Cards

I am folding cards, "Thank You" cards for all those people, relatives, friends, who have come to my father's funeral, shown their respect, sent e-mails, flowers. It is hard to lose a parent, no matter how old they are. But doing this is a healing process. Every time I fold a card he smiles at me, as if saying: it is alright. You are doing fine. I am okay, don't worry. And instead of feeling sad, I start smiling back at him, at his picture which we have carefully chosen for this card, because it represents who he really was. That is how we want to remember him. He seems content with the way we have handled things. It is a very soothing and satisfying process, selecting a picture, writing words which seem appropriate for him, designing a card, no matter how simple. He would have appreciated it, was very creative himself, far more so than any of his children. What was condensed in him in one package, he distributed piecemeal among his children, just giving each of us some of his genes, his talents, and those often diluted in the process. No one can paint as he could and some of us can't draw the simplest thing. The Christmas cards and birthday cards he sent were always handmade, sometimes painted on scraps of drawing paper, always different. Not every one of us is musical, or has a passion for photography, a love of travel, a hunger for knowledge, an eye for nature and its wonders. None of us ever built our own telescope, our own photo-printer out of waste material. We do not all go with the times, accepting innovations. Not all of us can write or make a coherent speech. We are not all as erudite as he was, although we have had much better opportunities, and are not self-taught as he was of necessity. But that never mattered to him. He accepted us the way we were, encouraged us to use our talents to the full. Neither do we possess his strong and almost childlike faith, his devotion to what he believed in, his disarming honesty when he talked about his conviction, his beliefs. That was one of the things which worried him, that not all of his children shared this faith. That some of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren grew up without any biblical knowledge or religious awareness. The last months of his life, when he was no longer able to go out, or read, he said to me that there still was a task for him, that his life had not become totally useless: the need to pray for his offspring, each and every one of them, that they might come to believe in God. For him it was the most important thing in his life. Every time I put a card in an envelope, fifty, sixty, even ninety times, he looks at me, smiles, approves. And  I am happy.

Mechelen

About Mechelen and traffic jams

On my way to Brussels I had spotted the cathedral of Mechelen from the train window and decided I wanted to see the town, especially after I read up on it. So I had chosen this day to actually do it! Because one of the Lent decisions, which is in fact a belated 65+ decision, was to do something different one day each week, travel to a town or city, go for a cycle tour weather permitting, a long walk, or just anything as long as it isn't the everyday routine. Today was the day!

It is Lent, so I am not allowed to complain. Nevertheless I need to vent my frustration about Dutch – or perhaps European - traffic.

Google told me from Oegstgeest to Mechelen would be a drive of just under two hours. Fine! Better than Maastricht in the far south, or Groningen in the far north. So I got up very early, left at 8.40 to pick up a friend at Rotterdam, expecting to be in Mechelen around 11. Traffic jams, traffic jams, traffic jams, this country is totally constipated! After 45 minutes I was back where I started, near my house. I fumed. Just imagine,  they are planning to build lots of houses, whole estates, and have actually started doing so. They haven't given the necessary infrastructure a thought though. I suppose people will have to work from home. No way to get out. I had to pass a cemetery, and lo and behold, I got caught behind a hearse on the main road. Six pall bearers walked on both sides and it took ages before they reached the gates! My patience was really tested to the limit. I could not believe it. Anyway, I arrived in Rotterdam at 10.30, a distance of some 40 kilometres, as the road through Wassenaar was also blocked. As the crow flies it is only 20 kilometres! I thought somebody was trying to tell me something, but I was determined not to listen and give up! Then on to Antwerp, where we got stuck in a traffic jam again on the road between Breda and Antwerp. In the right lane hundreds of trucks were lined up. At last, when I had almost given up hope, we got to Mechelen at 13.00 hours, two full hours late. In comparison: on the way back I hit the outskirts of Rotterdam in one hour, and the north 15 minutes later. From there to Oegstgeest took only 35 minutes. All in all a distance of just 180 kilometres.

