65+

A party of a friend, whom I met when I was a university student, celebrating her 65^th birthday. I still feel young inside, don't we all, so it is shocking to meet a collection of old ladies at the party. I do not want to belong, but realise I do and desperately ask myself if I am looking as old and settled as they do to me. I can't be like that, can I? Besides, I feel life still has to begin, adventures await me just round the corner, and there are so many new things to be discovered. I do not want to sit down and grow old, but want to experience new things, enjoy the things I really like doing,  singing, writing, gardening, go for long walks, take a road trip through Europe to see all the different cultures, the churches, the diversity of nature, castles and caves, villages and cities , all the things I haven't seen yet. I don't want to rush either, but to soak up the different atmospheres, to meet the people, to hear about the way they live their lives.

Hopefully I have my father's genes. At 88 he learned to e-mail, handle a computer. He bought a digital camera, sent us his pictures. He painted, and mailed scans of his finished works to his children. He e-mailed his grandchildren. He greeted each day with enthusiasm. He always wanted to see and experience new things, was inquisitive, wanted to know how things worked, welcomed innovations, with an open mind. I think that kept him young. He would go out with a group of elderly people from church, and be their leader and tour guide as he, probably the oldest of the group, still felt young. Till the very end – and he died at the age of 98! – he wrote letters to the editors of magazines and newspapers if he disagreed with something or thought the wrong or incomplete information had been given. He taught us never to take anything at face value, always try to discover how things worked and why and to form and formulate independent opinions. Is that the secret of youth? To go with the times but keep your own values? Not to dismiss new things, as they might be a blessing, and if they are not, to ignore them? Of course digital photography is the future, we do no longer use glass plates, do we, he would say. And we do not use slates for writing either, he added when I remarked that  the digital pictures were not as good as the ones taken with a roll of film. He said to give it time, and wholeheartedly embraced this new development with its many possibilities, unheard of before.

Antwerp, Choral festival and more...

A hectic weekend, or two days well-spent.

Antwerp and St. Boniface it was on Saturday, for the yearly Choral Festival, organised by the RSCM. Simon Lole from England is an excellent choirmaster, drilling us in such a way that we enjoyed what we were doing and didn't mind repeating musical phrases over and over again till we got it right. It is a pleasure to meet other choristers from different Episcopal, English speaking churches, all united by our love of church music. Alas, the church was freezing cold and at Evensong we did not perform half as well as during the rehearsals. Fatigue? It was after all a long day but I wouldn't have missed it for the world. For the first time in years I could admire the church which has been almost restored to its former glory. Next Sunday there will be a rededication service. It was 6 o'clock before we finally called it a day. It was a great pity that so few people came to the Evensong. The choir stalls were not even half full.

Sunday it was Mattins in The Hague. I slipped out through a side door after the anthem and before the sermon, to go to a party of a friend. It started at 11, as the service did, but lunch wasn't served till 1 o'clock, so I arrived in time for that and had enough time to chat with the few people I knew there. It was a dreadfully stormy day. We were sitting in a conservatory with a canvas roof, one which can be rolled up if the weather is fine, which my friend had hoped for. It was making such a noise in the storm that I found conversation rather difficult. Being near the sea and on the banks of a man-made lake, a sand pit, meant that nothing could break the wind and it hit the building at full force.

After a few hours at home I went out again to an organ recital in a neighbouring village, Voorschoten, given by my organist friend. The Catholic church, de Heilige Laurentius, is big. I had never been inside, but was struck by the very unusual and beautiful altar piece, which apparently came from a dismantled church in Prinsenbeek, near Breda. It is an intricate wooden work of art, with lots of pinnacles, scenes and characters from the Bible, the figures painted in bright colours. It must be wonderful for a child to just dream away looking at it during a long and perhaps not very interesting sermon, if Catholics ever have to endure long sermons. Anyway, a former priest of that church pointed out many interesting details to us. He also told us that a large team of volunteers had been busy lovingly restoring it for over two years. They were given assistance by "Monumentenzorg", a Dutch institute which tries to care for our heritage.

