Swanning around

 

 Perhaps this should be entitled, In Praise of Walking! As I am not yet back swimming every day, I walk almost every day for an early hour, usually towards, then alongside, one or other of the canals. The glorious weather has simply gilded the lily. Hippocrates declared that walking is the “best medicine” and though so far not in need of medicine, I do find that walking gives me joy. Sights, sounds, smells; all combine to give a delicious freedom to think things through, to remember recent events and anticipate the day or the morrow. I can have a quiet dialogue with myself though, truly with lock-down, that is possible at most times of the day! It’s just that the walking early provides a glorious private theatre to enact the process. Somehow, this mundane activity in a far-from-mundane setting elevates the ordinary and adds hugely to my sense of contentment and well-being.

I also have the opportunity to notice more details I have otherwise missed and to relish anew the normal sights of Bruges. This last week seems to have been dominated by swans; they have possibly been following me! Again and again, I seem to have walked past congregations of swans near bridges and below parapets, always busy dipping, stretching, swimming silently and with unseen effort, flapping occasionally, making majestic consort in smoothly-moving convoys. I got very excited two or three months ago when I saw a swan, sitting on what looked like a little pile of sticks, with another swan solicitously hovering. I decided that it must be a couple with one preparing to give birth. I observed, as I passed, over two days but on day three, they had gone, removed I suspected by an employee of the commune to a more distant place. Though behind a wire fence, they were probably too near to passing traffic.

I hadn’t thought until now of the word, Flaneur, but that is what I might be posturing as!! Flaneur is a French noun literally meaning stroller, lounger, saunterer, loafer. Wikipedia suggests that a flaneur is “an ambivalent figure of urban affluence and modernity, representing the ability to wander, detached from society with no other purpose than to be an acute observer of contemporary life.” This almost nails my daily activity but does not begin to suggest the joy I feel during the experience nor the main original reason for my activity which is to help me keep healthy.

Le Flaneur 1842
Paul Gavami.

I aassociate the word, ‘flaneur’ with Paris and now know that it was a description of a literary type from 19^th century France and carried a set of rich associations: the man of leisure; the idler; the urban explorer, the connoisseur of the street. Walter Benjamin, drawing on the poetry of Charles Baudelaire, first made this figure the object of scholarly interest in the 20^th century as an archetype of urban, modern experience. A certain detachment was suggested as if the person was slightly set back from what they saw around them. Thus the flaneur has become a symbol for artists and writers. I rather fancy being a female flaneur but think I lack a certain artistic gravitas. Flaneurs just were or are; not in search of health and well-being at all. There to observe an often familiar urban scene and notice unfamiliar aspects, at a distance, and with exquisite judgement or, equally importantly, to be observed by others as a man of taste.

Swans resident in Carmersstraat

And more along the Langerei.

Oosterlingenhuis, Krom Genthof 4.

 I am currently reading a quite marvellous book: Bruges, Cradle of Capitalism, 1280-1390 by James M. Murray. It is a an amazingly researched, scholarly study of how Bruges became the commercial capital of Northern Europe in the late fourteenth century. Murray argues that a combination of fortuitous changes, such as the shift to sea-borne commerce and the extraordinary efforts of the city's population, served to shape a great commercial centre. In effect, Murray's book works not only as a case study in mediaeval economic history, but also as a social and cultural history of mediaeval Bruges.

Murray suggests that the greatest single difference in the economy which was taking shape by 1300 was that instead of Brugeois or Flemish merchants journeying to their customers, their customers were journeying to them. Increasingly, economic success depended on attracting the largest possible number of foreign merchants from the widest diversity of places with the greatest variety of goods. The important economic magnet that Bruges became, meant that it was imperative for merchants to either live there or at least, have an intermittent presence there. 