Now the bright side! Although I started out in dense fog and low temperatures, the sun came out and we had a beautiful day with temperatures of 16 degrees Celsius. No coats needed, just a jacket. It felt like a glorious summer's day. Besides, we immediately found a free parking space right on the ring road, within walking distance of everything we wanted to see.

Mechelen was a pleasant surprise. It used to house many convents, nunneries and monasteries. They are now being beautifully restored and converted into museums, apartments, utility buildings. The town is also poor in traffic thanks to big underground car parks, e.g. under the Market Square, which make the town a joy to walk around in, in spite of the cobbled stones. Many of the narrow medieval streets are curving and so offer surprising views. The buildings are a mixture of old and new, the old and interesting gables looking very romantic and interesting in the light of the sun, which still is low in the sky at this time of the year and sheds a warm and mellow light  on the different coloured stone, plaster and bricks. The tower of the cathedral can be seen from afar and is most impressive, its sandstone scrubbed clean, pale yellow in the bright light.

From the square we enjoyed the view, while fortifying ourselves with some Belgian specialities in a café on the square. The tables outside in the sun were all taken, but the view from our brasserie was also enjoyable and it was cosy inside.

After that we leisurely explored the small town. There are eight churches of historic importance, but in winter till April 1^st they only open from 1-4 in the afternoon, so we could only see the interior of three of them and had to skip climbing the tower of the cathedral, and missed the view. The cathedral itself is very light and bright and devoid of much ornamentation.  To my surprise there is a shrine with the remains of some of the martyrs of Gorkum, and effigies of seven of them. If they were hanged naked, they must have shed lots of beautiful embroidered robes. In Brussels is another shrine with their bones, in the church of St. Nicholas, the patron saint of Brussels. I wonder how many more churches and towns claim to have their bones. At least it is an excuse for a shrine. The cathedral hosts a very ornamental pulpit carved of wood, with scenes of Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, entwined by a tree, no doubt picking apples, the stairs of the pulpit looking like a health hazard, very uneven and slippery. In one of the other churches we find yet another ornamental pulpit, with scenes from the Bible. In Brussels two weekends ago I saw two examples of such pulpits as well. As pulpits they don't look very practical.

The palace of Margaret from Austria is now used for the courts of justice, the French garden in the courtyard open to the public. I enjoyed the gables of the houses, so many different shapes and colours and ornaments. Another thing that struck me were the niches above the entrance doors of private houses and buildings with statues of Mary and baby Jesus. They come in all shapes and sizes. In one of them Jesus is kicking his legs wildly and Mary seems to have trouble not letting the baby slip from her arms. The street names are also worth noting; Nonnen (Nuns), Jesus Poort (Jesus Gate), and many very Biblical names. In the churches the temperature is chilling, but we left our coats in the car so we had to bear it. Outside it was summer!

Another discovery was a CD shop with just classical music. The small shop window does not betray what is inside: a very long and narrow shop with thousands of CD's and DVD's of classical music, all ordered in neat cases, custom made, against the walls. I have never seen such a collection and couldn't resist buying two CD's, one with organ music by Orlando Gibbons (1581-1625) and Thomas Tomkins (1572-1656). I sang music by both composers with the ECS choir, but never heard their organ compositions. The other one is organ music by the three Wesleys and three of their contemporaries. The owners of the shop claim that in this insignificant town (as they call it) this is the biggest CD store for classical music in the Benelux, and people from all over Europe order music through the website. Dangerous knowledge for me!

It seems as if the sun is not only warming my skin, but has also started to thaw my frozen feelings. As if it is waking me up to life again after a period in which I have felt emotionally dead.

Before going back to the car, we have a drink in the Market Square with a view of the 
Town Hall bathing in the last rays of the sun, and rest our sore feet.