The recital was very well attended, by some 126 people, which is a lot for an organ recital. Afterwards we, some friends and I plus the organist and his wife, enjoyed drinks and titbits at the house of a friend who lives nearby and is the main organ assistant. II had not seen them for quite some time and it was a pleasure to meet them.

By the time I was back home it was past midnight, so the weekend was well spent. I closed the door of the kitchen carefully before going to bed, not to be confronted with the backlog of dirty dishes. They would have to wait till Monday.

Sarlat

Een dag in Sarlat, waar ik voor het eerst oog in oog sta met het Amerikaanse echtpaar uit Colorado waarmee ik in oktober 2009 mijn huis heb geruild. Inmiddels hebben we op aandringen van Ben wel geskyped(?), maar de indruk die je dan krijgt is toch statischer, en het beeld via Skype is notoir slecht. Mijn gastheer en gastvrouw in de Dordogne hebben er op aangedrongen me te brengen, een mooie tocht van 45 minuten, gedeeltelijk langs de Vezère. Na een kopje koffie gaan ze zelf weer terug naar huis, naar Lavalade, het gehucht waar ze 's zomers wonen.

Sarlat is een heel bijzondere plaats, middeleeuws bijna, met nauwe steegjes en onverwachte pleintjes. Het is enigszins geaccidenteerd, maar niet zo sterk als sommige plaatsen hier die tegen steile rotswanden op zijn gebouwd. De nauwe steegjes geven voldoende beschutting tegen de al felle zon. Behalve praten, rondkijken en fotograferen doen we niet veel. Het is meer een aftasten van elkaar, figuurlijk dan. We kennen elkaars huizen, elkaars boeken, elkaars smaak op muzikaal gebied als we van de CD collecties mogen uitgaan. We hebben in elkaars auto gereden, met elkaars buren kennis gemaakt, elkaars pc en printer gebruikt. Van mijn buren weet ik dat ze allebei kleiner zijn dan ik. Maar dat is slechts de oppervlakte. Het is dan ook best vreemd elkaar in levende lijve te ontmoeten.

We zwerven wat door de straatjes, bekijken de markthal in een voormalige kerk, de Maria kerk. Onwaarschijnlijk hoge en enorme deuren geven toegang tot de stalletjes met lokale specialiteiten, waar behalve groenten en fruit de producten gemaakt van ganzen en eenden een voorname plaats innemen. In vitrines staan de potten en blikken uitgestald met paté de foie gras, rillettes de canard, cassoulet met eend en gans. Verder veel kaassoorten, zelfs met truffel. Truffels worden hier in het najaar gevonden en brengen veel geld in het laatje. Er zijn dan speciale truffelmarkten. Er gaan duizenden euro's in om. De streek staat ook bekend om de walnoten. Truffellikeur, walnotenlikeur, het is hier allemaal te vinden naast de lokale wijnen en de Bordeaux wijnen, die van iets verderop komen. Romige zeep, gesneden in grote blokken, geurend naar lavendel, lelietjes van dalen, rozen, rozemarijn en andere kruiden en bloemen, ligt hier uitgestald, naast badoliën. Ook de groentekramen zijn een lust voor het ook. Het lijkt of elke asperge, elke tomaat, elke aubergine speciaal is opgepoetst voor de gelegenheid. De dikke, witte asperges zijn gebundeld in mooie boeketten, de tomaten gesorteerd op kleur en soort. De artisjokken daartussen, als grote groene distels.

De kathedraal is tussen de middag open. De drie ingangen aan verschillende zijden zorgen voor een heerlijk koele tocht. In het koor prachtig besneden eiken koorbanken. Helaas is het koor afgesloten met een dik rood koord waar ik niet overeen durf te stappen. Daarom kan ik alleen de misericordia van de eerste drie banken zien, die op geklapt zijn. Jammer.

De warme lunch gebruiken we op een ommuurd terras, helaas in de schaduw van een door duiven geliefde boom. De Amerikaanse vrienden weten niet wat hen overkomt!

