could anything be more apt?! I only know this privileged information as he is on the same Cultural Council as two friends!

It is always impressive to consider the organisation behind these religious processions and to witness the seriousness of those taking part. As a Church annual ritual, it appeals to a wide spectrum of people from believers to mere onlookers, including  many tourist spectators. I noticed yesterday, a distinguished be-suited gentleman discreetly signalling and beckoning to the participants in the procession, for them to stop and move. It was an almost invisible direction which helped to keep the whole enterprise moving smoothly.

 I have a fondness for the Chapel of Our Lady of the Blind because some young German friends, who attend the August MA Festival each year, gave me a surprise birthday concert there for my seventy fifth birthday and another two years ago for my eightieth . So I love the place and its Baroque organ. On Tuesday last a guest, also from Germany and a teacher, Church organist and composer, gave me an impromptu concert in the Blindeken for about forty minutes. It was a wonderful Thank you gesture which I loved. Alain said how difficult it had been for him to play a Baroque organ, so different from his own in Cologne, and opened my eyes a little as a non-musician, to the extra complexities there may be in instrumental music. He is a gifted musician and organist but, nevertheless, to change instruments presented further challenges. 

I always wince at the Mediaeval, or earlier, lack of political correctness at the street name of Kreupelenstraat, Cripples' Street, in which the Chapel of the Blind finds itself. As Belgian friends don't comment, I conclude that the sometimes excessive tendency to political correctness in the UK is closer to American sensitivities than to European. However, that said, I love the historical pageant and continuity of names, festivals, processions, events in Belgium and the authentic connections and longevity they present. And the mediaeval name for the street simply reflects the societal norms of that period.

As a P.S. to the above and totally unconnected with it, must mention the lovely sights and sounds as I walked home from the MA Festival final concert last Saturday, at about 23.30. It was the annual Benenwerk [literally translated as 'Legwork'] which is a free Dance Festival at various sites and with different styles of dance. There were 13 varied styles from Disco to Burlesque to Latino, complete with live music, DJs etc, and the crowds of locals and tourists enjoying themselves around the streets and no doubt in the various chosen venues, was such fun. Pity my energy was spent but it was quite life-enhancing to see and to hear. I am seriously impressed with the number of free events which go on, especially during the summer; in August and July for instance there were lots of free concerts in the Burg, the Markt, the inner courtyard of the Belfort. All, one imagines, financed by the wealth generated by the millions of tourists who visit here. Numbers visiting have reduced this year because of the Brussels and Paris atrocities and the hope is for a gradual resumption of the normal volume. In the meantime, those who do come can enjoy the Bruges ' music and dance, together with the younger residents every August.

William Caxton





William Caxton in stained glass,
Guildhall, London

As mentioned in last week's blog, I went to the City Archives to see if I might find the area of Brugge in which William Caxton lived. I found nothing about that but did discover lots about him of which I knew nothing. My interest had been aroused because someone told me he had lived in Brugge, quite possibly in 'my' area, a mercantile district in mediaeval times, though there is nothing to authenticate that at all. I spent a happy two hours plus in the City Archives and the historian in me cannot resist sharing a brief biography of the man who printed the first English book in the world, and in Bruges to boot!
 

Margaret of York
Third wife of Charles the Bold
Sister of Edward IV

William was born around 1422 in the Weald of Kent and went to London at 16 to become apprenticed to a merchant; he was later sent to Brugge, where English merchants had a settlement, the English Nation, controlled from London by the Merchant Adventurers. Here he became a successful and important member of the merchant community during a stay of some thirty years in Flanders, mainly in Brugge. From 1462 to 1471 he served as Governor of the English Nation of Merchant Adventurers which allowed him to represent his fellow merchants as well as act as a diplomat for the King of England, Edward 1V. As this important representative of English interests, he became inextricably connected to a wide circle of administrators, diplomats and members of the nobility. He was especially active in the negotiations leading to the marriage in Damme in July 1468 of Edward 1V's sister, Margaret of York ,to the Burgundian Duke, Charles the Bold. Caxton subsequently entered into some form of service with Margaret.