Pictures

Friday

Lent. Why abstain from anything? I already eat in moderation, so it is no hardship to give up  on any food which is supposed to be a luxury. Probably it is better to do something more positive, in my case counting my blessings each evening, and trying to do, experience or learn something new each day.

Might just as well start today: I was given a ticket to a very well-known performance of the St. Matthew Passion by J.S.Bach, as well as a free ticket for a concert in Amsterdam, in the "Orgelpark". A recital on four different pipe organs in a big former church, now a concert hall. This "Organ Park" aims to make pipe organs more popular by programming non-religious organ recitals, often in combination with other instruments. In spite of the aim of the Park to program modern music, this will be a fairly traditional recital. The beauty is that all four organs, each one different, will be played during this recital. We'll keep you posted!

This past weekend

Blessings? Great weather during the weekend. A walk into Leiden on Saturday, which looked very attractive in spite of the shop I wanted to go to being closed. All the tables in the sun on the curb-side cafes fully occupied. Saved me some cash! Instead a  drink at home with my feet up on a chair.

Dutch Bitterballen

Bliss: a shorter than expected sermon on Sunday, and still bright sunshine, even after church when the sun usually tends to disappear. A walk on the beach while the tide was in, so hard work through very soft sand: A free workout! Later I got a table in the sun with a view of the sea and enjoyed a nice glass of wine plus some very tasty "bitterballen", a Dutch delicacy.

The azalea praecox in my front garden is in full bloom and attracts admiring comments from passers –by, of which there aren't many in this dead-end block of houses. Hope the owners walking their dogs here will not slacken their attention and let their precious charges have a go against my garden fence. Poop-a-scoops are still a rare phenomenon in this country, I am sorry to say.

Several friends suggested items for my Lent list:

- Think positively.

- No self criticism; others will do that for you

- Write down at least one thing a day which you have learned

- Don't live your life on sufferance.

A nice list, a bit peculiar for just Lent, perhaps. It may grow into a habit, one never knows.

Another good thing this weekend: I made a very nice oven dish of sole in white wine. Great! And very easy. Add fresh vegetables and chips if you like, and you can serve a great and healthy meal with little effort.

Sadness and loss, a few random thoughts.

Why is that when we most need to be cherished, held, comforted, we withdraw and seem to build a wall around us. A wall which prevents others who might be able to help us to reach us. We need those comforting arms around us, but don't know how to ask for it. Or don't dare to ask for it. It is after all a sign of weakness, this neediness. And that is something we can't afford to be, weak. Deep sadness and loneliness can do that to us. Moreover grief  does not attract people but puts them off. Eyes which are dull and don't sparkle don't invite loving arms. Is it best to retire, just withdraw within oneself for some time till one feels a bit better? Stay with a far-away friend, not telling anybody where one is, just trying to keep alive, eating, sleeping, walking, no obligations, no motion, a stillness, living in limbo, till the clouds are lifted and one is ready to face the world again, fight the odds, enjoy life anew and its many gifts. Monasteries fulfil a need in that respect. Being part of a regular life of dedication and devotion, not having to decide when to do what, not having to bother about meals or mundane tasks, may have a healing influence. Sometimes we can't mourn or be dejected because a particular loss is not seen by others as such. It leads to feelings of guilt, which is not very helpful either. 

Music, food and good company

A weekend in Brussels packed with music, excellent company, very nice places to eat with good food.

I went to see the Cathedral on Saturday, but couldn't really walk around because masses were said there one after another, as it was the first weekend of Lent. I entered during a mass said in Dutch. Surprisingly there was a very long sermon. During the intercessions the priest did not only pray for the many victims of the dreadful earthquake and following tsunami in Japan, but also against the restaurant owners of Bruges, who had apparently complained that substantial losses for their restaurants were expected this summer, as the Japanese might not come in such great numbers as usual. The priest  thought they had to be kicked "in the * ", and became very agitated. I am sorry I could not really see details of the pulpit, which is a wonderful work of art. But the enjoyable thing was that the organ postludium was a piece by Bach beautifully played by an apparently very accomplished organist. It was a free concert. Besides, the singing of the priest in his loud and sonorous voice was also a joy to listen to. And meanwhile I could rest my feet. I could only take pictures of the organ from an angle, which was a pity. It seemed modern, and the organist , who was sitting very high up, had a canopy over his head formed by shiny Spanish trumpets.