The Beurseplein showing Ter Beurse, the hostel
belonging to the de Beurse family since 1276

What Murray refers to as " the commercial infrastructure" of Bruges, much of which came to be situated in the Beurse square on Vlaamingstraat and its environs along Zouterstraat, [now Academiestraat] towards St Jan's Bridge, [now Jan Van Eyckplein] comprised hostels, money exchanges, notaries, law courts. The Beurse square was dominated by the hostel, or commercial house, named after the Van de Beurse family; a hostel comprised a number of businesses and by definition occupied a substantial house of many rooms and several storeys, probably with capacious cellars for storage of goods, stables and a courtyard. The significance of a building signified importance of identity and was always a centre for trade. Thus hostels were quite separate from inns which served food, drink and offered lodging,and from other centres like taverns, cabarets, brothels and churches where merchants might also meet and do occasional business. These hostels were owned or rented by foreign merchants as residences for them and their households, and for business, or by wealthy members of the Bruges brokers' guilds. Murray gives examples of the former, such as the English wool merchant, William de la Pole, who rented large premises in Bruges to pursue the wool trade. From 1339-1340 he rented eight houses for sixty five weeks, to store and distribute 2,400 sacks of wool at a cost of less than one third of that in his native Hull.

Engraving showing  part of the
majestic new Oosterlingenhuis
circa 1481.

Somewhat later, a well-known Hanse merchant, Siverd Veckinchusen, owned a complex of houses in the Krom Genthof which, in 1442, became the site of the Oosterlingenhuis, the seat of the Hanse community of merchants within Bruges. Bruges was the only one of the Hanseatic cities [Cologne, Novgorod, Lubeck] which permitted ownership of property by foreigners. A little is known of the history of this building which came into being because of the frustration experienced by  the merchants from the Hanseatic cities, in Bruges. In 1451 the disaffected group left Bruges to move to Utrecht. An important delegation from the city followed them and offered many favourable conditions for their return which included a palatial building for them, constructed and financed by the city of Bruges. They were persuaded, returned and the impressive hostel was built at the rear of the Spanish Loskaii where boats could moor and goods be unloaded and loaded. In 1478 the original, partly wooden, building was demolished and the new monumental Oosterlingenhuis was built under the leadership of Jan van den Poele and completed in 1481. It was sufficiently noteworthy to be included by the painter, Pieter Claeissens, in his 1560 painting dedicated to the Seven Wonders of Bruges. 

Today's remains of this historic building.
Genthof, 4.

I live in Woensdagmarkt off which lies Oosterlingenplein and Krom Genthof. A rather regal flag adorning a handsome building at Krom Genthof 4, clearly the remains of a much larger building, caught my eye recently and I noticed it had the name Oosterlingenhuis displayed. It wasn't until I saw the same name in Murray's book that I suddenly becane alert to the historical possibilities, always almost a given in Bruges. I feel quite thrilled to have stumbled upon a little of its long narrative and am reminded of the dazzling historical continuity of this extraordinary little city.

Mediaeval merchants, weighing barrels.

 Seven Wonders of Bruges
Pieter Claeissens 1560
Included was the Oosterlingenhuis.

Random Thoughts.

My secondary monitor has collapsed and I am left with my ageing 11 inch notepad so typing is harder currently, with much peering, rounding of shoulders and stretching of neck. It also is ensuring I take seriously the need to consider, at least, buying a new laptop with a bigger screen and scrapping forever the need for a back-up! Understandably, change in the area of computers is difficult to take on if denying reality is remotely possible. Think, now, it isn’t! 

 In my temporarily normal bubble of one, with occasional shafts of company throwing lighter relief, I have suddenly noticed that Summer is quietly subsiding into its dog days. How can this season be fading after so brief a tenure? My blackbird hasn’t visited to serenade for nearly a fortnight though a fat pigeon squatted for ages on a terrace chair today. NOT quite the same, the blackbird’s melody being of the most exquisite refinement. The searing heat has left but there is warmth and some needed rain this week. The terrace plants are thankful though Autumn whispers in the large hydrangea, florally white weeks ago but now with magical greens and creams in bloom. The smaller flowers of the second hortensia however, are shrinking and crinkling in September mode. The geraniums and oleanders fight on!

But, after all, September IS the new school year, in the past, signalling the return of a reassuring normality and routine; schools now are almost back for the new Covid year, suitably adapted though the virus continues at strength. I am beginning to realise that this September does not signal that old renewal; I am losing some of that spontaneous habit of carefree, thoughtless socialising. Concerts are out; Lumiere is out; Mah Jong groups of 8 are out; Thursday evening group is finito. This week has

seen several, tentative, small-scale attempts to substitute survivor groups! Thus, coffee in a garden for three; conversation group of five people who live nearby, be-masked, on a terrace; two of us on my terrace for Mah Jong last weekend. One does realise how the amazingly long run of fine weather has helped to soften the hard edges of Lockdown. And also there is the gradual realisation that normal groups of friends, accustomed to regular meetings, cannot maintain the same level of friendship without regularly refreshing the relationship. There is also the dawning acknowledgement that just hunkering down and waiting for the storm to pass, won’t quite cut it this time. It looks increasingly likely that this rather pared-down normality will order our lives well into next year, beyond the Spring. I am now telling myself that all will be restored by or before Christmas 2021.