Hoewel de kaart Frans is, blijkt het zo te zien Vietnamese echtpaar toch niet goed raad met de Franse gerechten. De cassoulet  druipt van het vet, de helft van de bonen is gloeiend heet en de helft steenkoud. Blijkbaar is een blik cassoulet in de magnetron gezet zonder te roeren of de overmaat aan vet te verwijderen. Ik eet er nauwelijks van en concentreer me op de groene salade waar weinig mis mee is, de wijn en de koffie. Maar de entourage is idyllisch en de bediening traag genoeg om tot een goed gesprek te komen. 

We bezoeken het Hôtel de Grisson, aangetrokken door de mooie foto's van het interieur. Helaas worden we eerst door de kelders geleid waar een tentoonstelling is van middeleeuwse martelwerktuigen, illustraties van hoe ze gebruikt werden en wat de uitwerking er van was. Ik snel er doorheen zonder te kijken. Het is te gruwelijk voor woorden en ik kan niet begrijpen dat mensen elkaar door de eeuwen heen altijd de meest vreselijke dingen hebben aangedaan. Wat voor duivelse ideeën moet je hebben om zulk marteltuig te bedenken. Gezien in dat licht was de guillotine een zegen. Het ging erg snel allemaal.

De verdiepingen erboven vergoeden veel. De klassieke muziek die in de kamers klinkt, staat in schrille tegenstelling tot de kelders. Een groot terras biedt uitzicht op de Ganzenmarkt met een koperen sculptuur van drie ganzen, en op de toren van de voormalige Mariakerk, alias markthal.

Terug in de stad waar de hitte op ons slaat, treffen we fonteinen en stallen aan in verborgen hoekjes.

Het centrum aan deze kant van de doorgaande weg is erg druk. De andere kant is rustiger en heeft dan ook nauwelijks winkeltjes, behalve een winkel waar handbedrukte zijden dameskleding en sjaals worden verkocht en gemaakt. Sue kan de verleiding niet weerstaan en krijgt van haar man een schitterende blouse, ideaal voor Marokko waar ze binnenkort naartoe gaan. Er zijn hier ook kerken en kloosters die helaas gesloten zijn, verder poorten en steilere straatjes dan in het centrum. Het is meer een woongedeelte.

In dit stadje is de film "Chocolat" opgenomen, zo laat ik me vertellen. Misschien zou ik die weer eens moeten zien om te kijken of ik iets herken.

Om half vijf strijken we moe maar voldaan neer op een terras, waar ik een half uurtje later opgehaald wordt door mijn gastheer. Het was een bijzondere dag, in de eerste plaats vanwege de ontmoeting met de Amerikaanse vrienden. Maar ook vanwege de pittoreske omgeving, de verrassende hoeken en steegjes van Sarlat.

Dordogne

18-25 May 2011
My first stay in the Dordogne, a place overrun by the Dutch and the English. I had never been here before, only on the edge of the Dordogne, years ago, on our way to Vichy via a detour. Having friends in this part of the world eventually made it happen. This house in which I am staying is indeed a magic place, with beautiful, unobstructed views of the countryside, the rolling hills in the distance, a typical house of this area far away on the opposite hillside. The house is built of sturdy stone, uneven blocks hewn out of a quarry I guess, a mellow golden yellow colour, very warm in the light of the sun. It is a big house, with a lot of land, in fact two old farmhouses facing each other connected by a gallery which was built later. The house is U-shaped. The gallery or passage is now a wide living room with a view of the very sheltered part of the garden in between the two original houses.

The husband of my friend is a very keen gardener, pottering around for long hours every day. The garden is a huge piece of hilly land, with terraces, terracotta pots planted with flowers, herbs, olive trees. Poplars providing the much needed shade and shelter rattle in the wind, like gurgling streams. The swimming pool still has to be filled. There are four cherry trees, their branches hanging down and bending with the weight of the abundance of fruit. I eat them straight from the tree, before the birds do. There is a fig tree too.