Here is a picture of the  Grenzing-orgel .  It's inauguration was on Octber 2000. It has 4300 pipes, 63 stops, four manuals and a pedal. It was built by the German organ builder Grenzing and his Spanish colleagues from Barcelona. The organ case is a design of the English architect Simon Platt.

That day I also visited the Church of St. Nicholas, the patron Saint of Brussels. Small houses are built with their backs against the church, a phenomenon not unusual for big medieval churches in Holland (e.g. Leiden: both the Hooglandse Kerk and the  Pieterskerk, the church of John Robinson of the Pilgrim Fathers). The most unusual thing is the choir which is bent at a slight angle, and the beautiful shrine with the relics of the Martyrs of Gorkum. Also the brightly coloured window between the two organ parts over the entrance door is impressive.

Another church worth visiting is the Church of Notre Dame du Finistère, because of its beautiful organ, and the amazing Baroque pulpit.

In the evening I was invited to attend a concert at the the Bozar, the Centre for Fine Arts in Brussels. The Sea Symphony by Ralph Vaughan Williams formed the main part of the programme. Around 1900 Vaughan Williams composed this ode to the sea. Originally this was intended as a cantata, but it grew into a symphony for choir and orchestra. The texts used are poems by Walt Whitman. Two choirs, the Brussels Choral Society and the Philharmonischer Chor Köln, performed the symphony, together with the Ensemble Orchestral de Bruxelles. It is a symphony which lasts some 70 minutes and really taxes the singers. With a combination of two choirs and around 170 singers (I counted them!), it could not be an easy task to make this into a success. I enjoyed it, but when asked later if I could characterise it in one word, the only appropriate answer was: tsunami! Loud, overpowering, sweeping us away. I suppose it might grow on me in the end, and I also suspect it would be a really enjoyable challenge to sing it. But beautiful? I don't know yet. An experience? Yes, definitely.

On Sunday I joined my friend for a service in St. Andrews, the Scottish Presbyterian Church, and was immediately enlisted in the choir, which was a very joyful experience with a lively and sparkling choirmaster, a very relaxed service and an interesting, intelligent and entertaining sermon about English bible translations and translators, not the least of them King James. He seemed to have been an unpleasant, rude and not very clean man, but he achieved something wonderful and priceless. Also the differences between Luther and Calvin, and thus between Calvinists and Lutherans, were touched upon. It was very interesting, and very clearly expressed. It made my Sunday very special, as so many other things did too.

To mention one of those was a visit to a former English department store, now the Museum for musical instruments, with a very nice restaurant on top in the cupola offering wonderful views of Brussels. It is a very unusual building, built of iron, a bit like the Eiffel tower, but in Art Nouveau style. The cupola or dome, now a restaurant, is also made of very ornately worked iron, with lots of glass. The Sunday buffet served there was delicious, and we had a table with a fantastic view in three directions, thanks to my kind and very generous host.

That brings me to the other good things, restaurants and food.

Lunch on Saturday not long after arriving in Brussels was in the Fallstaff, a beautifully Art Nouveau building decorated in the spirit of Baron Horta. The food was good, but the best thing was the atmosphere, the building itself with the coloured glass, which some of the ceilings were also made of, well-worth a visit. On weekdays it is said to be packed at lunch time, but it being a Saturday and on the periphery of the pedestrian tourist and shopping area, it was nice and quiet.