 Noted on my early morning walks this week: three men fishing [at 8.00 a.m.] from the Potterierei, with nine rods. What DO fish from Bruggean canals taste like? Reminded me of Waingroves Hall in Derbyshire where my children grew up and a fishing club used to occasionally fish our pond overnight. Saw three strikingly long barges on the Gentpoortvest, sheltering together with one, dated 1885 for sale. And keep noticing yet more shops, empty and businesses abandoned, along the main streets. One can imagine that large chains, like Sissy Boy, can withdraw and regroup , but the smaller businesses lost can mean a complete change of life. This extraordinary pandemic has a terrifying power in multiple directions.

Walked, relatively unenthusiastically, this morning to the Petanque range adjacent to Minnewater and the Hotel Kasteel. I wanted to support what seemed like A Good Idea; exercise, socialisation, in the open air. Perfect for our viral times. But I am not an outdoor games person. Imagine my amazement when I, who cannot aim, throw or catch, stumbled her way to winning several times and having lots of fun. Look forward to the re-run next week when my perhaps temporary expertise is unmasked!

 I seem unable to label each photograph at present so here are two to reassure that, despite different challenges to Life in Brugge, the swans, above seen from Potterierei, are oblivious to everything beyond the canals and fishing, and

below,

a glorious evening looking towards Verversdijk seen from the Carmersbrug.

I

Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk.

 

Ruins of some of the monastic buildings in Bury St. Edmunds

As touched upon in my previous blog, I was over in Suffolk briefly for my sister’s 80^th birthday celebrations and stayed with my daughter who currently lives in Bury St Edmunds. I was en famille from Thursday to Sunday morning and for the first time had the time to explore more than the conveniently close shopping centre. Continuing my Bruggean early morning walks regime, I explored the wonderful Abbey gardens and the adjoining old cemetery and discovered more superb vistas and ancient stones than I had dreamed possible. In fact, the same fascination with beauty, history, locality, which has always gripped me with Brugge, elicited the same reactions with Bury. I hope not to have to leave Brugge till the Final Curtain, but if I did have to return to the U.K., provided the mind remained open, I would now choose Bury for its gripping historical continuity and its beautiful old stones and walkways. It is an historical and aesthetic gem.

Elizabeth Frink's statue of the boy king, Edmund.
He came to the throne of East Anglia in 855 A.D. and was
murdered by the Danes for his faith in 869.

St Edmunds Abbey, home to the remains of the martyred King Edward from 903 A.D., was one of the largest and richest Benedictine monasteries in England, established in 1020, attracting a constant procession of pilgrims and receiving Royal grants and concessions over the centuries. At the time of the Norman Conquest, Bury was the fourth Abbey in wealth and political importance in the country. I had not known that it was at Bury, in 1214, that King John’s discontented earls and barons had gathered in the Abbey, to discuss their grievances against him and committed themselves as a group to force their King to grant them a number of liberties. The following year, the sovereign met the rebels at Runnymede and sealed the Magna Carta. An extraordinary and hugely definitive act in the development of democracy in England.

The Great Seal of King John for the Magna Carta 1215.

During the 13^th and 14^th centuries, the Abbey thrived, quite often in dispute with the town, and despite problems with damage through the collapse of part of the West tower and inevitably, through the mediaeval curse to venerable buildings of fire. But in spite of setbacks, Bury St Edmunds prospered and remained politically important enough to entertain Henry V1 for four months over Christmas 1433, but it met its nemesis, as did so many other monasteries, in the person of Henry V111; in 1539 it was surrendered to the Crown and its considerable income appropriated. Valuable building material was removed from the ancient site though the Abbot’s palace survived as a house until 1720. 

A judicious mix of the ecclesiastical and the arboreal!

Beyond the once magnificent West front, a range of houses was built between the 16th and 18^th centuries. Today the venerable ruins and the Abbey gardens provide a privilege for residents of and visitors to, Bury to explore and enjoy. It is a peaceful theatre in the mediaeval heart of the modern town in which anyone can find repose and illumination.