The house is at the end of a small hamlet containing some 12 houses, bordering the woods where even during the daytime we find deer on the narrow, one way, winding and steep roads. I love this place and this area, with the picturesque market towns, the caves in the sheer cliffs bordering the two main rivers, the Vezère and the Dordogne, but mainly along the Vezère; the many castles, the ruins, the orchards and vineyards, the small brooks and winding roads, and the people. The French here are not the French of Paris, but much friendlier.

We venture out and do things in the morning, at a leisurely pace, first enjoying a coffee and a brioche or croissant in a café in the nearest village, visit one of the caves which still has original wall paintings, deep in the rock, climb amazingly steep hills to cliff top castles, passing well kept houses, the shutters painted a pale blue or bright red, the stone walls yellow, covered with an abundance of climbing roses in a variety of pink, red and white.

How people bring up their groceries and vegetables every day along those narrow alleys, baffles me. We admire fortified churches, some of them unfortunately closed, some very plain inside. Also old abbey churches, the abbeys long gone, martins buildings their nests in the eaves. But they always have flowers inside, and often there is music, Gregorian chant which starts as soon as one enters the church.

We also visit markets, the stalls displaying their beautiful fruits and vegetables, the small and firm apricots and peaches, baskets with cherries, big juicy strawberries, thick white asparagus bound together, onions, very clean, artichokes, tomatoes in all shapes and sizes, even nearly dark purple ones, peas in the pod, mange-touts, a variety of beans. The stalls with so many local cheeses even truffle cheese, with pâté-de-foie gras, rillettes de canard and geese, all beautifully prepared and packed. This is a country of walnuts, cherries and truffles. There are even special markets for truffles only, starting in autumn. I drink truffle liqueur and taste truffle cheese.

I know that here too people get sick, people divorce, people die. Nevertheless it is totally different to spend one’s life in a village like that, living of the land, using everything it gives, not wasting anything, making jams, pâtés, growing grapes and making wine. I must be hard to live here as a vegetarian, in spite of the abundance of fresh vegetables and fruits, even when herbs almost grow wild in one’s own back garden, as anything which moves seems to be eaten. Frogs, snails, rabbits, geese, all kinds of birds, if there is meat on them they are potential food.

This week has given me a chance to rest and recover after a very difficult autumn and winter; to get some rest, just be, admire the garden, absorb the smells, textures and colours; to be pampered and unconditionally accepted by dear and caring friends – including the dog and the two cats.

I went with them to a service in the Anglican church, taking place in the small Catholic church of Limeuil, the place where the Vezère joins the Dordogne, high on the hilltop; the “congregation” very mixed and most welcoming. The Anglican priest with his young family of four being Dutch, the body of the worshippers mainly retired English speaking people, some tourists among them. The “bring and share” lunch in the Mairie on the banks of the Dordogne a real friendly and nice event.    

A quiet Sunday. Sun, lots of wind and cold! The roses in the garden are in full bloom, especially the dark purple ones which I had not expected to survive. In fact one of the more ordinary pink roses has died, and the other one is not in bloom yet, although it has formed buds. The service this morning was quiet too, half the congregation having gone to Amsterdam to witness the blessing of a new pastor in a Dutch protestant church, a popular retired church member who studied theology after being made redundant and has begun a new career, or rather followed his vocation. The hymns in The Hague were all traditional and beautiful. No mission songs or Kendrick songs, which I actually dislike during a church service. It was all about the good shepherd, and so was the anthem.