Dinner was in a pleasant establishment in the Market Square, with Belgian specialities. A busy place where we were in luck and found a small table just opposite the fire. The food was nice and kept us going till after the concert. The choirs and orchestra members plus their friends were supposed to get together for drinks after the concert in a restaurant/bar/cafe with enough room for some 500 people, but the space was totally inadequate so we retreated to the Market Square again and found a small table on the first floor of a medieval building, now a restaurant. We were lucky to find a window seat and so we had a marvellous view of the Market Square with the ornate buildings lit by floodlight looking like intricate lacework, the background for fairytales. The glass of wine and respectively beer tasted even better because of the wonderful view.

Even breakfast on Sunday morning was a pleasant surprise. I hate hotel breakfasts as they are so impersonal and far too expensive. Even if they offer a lot of delicious food, what more does a person need in the morning than some coffee and a roll or a piece of fruit? So my friend took me to a pleasant bakery cum lunchroom  on the Place du Grand Sablon (or de Grote Zavel), where they were in the process of setting up the weekly antiques market. When we arrived it was still rather quiet, but soon the place filled up with happy families, babies, toddlers and grandparents included. The lovely crisp breads smelled delicious, and the croissants and strong and hot coffee were a delight to the taste buds. It is wonderful to enjoy a leisurely breakfast on a Sunday morning, instead of just drinking a cup of tea at the kitchen sink in a hurry before rushing off to church. I could get used to this sort of life very quickly. Just as well the antiques shops were closed as they looked very interesting but very expensive as well. I only indulged in one single chocolate in the city of pralines!

A wonderful weekend visit, thanks to a very kind, interesting and thoughtful friend.

Being able to share pleasures is lovely. I am afraid I was less good company, still feeling a bit dead inside after a few life changing and emotional happenings in recent months. But it was great to be away and treated with such kindness and consideration. Balm for the soul.

One of the most difficult things in life is clearing out and selling the house of one's parents. During one's lifetime a person weaves a tight and intricate web, sometimes beautiful, not always regular, quite messy in places, but unique, a web that is like a fingerprint. And part of that web is also part of oneself, of each of us children. To empty a house, go through personal belongings without asking permission, feels like trespassing, something one would never have done during the life of the parents. There is a reluctance to do so, to touch all those personal items. It is like tearing up that web, destroying something which was unique, killing a loved one all over again. For what belonged to a particular life, was cherished by a person, may not have any meaning at all for the next generation, for the heirs of the house with its contents. Thus a collection of things which construed a life, is taken apart. The jar full of colourful brushes is taken by a son who likes to experiment with paint. An unfinished painting standing on the easel may be left behind, thrown away, the vision of the artist lost forever. The library is either discarded as the books have no meaning for us, the next generation, or the collection is split up. We take what we are interested in, the remainder goes to friends, to antiquarian bookshops, to charities and to market stalls: china, crockery, the favourite frying pan, a chipped egg-coddler, a tea cosy which was always used, ugly or not, a tablecloth which seems brand new as it was too beautifully embroidered and so kept for special occasions only. Worst of all are the diaries, personal notebooks, letters, the many slides, the photo albums, films, etc. Once we start reading and browsing we may realise that we did not know our parents as well as we imagined. We cherish what we get, and what we think has meaning for us as it seems representative of the parents we lost, something tangible. But that is a deception. Without the hand lifting a particular cup, using that brush, playing that organ or piano, reading us phrases from those books, they soon become just lifeless objects, dead mementoes, not really integrated in one's own life. The web has been ripped apart, ruined, what remains are just dust particles, lazily dancing in front of our eyes, meaningless, bits and bobs. The house which still harboured the spirit of the parents, seems less and less welcoming while we rob it of its objects, wall hangings, furniture, trinkets , and eventually loses all meaning. We no longer find there what we were looking for, what we need and miss: understanding, protection, unconditional love; a place which shelters us.