15th century Cologne

Caxton was dismissed from his Governorship in 1471, an act probably associated with fluctuating political allegiances in England where the then King, Edward 1V, had been temporarily deposed. William went into exile to Cologne for eighteen months and it was there where he learned about printing. Thus, he cannily transformed his misfortune in Brugge, developing it into an important turning point in his life. He already had strong connections with the merchant community in Cologne and through its members, became acquainted with the men who had introduced the revolutionary art of printing to Cologne in 1466, developing it into a thriving industry. It could boast several outstanding practitioners of the art and Caxton, ever the astute merchant, decided to take part in this expanding enterprise and published three substantial books in Latin, aimed at the lucrative Cologne market.


A page from Caxton's 1474 edition of
The Recuyell of the Historye of Troye
[British Library]



When he returned to Flanders at the end of 1472, Caxton had found his new direction; he determined to print books in English and the first was his translation of the Recuyell of the Historye of Troye, by Raoul Lefevre which appeared in 1473/4, printed in Bruges. The trade of printing was strictly controlled in Brugge; only members of the Guild of Sint Jan were allowed to print; only citizens of Brugge could become Guild members. Therefore Caxton had to find an approved associate; the pre-eminent printer of the day in Brugge was Colard Mansion and although there is no historical evidence to prove a partnership, it is highly likely that it was to Mansion that Caxton turned. Mansion's life is extensively documented and thus it is known that he rented a shop adjoining Sint Donaas's Church in the Burg [now the Crowne Plaza Hotel] which is the nearest to discovering Caxton's house as one can get! The first one reads of Caxton's premises is the space he rented in Westminster Abbey in 1476 when he had moved back to London.

Caxton printed around 100 books renowned for their craftsmanship and careful editing; many of them were translated by him. By common consent, the most prestigious books Caxton printed were considered to be The Canterbury Tales and Mort Darthur. He was  multi-talented: a translator, diplomat, importer of books into England; printer but essentially, he was a highly successful merchant whose major enterprise of printing in English, and of printing the first book ever in English, has ensured his immortality.  

 Page from Caxton's The Canterbury Tales



 15th century printing press.

 Presentation copy of The Recuyell of The Historye of Troye
showing Caxton giving the first copy to Margaret of York

 

 

Eighteen months later

Unbelievable that it is already 18 months since I arrived in Brugge, to change the narrative of my life. The speed with which elderly time passes is yet another illustration of the deeply unfair odds stacked against the more mature! However, if one is lucky enough to jump over the Channel and fashion a new life, then one can afford to be insouciant about these minor travails.

Last week was A Birthday which I still enjoy celebrating. Having no kith or kin to hand as I am a few hours' effort away, I entertained several girl friends from the Wednesday morning coffee group I meet at Hotel Martin's [It has the grand title of the International Women's Club I now learn!] for coffee and a look around the estate it being too wet to actually sit on the terrace.

Then my English Group which meets to drink beer and coffee on Thursday evenings, [secondary purpose] and to chat in English, [primary intention] came for the same purpose to my flat nearby, bringing bouquet, champagne and wine. Just delightful and a great way to mark the passing of another year. A week later I have just had a few more girl friends round for coffee for belated birthday wishes; this was a flagrant act of spreading a party further than its weight could carry it, but it worked a treat.

 Justin Taylor, young French harpsichordist
playing Forqueray & Fils 11 Aug. 

And now the MA Festival is almost here; the annual reason why Eric and I came on the annual pilgrimage to Brugge from 1989 though he had then been following it for at least twenty years. MA = Musica Antiqua and it is Early Music in many forms and guises. It was rather like a religion to us as we returned, year after year, as it still is to the group of young Germans, and the Dutch couple who also come every year and with whom I have become firm friends. It is slightly harder to go to all the concerts as Eric and I did, [and later I continued, solo] though I manage most. It is a little different when one lives here; there are other imperatives but mostly the pattern-as-usual continues. Concert-going in abundance; long conversations in bars and cafes with due reverence paid by all to the wondrous Belgian beer; one luncheon party at a flat on Schaarstraat hosted by the boys and one hosted by me, in the past, wherever I had laid my head. Now held in my apartment but last year, the first in my own accommodation, I chose to serve Brunch and not Lunch in deference to the reducing energy and the increasing disinclination to drag large amounts of food along cobbled streets in my caddy. Brunch-with-bubbly worked beautifully and engendered more time and energy for other things. This annual prolonged get-together between Belgian, German, Dutch and English is much anticipated and enjoyed by us all; it has become an affirmation of friendship and continuity. It is one of the high spots of my year. Prima!

