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 15th 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.
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