Opening wardrobes, packing clothes which still vaguely carry the smell of a father, the perfume of a mother, may take us unawares and reduce us to tears. We do not want to let go, want to keep them with us forever, but realise the impossibility. We can stand still for a while, but eventually we have to move on, live our own lives, grow away from that home and all it meant to us. And we may finally discover who we really are, influenced and formed by the nest we came from, always carrying our parents with us, but with our own individual and sometimes surprising possibilities and talents.

What one often isn't conscious of is that as long as one of the parents is alive, the other one still lives through that parent, is still part of him or her, represents what they in their long lives together as a couple were to each other. The house may still breathe the atmosphere of the absent parent, even if the surplus of pot plants, which were once so tenderly cared for, the many decorations and ornaments have been removed. There are always things left, books which my mother used to read, a sewing basket, left behind for my father in case a button would go missing. Of course he can't sew and would rather use a piece of thin iron wire, even a bent paperclip. Just as well he has kept that a secret from her. There are picture postcards with her remarks scribbled on the back, books with notes in the margins, her small leather bound bible, the pages dog eared; rows of small glass jars with green herbs which have long since lost any taste or aroma, brittle and brown. We have left them, to remind ourselves of her, our mother. But although my father learned to cook a reasonable healthy meal, he never touched the herbs. Now we have to throw them out, with the letters, clothes, books, etc.  I had not realised that I not only lost my father, but with him my mother, part of him. An orphan and a widow, two dark words. But also a new beginning, new possibilities. 

I experienced a most unusual church service this Sunday morning. After an absence of four weeks I was looking forward to a return to normality, to a musically enjoyable service and to happily singing in the choir again. Well, we only had half a choir, rather unbalanced as well, with four sopranos, 3,5 altos (no, I won't explain!), one tenor and one strong bass. One alto and one soprano had not attended the practice on Friday, so they were at a loss what the proceedings were. Moreover the rehearsal on Friday was not supervised by our choirmaster, but by a professional singer and member of the choir who has completely different views and ideas about tempi, phrasing and especially about chanting. During the chanting we sounded like a bunch of old age pensioners with the onset of dementia or Parkinson. It was ghastly. We are in need of a workshop about chanting, about the idea that it is sung speech, so not every syllable has the same length or emphasis. The way we chant is a sure and effective cure for insomnia.  On top of that there was a christening, with so many family and relatives and friends around the baptismal font at the back of the church that they were completely blocking the view – and muting the sound of the chaplain (not of the baby who was very good and did not complain). Where have the times gone when the chaplain would walk back with the little infant in the pristine white folds of his surplice and present the new church member to the congregation?  Because the choir was so diminished, during communion we did not sing but enjoyed a musical interlude, with two choir members respectively playing the violin and the lute most beautifully. After that we sang two hymns! Our organist had disappeared during communion, and instead of being accompanied by her, we were accompanied by a piano which was hardly audible. So our triumphant exit wasn't exactly what we had imagined. We were promised that next week things will be better, as term will have started again. But I can hardly imagine that, realising that it will be a healing service! Just as well I will be away in Brussels for that weekend. Let's hope for a different service there.

Once home I just dug into some comfort food with a cup of nice strong coffee and was in the process of ruining my delicious éclair when a dear niece of mine asked me if I would like to join them for a walk on the beach. I had forgotten that besides her two children of 6 and 8 she has two dogs as well, one a very big and lively pup. It was beautiful on the beach, with bright sunshine, but a cold northerly wind. The children started collecting shells, the plastic shopping bags ballooning in the wind like spinnakers, and almost launching them. However, the pleasure was short-lived when the bouncy pup unexpectedly jumped up to the girl when she was bending over in the water to catch something or other. She fell headlong in the freezing water. We had to retrace our steps quickly and went to a small cafe to warm her with hot cacao. In the car we peeled off her wet and sandy clothes and wrapped her in blankets till we could get her home. My home it was, where she recovered on the couch under yet another nice warm plaid, none the worse for her adventure and making the most of it.