Yesterday I went to the City Archives in the Burg to follow the trail of William Caxton and had a marvellous time. I shall write about William next week but for now must record the hushed pleasure of visiting the Archives; the scholarly intent of people studying; the interested kindness of the woman on desk duty who helped me fill in forms, found me books, introduced me to the computer in the reading room and made me feel entitled to her help! The Archives are placed in the oldest part of the Palace of the Liberty of Bruges in the Burg from where the extensive rural hinterland around Brugge was governed from the eleventh century to 1795 when the Liberty itself was dissolved under the occupation by the French republic during the Revolutionary Wars. The Palace then served until 1984 as the Courts of Justice for Brugge and the archives were moved there in 1988. In the sixteenth century the Liberty of Bruges was governed by a burgomaster and 24 aldermen and the former Aldermen's Chamber is now a museum containing, among many artefacts, the monumental fireplace of the Liberty of Bruges.

The old archives contain most of the city's administrative records from the late 13th century and thus all the surviving documents produced by the City government between 1280 and 1795 are there. The modern archives, available for viewing by the public, date from 1795 to the present day. Nothing could better illustrate the astonishing continuity, despite wars and occupation over the centuries, of this city of Brugge. Wherever I turn, I seem destined to be dazzled!





Panorama of Brugge Grote Markt
to celebrate my 18 months here.

A Wound which will never heal

 The original cross in memory of Peter Kollwitz

I didn't mention two important visits for me last week, during my birthday outing to WW1 sites in Belgium; one was to the German Military Cemetery near Diksmuide. I had only once visited a war cemetery years ago, with Eric my husband, to find his uncle's grave 'near Poperinge'. With the help of the War Graves Commission, he had discovered the grave was in Canada Farm Cemetery and I remember how impressed we both were at the immaculate state of maintenance there; graves looked newly washed and the grass, cut by nail scissors. And I remember how moved he had been at the sight of the grave stone identifying his uncle's remains, the uncle who had died two years before Eric's birth and whom Eric had often heard mourned and remembered by his grandmother.

 One of over 50 self portraits

I am an admirer of Kathe Kollwitz, a German-Jewish artist born in 1867 who died two weeks before the end of the WW2 in April 1945. I had long wanted to see her pair of statues, The Grieving Parents, sited in the German Military Cemetery in Vladslo, near the plaque
recording her son, Peter's, death in 1914. I had first met her work when I stayed in Cologne in 2009 and visited the Kathe Kollwitz Museum. Over her long life she produced etchings, woodcuts, drawings, lithographs, sculptures, beginning her studies at the age of 12. After her marriage to a doctor, Karl Kollwitz, in 1891, and their move to live in a working class area of Berlin, she quickly became interested in his patients, poor  artisans and labourers and their families, who fascinated her and excited her empathy. Even more important than her concern at their plight, she also found them aesthetically beautiful. For the rest of her life, she focussed on depicting the poor and dispossessed, the peasants and labourers, the struggling members of the proletariat.

Her second son, 19 year old student, Peter, joined the army immediately war began, in 1914 and was killed two months later in October 1914 in Flanders. After suffering what she called, 'a wound which will never heal' Kathe's life-long intermittent depression re-surfaced on this unbearable loss. She determined to create a memorial to her son and all the other sons who had died and started work almost immediately but was repeatedly dissatisfied with the result. She continued her efforts for the next five years before putting the idea on one side. Eventually the sculptured portraits of her and her husband, The Grieving Parents, were finished [1931] and went on exhibition in Berlin before being mounted near Peter's grave in Vladslo.