Yesterday I went to Veenendaal, amongst other things to collect a dinner set in my father's apartment. It was quiet, but it looked as if he could come in any time. I felt he would be glad to see me. If he had lived, he would have urged me to take him on a drive to see the flowering trees, the bright green grass, the chestnuts in full bloom with their white and red "candles", the beech trees with their translucent reddish and yellow-green leaves, and the river, the sun sparkling on the water which is very low because of this long spell of dry weather, which we like, but the farmers don't. I went to his grave, to see if the stone had been replaced bearing his name. It had, his letters brighter and newer than those spelling my mother's name. It is odd to think he and my mother are there, and I do not feel close to him there. A dead body is just that, not the personality he once was and will remain for me and the people who loved him. His paintings, his writings and his organ which he played every day mornings and evenings before going to sleep, are all more him than anything else. So I feel that here in my living room, where his organ – two manuals and a full pedal - is now, he is closer to me than anywhere else. And he would have approved. When I looked through his photo albums which were very carefully labelled and organised, I was moved by an album in which he had put pictures of the weddings of each of his children. Of my youngest brother of both his weddings. Fortunately he had not torn out the pictures of his first wedding. But also of my wedding, although my parents did not attend it as they were dead against it. Nevertheless the pictures were there, without any comment, plus the invitation cards. Somehow or other he is still so close to me and I can't imagine or grasp he is no longer among us. He is in spirit. But it is so quiet now, not speaking to him on the telephone every night, just telling me about his often uneventful day, the meals he had, the people who came to see him, most days just caretakers, although he had many friends. I do miss that. Gradually I feel truly orphaned and widowed, a loose end, not belonging to anyone, even if I know that people never belong to anyone, but may only be attached to another person, at best through the bond of love, of children, of family. Yes, I have brothers and a sister, but they all have their own families now. They are each and every one of them not just parents but grandparents and have busy lives. To Dutch standards they live rather far away from me too. And they have no clue about how I live, what I do. Perhaps I do not really know what they do all day either.

                The graveyard is a nice and quiet park, an old sand hill in the middle of the peat, the river valley,  on which Veenendaal , as the name so aptly suggests, is built. It is big, beautifully kept and has a lot of old trees. Not a bad place to be, a peaceful garden of remembrance.

                So thinking about all that I water and tie my roses, ramblers which tend to flop in all directions. I have to lead and guide them, very carefully, so that they grow well, cover my wall and are happy. They even smell in the evening, an intoxicating smell similar to the smell of the wild roses which grow in the dunes, on very sandy soil.

Lier, a Belgian jewel

Easter Monday, a warm summer's day. Lier seems asleep, just as the surrounding countryside, as flat as Holland, as untidy as only Belgium can be, the houses and buildings haphazardly placed as if a giant has emptied a box with toys from high up in the sky, not caring where things fell. In the midst of this, hidden by a green belt, we discover Lier, a jewel. The sun reflects on the water of the river Nete, cyclists enjoy the small dikes forbidden for cars and motorized traffic. We park the car just outside the small market town, in the shade of a wide, tree lined road. It is only a short walk along the narrow cobbled streets to the huge church, in size and importance a cathedral, one of the few buildings which weren't destroyed in the First World War when the Germans almost razed Lier to the ground as it impeded their march towards Antwerp. The Saint Gummarus[1] is closely surrounded by houses, its tower visible from afar. It is a beautiful example of the Gothic style which was then at its peak. Building began in 1378 and it took some 250 years to complete the church. The church is partly hidden from view by scaffolding.  Some of the outer walls have already been cleaned and are blindingly white, whereas the south walls still have a greyish colour and the statues and ornaments decorating the walls are in places chipped and crumbling.

         We are here to see the choir stalls and the famous medieval stained glass windows. Alas, inside the church restoration is also in full swing judging by the sheets of plastic, the dust, the dishevelled choir and the scaffolding. The famous glass has been removed, the windows boarded up. The wooden choir stalls have been moved to the sides, robbed of their special lanterns, the miserecordia's covered in dusty cobwebs. It is impossible to photograph them, unless I trespass and step over the thick red rope closing off the choir, and lift the wooden seats of the pews one by one. It is dark in this part of the church. A triptych by Rubens of which only the two side panels are said to be original, the main panel a replica, is hidden behind a big wooden box. If we had not known it should be somewhere in this church, we would have missed it completely. We can hardly imagine what the choir will look like when the windows will be put in place after the restoration and the light will stream into this part of the church again through the beautiful windows, when the choir stalls will be where they should be, the lanterns back on top. Now everything is covered in a thin layer of cement dust. The side-chapels which encircle the choir like petals, contain splendid works of art, triptychs decorated with gold leaf, the blue and red still vividly bright; a Piëta dating back to the 15^th century; art which has been placed here and there without any further thought or plan. It looks like an old antiques and bric-a-brac fair, full of exciting and unexpected treasures in hidden corners, dusty and neglected.