Snow

A week in Austria. Amazing how different this week is from the previous two weeks. Sadness, sickness, bereavement, and now a time to recover, to relax, to enjoy different surroundings and the loving friendship of a niece and her young family. It is such a joy to see how children develop, what they learn and their eagerness to learn, their unexpected questions, their verbal skills and their surprising stamina and physical achievements. 8 and 6, their second skiing week with a year in between and going down the black pistes without any fear or trepidation, still having loads of energy after a full day of skiing, including the carrying of heavy kit. This year I am an outsider and can only walk, and join them for lunch and be their private photographer. Last year I did ski, but I had to start from scratch after a 15 year gap and I am not proud of my achievements, only proud that I skied every single day and did not give up.

I have the urge to send an e-mail and some pictures to my father, to tell him we arrived safely and to show him the beauty of the snow-clad mountains. He would have printed the photos, would have made paintings of what I sent him, would have tried to capture the light, the dazzling brightness of the sun on the snow, and the special atmosphere. Sending him letters, pictures, e-mails, links to picture galleries, it is the habit of a lifetime. There is no one who will be interested in what I experience as he was, no one to share those experiences with. It leaves a gaping hole, an emptiness. But here, among holiday makers, it seems unreal. When I go back home, things will be as they always were. But they won’t. And it will be worse when we have to dispose of the things which belonged to him and were so familiar to all of us.

Here I live in limbo, during this week of rest, sleep, physical exercise, fresh air, no obligations, an interregnum. I sleep and walk and book a massage to get rid of all the tensions, something I normally don’t take time for.

It has been snowing for over two days now. There isn’t much of a view, but it is exhilarating to walk through the soft deep white layers, not seeing any path or markings. The atmosphere is mysterious, the bare branches of shrubs and trees along the meandering brook sharply outlined against the milky whiteness. I walk and sleep and eat, a simple life. And I learn to play lots of new board games, read the children stories, carry their skis and poles and boots. I am a member of the vast army of grandparents who holiday with their children and grandchildren, although I am just a stand-in, but a welcome one.

Tuesday: After our arrival on Saturday we have seen no sun at all. It has been snowing continually for three days, and there still is this milky whiteness. In the morning I go for a pedicure. I had expected some basic work, but in fact it turned out to be an unexpected wedding feast for my two feet, which had up till now happily lived together for some sixty plus years or so. They were prepared like an Indian bride and groom, bathed in a beautiful wooden bowl, the water scented with herbs and aromatic oils and scattered with rose petals. After a nice long soak they were scrubbed, peeled, massaged, oiled, groomed and pampered till they looked like the feet of a new born baby. I expect they’ll live happily ever after.

With these new feet of mine I later went for a 3-hour walk up a mountain trail, through deep, soft snow, making slow progress. The views will be spectacular on a bright and sunny day. Now there was only this composition in greys and whites, the frozen waterfall with the long icicles hanging from nearby branches surprising with its aqua colouring, the deep colour of pure, solid ice. I crossed the ski slopes several times and had coffee in a bar half way up the slopes where the footpath unfortunately petered out so that I had to go back the same way I came – albeit enjoying different views. I think I had enough exercise for one day, and once home had a nap before engaging in board games with the children. Needless to say I lost, as I did not concentrate and amazingly enough the children were still full of energy after a full day of skiing in poor weather conditions.

                    

Wednesday. A miracle. We woke up to a blue sky! It is cold, very cold. Because the valley is so narrow, it takes some time for the sun to reach every nook and cranny, as well as the assembly slope of the ski school. At 9 am. I am waiting in front of a hotel for the others who went up for a run before classes start, and am frozen to the marrow.