After the rise of Hitler, predictably the Nazis did not approve of her art, labelling it 'decadent' and she had to resign from her job as Professor at the Akademie der Kunste in 1933 and was threatened with arrest and deportation with her husband in 1936 although her, by now, international reputation ensured that this did not happen. Her husband died in 1940 and their Berlin apartment, to which they moved after their marriage, was bombed in 1943 when many of her works were lost.

Last week the Vladslo WW1 cemetery proved to be a continuing haven of peace; beneath many trees over an extensive grassland, are placed low square plaques, lying in neat, soldierly lines on the ground, each with ten names incised on the stone. An amazingly lively 90 year old lady caught up with us, as we wandered towards the Kollwitz statues; she lived 'next-door' but clearly considered herself the custodian as she explained there were 11,000 names recorded there and she pointed out where Peter Kollwitz's name appeared. The Grieving Parents stand at the far end of the huge plot, opposite the entrance, in poignant mourning pose; they are monumental images of grief and self-reproach; self-reproach for the guilt felt by so many grieving parents for their encouragement to their sons to volunteer to fight for the Fatherland. It is an incredibly moving portrayal of grief, regret and loss.

 Vladslo Cemetery looking towards the Kollwitz statues

After Vladslo came Poperinge to see the long-awaited Talbot House which did not disappoint although the good idea of creating a B& B there to ensure continuing income was somehow marred. The stylish glass addition, now housing the Talbot House museum, would have been great adapted for accommodation leaving the original House updated, renovated but still authentic. One can look around some of the guest house and toil up the vertiginous climb to the attic chapel, while the exhibition in the glass extension is really interesting with a marvellous video of a WW1 soldier

chatting to camera for twenty minutes, beautifully done. And the huge garden is simply an oasis of green curved restorative peace. Tubby Clayton's dream of making a sanctuary for war-torn men of all ranks was incredible and inspired and the exhibition conveys that powerfully. I mean to tell Dr Van Reyninghe, my downstairs neighbour, of my visit to Talbot House; he persists in believing I am related to Tubby Clayton and occasionally pops an article on him through my letter box.

Part of the glorious garden of Talbot House;
 glass extension on the right.

The trip to the WW1 battle area was an early birthday treat, not the jolliest of subjects perhaps but a day for me to treasure. We dined in a quiet courtyard backwater in one of the many restaurants and cafes lining the large sunny square in Poperinge where the busy-ness and colour made it impossible to imagine the unspeakable horrors happening around it one hundred years ago. I wonder if it will take another hundred years to restore Syria and Libya to their erstwhile vitality and beauty?

One last brief call to the John McCrae War Cemetery, just because we were near. John, who died in 1918, was the Canadian doctor who wrote the immensely moving, 'In Flanders Fields' thus single-handedly making the abundant poppy the enduring symbol of self-sacrifice in war.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row

That mark our place: and in the sky

The larks, still singing, bravely fly

Scarce heard above the guns below.



National Day

A friend sent the above image to me this week and it has star billing because it made me laugh so much. Just love it. Cannot imagine where the original notice was displayed but the spray-painted addition underlines the subtle truth contained therein!

 

July 21^st is the National Day, a big feestdag for the country. I was intrigued enough about the day to wonder why and from where it came, the English hardly having a National Day unless one counts St George's Day which is barely celebrated. Belgium, as such, has existed only since 1830/31 when, following the example of yet another French revolt, the southern provinces of United Netherlands rebelled against Dutch rule. There was political alienation as well as economic and religious disparities involved and the Dutch were expelled, giving Belgium de facto independence. A National Congress was formed, a Constitution written and the decision made to adopt a constitutional monarchy with its implicit suggestion of political stability, rather than a republic which might have frightened the horses in foreign governments. The aftermath of mob rule after the French Revolution in 1789 still cast a long shadow.