         The nave of the church is filled with light, and the beautifully carved baroque pulpit bathes in it. The most impressive part is the sculptured choir screen, looking like intricate lacework, separating the nave from the choir.  It was made in 1536 by a sculptor from Mechelen, then the capital of that region. A guide, an elderly man, takes us to a side chapel which he opens with a large key. Inside he shows us crates in which the stained glass windows have been carefully packed to be taken away for restoration. They have been sitting there for a long time, he tells us. And they are supposed to be ready in 2012. His tone betrays his doubts.

         He enjoys the questions my companion keeps asking him, and when the church closes at midday, he offers to show us the most important sights of Lier. Bike in one hand, he guides us through narrow alleys and cobbled streets, past former monasteries and nunneries, past the Timmermans Museum, dedicated to the well-known author Felix Timmermans who lived in Lier, to the Beguinage.

         The Beguinage is totally enchanting. It is very quiet and sleepy, a village of its own, just on the periphery of the town. The whitewashed houses are almost blinding in the midday sun. They have no numbers but sweet sounding names, such as 't Soete Naemken, and de gestolen live vrouw. (The Sweet Name, and the stolen kind woman.) They vary in style, size and decoration and must have been built in different periods. In the middle of the Beguinage, in a sundrenched square, stands a big Baroque church the front of which could easily belong to a church in Portugal or Mexico. The church is locked, because of petty theft as we are told later. A pity, as the interior seems to be worth a visit. Many of the little houses are rented out, others are empty awaiting restoration. I feel a stab of jealousy when a young woman puts her bike against the wall of one of the little houses and turns a key in the lock of the front door. It must be wonderful to live here. Our guide tells us that the two gates, one leading into the town, the other one opening to the banks of the Nete, were still locked every night when he was a boy.

         We thank our guide, who is obviously very pleased that we were so interested in everything he loved to tell us, and wave him goodbye when he mounts his bike and goes on his way. We turn our attention to more mundane things and find a sidewalk cafe with a view of the well-known Zimmer Tower and a metal flock of sheep, referring to the rich past of Lier, enjoying the view as well as the Belgian specialities.

         An inhabitant of the Beguinage whom we talk to on our second walk through the area, tells us that the Beguinage started out in the Middle Ages as the red light district. The wool industry was very important in Lier, and water was needed to process the wool. To prevent the water within the town to be contaminated, a block of houses was built just outside the town where young farmer's daughters lived who were entrusted with the task of washing the dirty wool. In the evenings they offered other services. It was not until the 16th century that pious and unmarried women came to live here. I do not know if all the beguinages started out as houses of pleasure, or if this just applies to Lier. The one in Lier is a world heritage site, which honour however does not imply provision of the necessary funds for its upkeep. Money comes from other funds and sources, which is the cause of endless bureaucratic disputes and nightmares. Meanwhile the restoration progresses very slowly and many of the delectable houses are falling into disrepair while remaining uninhabited. It could be a haven for artists, writers and recluses.

         Reluctantly we take our leave of the Beguinage and explore the rest of Lier: the market square with the Town Hall and the many street cafe's; the wide river Nete streaming through Lier and joining another branch which embraces Lier. The dikes along the river, bordered on both sides by trees showing their young, bright green foliage, are free of traffic and perfect for walking. Young parents with prams, old people, arm in arm, a walking stick in their free hand, lovebirds oblivious of their surroundings, children on coloured bicycles, they all enjoy the coolness of the shady banks, parading here as if they are Italians on the leafy walls of Lucca. A few boats with tourists drift noiselessly by, the only sound the voices of the guides who point out through microphones the passing sights and points of interest. On a bench under the blossoming chestnut trees we let them sail by, lazily enjoying this day.

         Later in the afternoon the town fills with people. The sunny street cafe's are packed, so much so that we can only find a table with great difficulty. Young and old, cyclists and loiterers, friends and families, gather here at the end of the day to enjoy the sun, Belgian beer and the staple food: chips. And so do we, before setting off for home.