Post Pause!

After a little gap in these blogs, back to the keyboard as I sit in the newly-peaceful, tidy apartment of old after the departure of my son and daughter. I have enjoyed a super fortnight starting with the arrival of Cait, my youngest and naughtiest, on July 27^th, a day before my 86^th. We left for Britain on July 30^th so that we could both attend my sister’s 80^th party given by her children on August 1^st then returned home the next day together with my son. They left on Friday last, August 7^th neatly beating the new 14 day quarantine restriction by the UK on all travellers from Belgium which kicked in at 4.00 a.m on Sat. Aug 8^th.! Sadly the new rule led immediately to the cancellation of my youngest grandson and his girl’s visit to me, just arranged, later this month.

The family party for Heather’s 80^th was great; it was small as my sister is at high risk, 
Corona-wise, but it was so delightful to enjoy time in a chiefly family group of different ages, in a lovely home and an especially gorgeous garden if that is the right word. My niece and her husband were able to buy two plots of the farmer’s field behind/beyond their existing garden and lawn some time ago, to provide a huge grassed area which now boasts extensive accommodation for geese and fowls; fruit and vegetable cages plus more.

We spent virtually the whole time sitting outside and often were separate in younger and older groups. I noticed that the older group was punctilious about social distancing and several of the mature group barely moved from their seats! Interesting!! I remain astonished that my lovely horsey niece co-responsible for the party, has metamorphosed into a real, a proper, gardener of fruit and vegetables. Her mother, my sister, has always been a notable gardener, responsible for creating several lovely, interesting new gardens in different locations, chiefly in Suffolk. She is the one to whom one always went for advice on plants, flowers, garden layouts etc. There is obviously late-onset gene inheritance at work here!!

Although I have thoroughly enjoyed lock-down since March 13^th, nonetheless, to return home on August 2, in a car, [a rare occurrence] with my son and younger daughter who then stayed for most of the following week, was great and has been a total treat for me though must admit that around ten or eleven days with other people was unsurprisingly tiring, cumulatively. My lovely Ger

Enjoying oysters in De Mangerie

man boys were also here for the chiefly cancelled MA Festival so we have met up several times for lunch and beers and even a concert in the nearby Sint Gilliskerk on Saturday evening. [Surprisingly, I didn’t enjoy the latter; discomfort from ghastly chair, hot mask and dirge-like music, combined to have me shuffling in my seat longing for release!] This is in fact, fortuitous for my main beloved activities like the conversation Thursday evening group and the Mah Jong etc are all now discontinued as the Belgian Covid19 response has reduced meetings to a bubble of five, AND the same people in the bubble each week. As I don’t have such a bubble I think it is almost back to lock-down though there are no restrictions yet about outside distance so my early morning walks alongside canals are still fine. And I do treasure those!!

The three of us did manage one little outing to Oostende for lunch at a fish restaurant, discovered in February. De Mangerie at 10 Albert Eenste Promenade can boast wonderful food at pretty reasonable prices with just the most superlative service imaginable. We loved it and my daughter enjoyed her longed-for wander along the beach with a soupcon of paddling in the warm sea. I made a brief effort to try the sand but it was far too deep and made walking in it, much too effort-ful so I quickly retreated to walk along the promenade with my kind son! But it was a pitch-perfect day; sun not too hot; clouds bobbing overhead in a sapphire sky; long beach with not too many people, it being a Tuesday. Altogether gorgeous for what may have been at least my third special meal to celebrate my birthday!! However, one never needs to justify over-enthusiasm in one’s eighties!!

On my actual birthday my daughter had taken me to the super Park Restaurant on Minderbroedersstraat near Astridpark where we had a marvellous meal again accompanied by amazing service. Rose petals on the cloth; complementary glass of champagne; fab food and wine. And Axel as over-the-top host!

Host Axel dressed for birthday congratulations!