Street entertainers in Brussels on July 21st 2016

SWAT team on duty, a new feature of this year's parade

Congress invited Leopold of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, a German aristocrat, to be the first King of the Belgians on June 4 1831 and he was crowned on 21 July 1831. He vowed to accept the Constitution and his coronation date thus became the first National Day of Belgium. Usually in Brussels, there is a church service, a review of the army and police with a flypast by the air force and various stalls publicising and explaining the roles of the military, civil defence, emergency services and other government departments. Notable public buildings, normally closed to the public are open and there is a variety of street entertainments and firework displays available. I have discovered, after the event, that this year, unusually, several members of the Belgian Royal Family did not attend the official service and celebrations in Brussels owing to family disagreements. Astonishing to the British outsider here; could not imagine any Royal rift being made so publicly obvious in the UK. Prince Philip and Diana used to manage to appear, smiling, on the Buck House balcony, despite mutual loathing. I then discovered that several leading Flemish politicians also chose to absent themselves as a potent protest; their party would like independence for Flanders.
 

Many smaller cities and towns have celebratory events; in Brugge there are free concerts in the Markt where hundreds gather in the cafes and restaurants ringing this central point and thousands more stand shoulder to shoulder in the Markt itself, drinking coffee and beer. Happily there seems not to be the culture here of drinking to oblivion or even, to real excess, and, noticing this has made me consider the good points of living in this young country. Top of the list must be the absolutely first class health service for which one pays, but so little that it is enough to incur responsibility in the users while being easily available to all, with financial help for the poorest. Perhaps the most striking aspect of life here, taken for granted, indeed barely noticed, by the natives, is the lack of serious disparity in wealth. Taxes are very high but this seems not to breed much resentment, rather a quiet pride in the very real benefits which exist for every citizen and the relative social equality it confers.

Two days stand out during my past week; the annual Beelden in Het Witte Dorp, the outdoors sculpture exhibition in Lissewege, one of the prettiest of many pretty villages in West Flanders [and often referred to as the White Village from its many white-painted houses] It is about 8 kilometres from Brugge. Much of the display is on the huge grass area at the side of the 12 ^th century barn, itself a wonderful historical survivor but there is a large display in the church itself. The church is of almost cathedral-like proportions and is rumoured to have been financed by the Knights Templar, a
notion largely based on the little mystical head, perched high in the rafters, called Baphomet. I know no more than that!  Lissewege, church and village, is an idyllic setting for an important and interesting exhibition full of challenging pieces, often irreverent and eccentric.

 

The second day was yesterday when I received a great early birthday present of a car trip [amazing how the occasional outing in a car assumes important proportions when one no longer has a car!] to some of the WW1 sites in Belgium  crowned with a lovely lunch in Poperinge. My own energy, or lack thereof, shortened the day somewhat so we didn't make it to the Last Post at the Menin Gate but breath was caught at Diksmuide where the memorial tower told a story I had not heard before. The second tower built after 1946, to the dead of both world wars, has AVV and VVK writ large in the form of a cross near its summit. In front of it stands the remnants of the first WW1 tower dynamited in secret in March 1946 by anonymous desecrators. It was experienced as a huge insult to Flanders and the Flemish; the apparently inexplicable act, almost a year after WW2 hostilities had ceased, was interpreted as an assault by Belgians, not outsiders, seeking independence, and still arouses strong emotions today. One of the less successful aspects of the Belgian state is the ethnic tension between Flemish and Walloon which is signalled in the linguistic differences and the elaborate civic and governmental arrangements put in place to accommodate the uneasy relationship within what is, effectively, an artificial, that is to say, a man-made state. I would not go as far as the leader in the New Statesman last week, describing Belgium as a failing pseudo-state but it is a country of uneasy political tensions. Everyday life here is, however, super!

 Alles Voor Vlanderen; Vlaanderen Voor Kristus

The original tower, mainly demolished in March 1946

 

Nuns are this week's feature!

I am definitely walking more and with less grotesque movement! Prolonged physio continues but now have added a daily anti-inflammatory which seems to be making a difference. Thus I was able to stagger to have my nails done yesterday, a walk which took 35 minutes one way, but which enabled me to feel that things were returning to normal. Long live the day, not too far ahead, when I can return to the daily swim; the only impediment [an appropriate word in this case] is the short ladder, flush up to the tiled wall, which I must clamber up and down; probably could get into the pool, but the exit would more problematic at present.