        

photo's

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[1]  Saint Gummarus

"Schoon Lier", in Dutch this time!

Tweede Paasdag, een warme zomerdag. Lier slaapt, evenals het land er omheen, plat zoals Nederland, rommelig zoals alleen België maar kan zijn. In dit land ligt Lier verscholen, een klein juweel, omgeven door een groene gordel. De zon schittert op het water van de Nete, geruisloos volgen fietsers de smalle dijken, verboden terrein voor auto's. We parkeren de auto net iets buiten het stadje, onder de bomen. Via nauwe straatjes, geplaveid met kasseien, is het een korte wandeling naar de enorme kerk, een van de weinige gebouwen die niet verwoest zijn in de Eerste Wereldoorlog, toen de Duitsers Lier plat walsten, een obstakel in hun opmars naar Antwerpen. De Sint Gummaruskerk[1] ligt ingeklemd tussen huizen, de toren van verre zichtbaar. Het is een voorbeeld van Brabantse hooggotiek. Men begon in 1378 met de bouw, om die ruim 250 jaar later te voltooien. In 1496 werd het huwelijk van Philips de Schone met Johanna van Castilië hier ingezegend. De kerk staat gedeeltelijk in de steigers. Een deel van de muren is verblindend wit, de stenen te glad geschuurd. De zuidgevel is nog grauwgrijs en ornamenten zijn afgebrokkeld.

         We komen speciaal voor de koorbanken en de gebrandschilderde ramen in het koor. Helaas, ook van binnen wordt de kerk gerestaureerd. De beroemde middeleeuwse ramen zijn weggenomen, de openingen dichtgetimmerd met planken. De koorbanken staan slordig naar de zijkanten geschoven. Spinrag hangt aan de neus van een leeuwenkop, een van de miserecordia's. Er is geen schijn van kans dat ik ze kan fotograferen, tenzij ik wederrechterlijk over het gespannen rode koord heenstap en de zittingen een voor een optil. Het koor is donker. Een drieluik van Rubens waarvan alleen de zijpanelen origineel zijn, staat verscholen opgesteld achter een houten stellage. We kunnen ons maar nauwelijks voorstellen hoe het koor eruit zal zien als de restauratie voltooid is en het licht volop zal binnen stromen door de beroemde ramen, de koorbanken weer in de normale opstelling zullen staan voorzien van de unieke lantaarns. Alles is bedekt met een sluier van fijn cementstof. In de zijkapellen, die als bloembladeren het koor omkransen, treffen we prachtige kunstwerken aan, drieluiken versierd met bladgoud, het blauw en rood nog fel en stralend. Een Piëta uit de 15^e eeuw, kunstwerken die wat achteloos neergezet lijken. Het doet denken aan een grote rommelmarkt, vol verrassende vondsten op onverwachte plekken, stoffig en verwaarloosd.

         Het schip van de kerk baadt in het licht, zodat we de fraaie barokke houten preekstoel kunnen bewonderen. Het meest indrukwekkend is het gebeeldhouwde doksaal, de afscheiding tussen koor en schip. Het is in 1536 gemaakt door Mechelse beeldhouwers, een wonder van kantwerk. Een wat oudere gids neemt ons mee naar een zijkapel die hij met een grote sleutel opent. Hier staan de ramen uit het koor opgeslagen, in vierkante kisten, klaar om gerestaureerd te worden. Ze staan er al erg lang, vertelt hij. En in 2012 moeten ze klaar zijn. Ongeloof klinkt door in zijn stem. Hoe meer vragen mijn metgezel stelt, hoe enthousiaster hij wordt, en als de kerk omstreeks het middaguur sluit, biedt hij aan ons rond te leiden langs de bekendste bezienswaardigheden van Lier. Met de fiets aan de hand gidst hij ons door nauwe straatjes, langs oude kloosters en het Timmermans Museum, gewijd aan de beroemde schrijver van deze stad Felix Timmermans, naar het Begijnhof.