Mapp and Lucia

 E.F. Benson 1867-1940

During the increased opportunity for reading with the expanded time available during Lockdown and the current post-Lockdown, I came across an omnibus edition of three of E.F. Benson’s Mapp and Lucia books which I first met at the end of the Eighties I think, courtesy of my husband who was a total fan. I have just re-read this wonderful three books-in-one, Lucia Victrix comprising Mapp and Lucia, Lucia’s Progress and Trouble for Lucia, a volume inhospitably large to read while also attempting to balance a glass or a cup of coffee on the terrace. I love the bold announcement on the front cover:

“We will pay anything for Lucia books.” Noel Coward; Gertrude Lawrence; Nancy Mitford; W.H. Auden. That signals the high level cult which grew around the Mapp and Lucia books during the 1920s and 1930s when the artistic and literary communities in Britain became entranced with the comedic characters in the Lucia stories of E.F. Benson.

 The Benson Brothers
1907

His fictional world has character, situation, prose, which feeds the glorious satire he produces, both through then-current social obsessions like health fads, plus the ridiculously and wonderfully overblown social surveillance of communal life in Tilling. He demonstrates skilfully what can be achieved when characters are gathered together to do battle over their own flaws and insecurities.

 Prunella Scales as Miss Mapp and
Genevieve McEwan as Lucia in the
1985 BBC production.

Benson’s main sublime characters were introduced in two separate books; Queen Lucia in 1920 and Miss Mapp in 1922 but his decision to bring the two together on a social collision course was a stroke of genius. Separately, the two ‘ladies’ thrive but by uniting these two extraordinary characters into one saga, Benson enables the creation of a truly high standard of literary humour. Lucia decides to leave Riseholme, the little town where she has reigned as undisputed Queen for many years, following the death of her husband, Peppino, and take up first temporary, then permanent, residence in Tilling, along with Georgie, her dear, outrageously-dressed, camp friend and confidante who also manages to find a suitable dwelling for himself. They decide to bid Au reservoir [ the famous Tillingite goodbye] to Riseholme to conquer fields anew.

Their arrival sparks intentions in Miss Mapp, hitherto Queen of all she surveyed, to gather in the newcomers without condescension, so that she can present them to her admirers in town and thus

 Tilling, shown in a photograph of Rye, East Sussex.

underline her own social superiority, but Lucia immediately, artlessly but artfully, sets about establishing her own regal presence in the town. The battle between the two ‘ladies’ is riveting to spectators and readers alike, as teas, dinners, pot-luck suppers, art shows, callisthenic classes, fund-raising fetes and bridge evenings, become the battleground for the sublime yet savage social battle to range. The apparent self-sufficiency and tranquillity of Tilling is a world in itself, where the inhabitants quietly know Everything about each other but politely rarely challenge each other, relying on hugely relished social gossip to keep abreast of happenings and developments. The social surveillance involved in Tilling’s communal life is effortlessly and entertainingly portrayed. The peace and perfection of the place offer a boundless theatre for countless vicious social battles to be enacted. One should mention that Tilling is a very thinly-disguised Rye in East Sussex, where Benson lived for many years in Lamb House, and where, like Lucia, he served as Mayor.

The Benson family were eminent Victorians, all high achievers and almost certainly homosexual. The father, Edward, who was not, progressed quickly up the clerical hierarchy and, via the Chancellorship of Lincoln Cathedral and the Bishopric of Truro, he became Archbishop of Canterbury in 1883. His wife, Minnie, to whom he proposed when she was 11 and he, 23, had a number of romantic affairs with other women while bearing her husband six children. Those offspring who

 The Garden Room, Lamb House, Rye,
the model for Mallards in Tilling.
Destroyed by a German bomb in August 1940.

reached adulthood, were all incredibly successful, distinguishing themselves in public life. Arthur became Master of Magdalene College, Cambridge; wrote the lyrics of Edward Elgar’s hymn, Land of Hope and Glory; and co-edited Queen Victoria’s letters for publication. His brother, Fred, of Mapp and Lucia fame, also wrote a formidable and successful array of fiction, including ghost stories. Sister Margaret became an amateur pioneering Egyptologist and the first woman to lead an archaeological dig with subsequent publication of her findings. Younger brother Hugh, became a notable Roman Catholic, was considered a magnetic preacher and was also a best-selling author. Altogether, the family published more than 200 volumes.

 Discovering the initial delights of Tilling.

Father Edward invited his wife’s lover, Lucy Tait, daughter of the previous Archbishop of Canterbury, to live with them and three years after his death, Minnie moved house with Lucy, still her lover, and Minnie’s daughter, Margaret, the Egyptologist, came to live with them, bringing her female lover. An extraordinary and gifted family in many ways; reliably eccentric and always able to disregard social attitudes which did not suit them. But perhaps one might claim that it is Fred's, E.F. Benson's, literary legacy which has burned longest and brightest.