-12 degrees in the shade, and wind as well. When my niece and her eight-year old daughter pass me, they don’t even notice me!  I go back by shuttle to make a big mug of piping hot coffee and buy a ticket for the ski lift before going back to join the others for a midday meal, the main meal. After our lunch we all go high up into the mountains with the gondola. The new snow is blinding in the sun, and the views are spectacular. There is a winter footpath, which winds down to the village. Fortunately there are several restaurants where I can relax, drink some mulled wine, enjoy the view and ease my muscles which protest as the slopes are very steep and slippery, and I have to tread carefully because I have to cross the pistes several times. It would not be very heroic to break a leg because of a collision with a real sportsman or woman. I take lots of pictures, have a drink with my niece and her husband, and slide down at places. But in the end the trip to the top, down and back home takes me all afternoon. In the evening they all go out again for night skiing on the illuminated slopes, which seems to be quite an experience. I happily stay at home with the six-year old boy. -16 degrees and open ski lifts, not my cup of tea today, or at any time.

Thursday

 Today there are races for the different classes, and the six-year old boy wins first price! He is very proud as he should be and later at dinner wants to drink his lemonade out of the trophy cup. Well, why not? His parents and I take pictures with different cameras, but blinded by the sun I take a video of the wrong child! In their helmets, sunglasses and ski outfit they look all the same to me, especially since the sun plays havoc with my eyes. Fortunately the parents know their brood. I later see my mistake, when the little boy shoots past me slaloming as if he has never done anything else in his life, but I am too late to take shots of him. I do take pictures of him on the podium where he can’t stop smiling. One little child is in tears, although every child is given a medal. In the morning the weather is beautiful, a bright blue sky and not as much wind as yesterday. The snow on the slopes looks perfect. It is the first day that I can sit out in the sun in the time between the race for the children and lunch. One cup of coffee guarantees me a chair for a few hours. Pity I have forgotten to bring a book or pen and paper. In the afternoon the clouds reappear. I take the shuttle to Ischgl, a very elegant ski resort with lots of expensive hotels. The main street, a pedestrian area, looks quite nice, but I am more interested in the church. Very simple on the outside in white and yellow stucco, the baroque interior is surprising: marble – at least that is what it looks like -, paintings on walls and ceiling, a gilded altar piece and a very elaborately worked pulpit. It is all gold, pastel colours and sweetness. A pity I can’t see the organ, as the church is closed off by a locked cast iron gate, a work of art in itself, and I assume that the organ is over my head. I don’t spend much time there but take a shuttle back to be at the prize giving ceremony of the ski school. 

Tomorrow will be our last day here, and I have promised myself a last treat at the wellness centre in a nearby hotel. After all, that is what grannies who do not ski, do!

Churches Ischgl and Wirl

Access to internet on holiday is a mixed blessing. One can keep up with friends, that is true, but on the other hand one feels obliged to read every e-mail that is sent, even if it applies to (voluntary) work. And so one knows there will be a special meeting at 10 in the morning after ones arrival back home, on a day one has to unpack, buy groceries, try to look civilized again and do the laundry. On a day one needs a lie-in after a long drive and a late night. So never tell anyone but your best friends that you have access to internet while on holiday. Neither give them your cell phone number.

Friday, Our last day here and it is still snowing. Apparently in Germany it is also snowing. I go for a facial first thing in the morning, something I had promised myself in stead of a ski pass, and spend the rest of the day walking to and from the ski slopes to see the race of the eight year old and the prize giving ceremony. Unfortunately she does not win a prize although she is an excellent skier. But there are much older and taller boys in her class and their weight helps them to win. But her technique is really perfect, which does not help her disappointment. I also treat myself for the first time this week to a delicious cake in the best known tearoom of the district and think I deserve it after a walk into one fabulous valley. I also visit the tiny chapel at Wirl, the last hamlet in the valley. It is minute, but surprisingly beautiful inside. Very simple in a way, but decorated with unpainted wood carvings of saints and angels. It is moving to realise how much loving care has been given to a chapel most people will pass unnoticed.

After a peculiar meal consisting of an assortment of leftovers, we pack and have an early night as the plan is to start driving at 5 am! One has to adapt as a surrogate granny!

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