         Het hof is wonderschoon, slaperig en doodstil, een dorp op zich, aan de rand van Lier, destijds buiten het centrum gelegen. De zon schijnt fel op de witgekalkte huisjes die namen dragen als "'t Soete Naemken", en "de gestolen live vrouw". De huizen verschillen nogal in grootte, stijl en bouw. In het midden, op een zondoorstoofd plein, een kerk met een barokke gevel die je zo in Portugal of Italië zou kunnen plaatsen. Helaas is de kerk gesloten omdat er veel kunstwerken uit de kerk gestolen zijn. Jammer, want het interieur schijnt de moeite waard te zijn. Een gedeelte van het hof wordt gerenoveerd. Veel huisjes staan leeg in afwachting van restauratie. de rest is verhuurd. Met enige afgunst kijk ik naar een jonge vrouw die haar fiets tegen een huisje zet en de sleutel in het slot steekt. De gids vertelt ons dat de twee poorten, een aan de stadskant en een die toegang geeft tot de Nete, in zijn jeugd 's avonds nog gesloten werden.

         We nemen afscheid van onze gids die zichtbaar tevreden is dat hij zijn verhaal aan ons kwijt kon, en zoeken een plek om te lunchen. Op het terras met uitzicht op de Zimmer toren en een metalen kudde schapen, een verwijzing naar het rijke verleden van Lier, laten we ons de Belgische specialiteiten goed smaken.

         Een bewoner van het hof die we spreken op een tweede wandeling, vertelt ons dat het Begijnhof in de middeleeuwen in feite de rosse buurt was. Lier leefde van de lakenindustrie evenals Leiden. Daarvoor was water nodig. Om het water in de stad niet te vervuilen, werd een wijkje gebouwd buiten de stad waar boerenmeiden woonden die de wol wasten. 's Avonds zorgden ze voor ander vertier. Pas in de 16^e eeuw kwamen hier ongehuwde, vrome vrouwen te wonen. Of de overgang van rosse buurt naar Begijnhof alleen voor Lier gold, vermeldt het verhaal niet. Het Beginhof in Lier staat op de UNESCO werelderfgoedlijst, dat overigens niet zorgt voor fondsen om het hof daadwerkelijk te onderhouden. Die moeten van andere instanties komen, wat geleid heeft tot een bureaucratische nachtmerrie, impasse en leegstand. Het autoloze hof  lijkt een droomwereld, een oase voor kunstenaars en rustzoekers.

         We rukken ons maar met moeite los en verkennen de rest van Lier: de markt met het stadhuis en de vele terrassen, het brede water van de Nete dat door Lier stroomt en dat uitkomt op de tak van de Nete die Lier omgeeft. Op de aarden wallen, omzoomd door bomen die in jong felgroen blad staan, is het goed wandelen. Jonge ouders met kinderwagens, oudjes arm in arm, in de vrije hand een wandelstok, verliefde stellen, kinderen op kleurige fietsjes, alles komt voorbij en geniet van de koelte en de stilte. Opvallend is de afwezigheid van verkeer. We zijn bijna vergeten hoe weldadig dat kan zijn. De stadswallen doen me denken aan Lucca in Toscane, een totaal andere stad, maar ook omgeven door lommerrijke stadwallen waar het heerlijk toeven en flaneren is, weg van de hitte van de stad. Een paar fluisterboten met wat toeristen varen voorbij, het enige geluid de stem van de gidsen die via een microfoon wijzen op bezienswaardigheden en vertellen over de geschiedenis van de stad en de gebouwen die ze passeren. Op een bankje aan de kade onder de bloeiende kastanjebomen laten we ze aan ons voorbij glijden, loom genietend van deze dag.

         Later in de middag wordt het drukker. De zonovergoten terrassen stromen vol, zo vol zelfs dat we slechts met moeite een plaatsje kunnen vinden. Jong en oud, horden fietsers en slenteraars, beëindigen de dag hier in de zon, genietend van Belgisch bier en grote porties frieten. Zo ook wij, voor we weer vertrekken richting Nederland.

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[1]  Sint Gummarus

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