 Oil painting of West Street, Rye
showing the admirably-placed
Garden room window.
Artist: Ellen Emmet Rand 1875-1941

Horatio's Gardens

My particular restorative floral green space

 Chelsea Physic Garden established in 1673.

A perfect day weather-wise with the anticipated cascade of notes from ‘my’ visiting blackbird to charm the air. His intermittent daily serenade is predictably and refreshingly nourishing. I sat on my terrace which is looking delightful now, for coffee then a reading break and I noticed in the weekend Financial Times magazine, a lovely article entitled Mind, Body And Soul, by Clare Coulson, about the therapeutic power of green spaces and gardens. I had no idea that in 1673, when London’s Chelsea Physic Garden was established by the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries, within a walled four acre plot close to the River Thames, the healing power of plants was not merely acknowledged but established as an intrinsic part of life. Gardens were viewed as restorative and contemplative spaces. In truth, in the seventeenth century Britain was chiefly an agricultural and rural society and though many did not own, or have access, to a beautiful garden, the green and open countryside was on the doorstep, as it were, of the majority of citizens who, unknowingly, reaped the benefits.

In Thomas Bewick’s Memoir, he begins Chapter 2 thus:

“From the little Window at my Bed head, I noticed all the varying seasons of the year and when the Spring put in, I felt charmed at the music of Birds, which strained their little throats to proclaim it.”

The boy who would become the famous artist-engraver, was born in August 1753,and lived in Cherry-burn House near the small Village or Hamlet of Eltringham in the Newcastle area. Though his talent was prodigious, his early life was spent almost entirely in ordinary, every day pursuits in the nearby countryside which he loved and which helped to form him, as it did his friends and family. His series of superb wood engravings for his two major works of natural history: General History of Quadrupeds and History of British Birds were considered to have aroused a huge contemporary popular interest in natural history. Thomas’s love of, and absorption in, the natural world was unconscious but central to his youthful experience and growth. One would like to think that this immersion in the great, green outdoors fed his growing creativity.

 Thomas Bewick 1753-1828

Gardens can transport a person and revive the psyche. I derive great pleasure from working on my terrace, which is really a garden in miniature; from the searching for plants; the actual planting and placing; the changing of mind and position of pots; the watering and dead-heading; the evening stroll around my tiny estate and the blessed sitting out there in the sun or shade, to read or write. A plus for me now is that a terrace asks for much less physical effort, which is a blessing in fact! But the amount of calmness derived and the aesthetic beauty inhaled, the silent delight in just being there, do not depend on size and effort in the upkeep; just the walled green space, presently be-floralled and perfect, is enough.

 Bewick illustrating the extreme contentment
of immersion in a green space. Albeit with
the added charms of tobacco and beer.

The benefits of green spaces are increasingly recognised in the provision of therapeutic gardens attached to hospices and specialist care centres. I read last year, I think, of Horatio’s Garden Charity which creates and nurtures green sanctuaries chiefly in N.H.S. spinal-injury centres, to improve the psychological health of patients who may spend months in hospital. These life-affirming gardens are in memory of Horatio

 Horatio Chapple

Chapple whose idea it originally was. Horatio, who wanted to become a doctor, volunteered to work in 2010/11 in Salisbury Hospital where his father, David, is a spinal surgeon in the Duke of Cornwall Spinal Treatment Centre. Horatio asked why there was no outside green space for long-term patients to enjoy. In discussion with his father, Horatio came up with the idea of a therapeutic garden and he designed a questionnaire to discover exactly what patients wanted. Tragically, Horatio (17) was killed the following year, by a polar bear on a school expedition and this prompted a flood of donations to establish what came to be called Horatio’s Garden, designed by Cleve West, a notable, award-winning garden designer, at Salisbury Hospital. Salisbury has proven to be the first of a series of Horatio’s Gardens attached chiefly to spinal injury treatment centres throughout the country. The unbearable poignancy of this story, nonetheless, illustrates at least, the considerable achievement in the splendid realisation of therapeutic gardens available to an increasing number of spinal treatment patients with huge benefits for them. A powerful memorial fitting for a young man of empathy and vision.

 Horatio's Garden, London