I found a friend as I walked home one day this week from the kinesist, the physiotherapist, and we returned to Woensdagmarkt by a slightly different route thus passing the little convent next door to my building. I have long admired its architecture, the sound of the lovely hourly little bell and the tantalising corner of its garden, visible on tiptoes from my terrace. I have also fantasised about knocking on the door to ask if I might see the garden but never have, thinking it almost certain that the nuns would not speak English. I mentioned this to my friend and suggested he might ask for me so we rang the intercom and he explained our request. The elderly voice was hesitant, clearly not too happy but he managed to persuade her and the sister allowed us reluctantly in. He and she chatted, he, an elderly Bruggeling, giving a fine performance of interest in the convent itself, while I wandered around the delightful garden admiring its gorgeous flowers, especially the hydrangeas lining one old wall, and the neat clipped little hedges and the high standard of loving care expended on it. I have seen from my terrace eyrie, one nun tending the garden and also an elderly male gardener, but whoever cares for it, loves it. The tranquillity envelops one. I commented to the friend that it would be a marvellous idea for the nuns to allow it to become a community space for quiet contemplation for neighbours, available during the day, but he declined to translate that to the sister.

Until I saw the sign outside the front door as we left, 'Ter Castaegneboom.... Zwartzusters van Bethel'


The indefatigable Sister Constance Foulon



I had not joined up two obvious facts. Of course, these were the descendants of the mediaeval sisterhood who had occupied the enormous convent and hospital along one side of the square which is Woensdagmarkt, since the fourteenth century. Then it was known as the Klooster van de Zwartzusters and the nuns cared for the sick in their own homes. Many nuns were given bed and board in aristocratic homes to look after, often, single patients and this custom developed in accordance with 'the natural order' of life in Brugge. I have discovered that in 1926 when Sister Constance Foulon was appointed Superior General, she stopped the practice avowing that the poor needed care equal to that given to the rich. The Woensdagmarkt building became a hospital, with Saint Francis Xavier as its patron, and the next hundred years saw a huge expansion of the hospital's premises and services, and its gradual modernisation and development as part of the state hospital provision. 
 

And having spoken briefly to a nun, I was reminded of another recent connection with nuns contained within a most interesting book I have just read: The End of Memory A Natural History of Ageing and Alzheimers by Jay Ingram. The writer refers to the Nun Study of 678 sisters, an American experiment begun in 1986. Two results in so far are stunning: First, there were many nuns like Sister Mary whose brain was dissected after her death at 101 and found to be full of the plaques and tangles typical of Alzheimer's. But right up to her death, she had demonstrated no mental or behavioural symptoms of the disease. A possible contribution to this happy state might be found in the context in which Sister Mary lived; she worked hard, constantly using her brain in organisation and social interaction; living in a community requires, and probably maintains, intellectual activity. Presumably, the active brain, afflicted with Alzheimer's, can find other neural pathways to get round the degeneration. Second, incipient Alzheimer's, or the tendency to it, may be detectable in the early twenties. Some of the nuns when they were young had been asked to write autobiographical sketches and these had been kept. Analysis revealed a correlation between low 'idea density' [how much information was economically packed into a single sentence] and the onset of Alzheimer's decades later. The Nun Study found that the lower the idea density score of women in their twenties, the higher the likelihood that these individuals would eventually get Alzheimer's. Although the numbers in the study were comparatively small, 90% of those with Alzheimer's had recorded low idea density compared to 13% of those who were disease-free. There may be several reasons for this: intelligence, socio-economic background, education, but one of the possibly 'protective' essentials against the development of Alzheimer's does seem to be education. It does not prevent the development of the typical plaques and tangles in the brain, but it appears to limit the impact. But one must note nonetheless, many nuns do die of, or with, Alzheimer's; living the convent life does not guarantee continuing mental good health.

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!