A musical weekend

Writing about music is not easy. How to express what one feels or experiences when listening to music, or seeing someone perform, someone who is totally transformed and lost in the music, trying to get into the mind of the composer, relive that experience, that creative process, as if hearing and discovering the music for the first time.

This past weekend has been a weekend full of music, and some of it very memorable.

On Friday afternoon, the son of friends, their only child and extremely talented, played a piano recital for his MA examination in the Royal School of Music in The Hague. I had heard him play before, during lunchtime recitals, alone and with friends playing other instruments. As an accompanist he was extremely good, supporting the soloists, and not taking first place. Also he seemed confident and to enjoy what he was doing. This time, his program was very ambitious and comprised four different genres.

J.P. Sweelinck       Fantasia Crommatica

C. Franck              Prelude, Choral et Fugue

A. Skriabin            Sonata Nr. 9 "Messe Noir"

F. Schubert            Wanderfantasie

The Sweelinck is originally written for organ or harpsichord, not for piano. I had expected it to be dull. Sweelinck is very mathematical, and how does one translate that for piano. An organ has stops, so one can make the music more interesting by making use of them. But it wasn't dull at all, fascinating and played very sensitively, with a light but varied touch.

It is amazing to see such a young musician disappearing into a different world, the world of the composer, internalising the music, making it his own and  recreating it, being the music. It seems astonishing that complicated music like this, a programme which filled an hour and fifteen minutes, can be played by heart, without any score. On the other hand, music can only be performed like that if it one knows it by heart, so that one can really build up phrases, be the music. Of course every soloist does that, but seeing it done by somebody so young and sitting so near, is fascinating.

Skriabin's music was really difficult, and totally different from Sweelinck. And Schubert was a surprise, the mood changing all the time, fingers touching the keys as if water was dancing over stones in a fast streaming brook.

He passed with flying colours. Afterwards we had drinks somewhere with some friends and his parents, and he was just his normal self again, modest, kind.

Skriabin

This is the piece by Sweelinck played on the organ. There are also versions on the internet where the Fantasia Crommatica is played on a harpsichord

That evening I went to the choir practice of our church choir.

The following  day it was off to Rotterdam for a final practice with the ECS for our week in Ely cathedral this August. We worked hard from 10.30-16.00 hrs. It is obvious that I will have to study quite a few things at home! But it was a joyful and fruitful practice. I was back just in time for a festive gathering in our street, the annual street BBQ which this time was held in the home of one of my neighbours, because of the inclement weather which we hadn't bargained for. Many former residents of this street came back specially for the occasion, even from Germany and Norway! We are a remarkable street and have shared sorrow and happiness for many years. Although I tried not to drink too much and not to go home too late, it was still very difficult to get up the next morning, in time for the service in The Hague. But I did not want to miss it, as the anthem was Tchaikovsky's hymn to the Trinity, a beautiful anthem, very appropriate for Trinity Sunday.

Not the best rendering of the hymn, but I could not find anything else

Once we sang it during a Choral Festival, and the singers spread out among the worshippers, so that the sound came from everywhere. It was hauntingly beautiful. Our church choir is only small, so it was not something we could repeat. Nevertheless the music touches me every time I sing it.

Marken Revisited and the Delta Works

Marken, Volendam, Edam, Monnickendam, the towns I mentioned in the earlier post, are not really towns one should show to visitors as representative of contemporary Dutch culture, only as historic Dutch culture. Those towns have completely lost the way of life which made them what they are, and are in danger of fast becoming living museums. Building the "Afsluitdijk" was the definite seal on their ruin. The beautiful gabled houses, the gable stones all testify to their past, when they were open to the sea. The sea which was a threat as well as a source of income. The East India Company which traded with far off lands and brought in spices and other exotic goods provided wealth. So did the fishermen, and the whalers. Big churches were built. People were aware of the uncertainty of one's existence, death was round the corner. They trusted in God. Who else to trust in? They thanked the Lord for profusion and a safe return, asked for a blessing on their journeys. All that is gone. Amsterdam is a threat to this part of the country. Quite a lot of people who live here now in the nicely restored houses were not originally born here, but commute. Work is elsewhere. Although eel is still a product of the IJsselmeer, most fishermen have to go to other harbours to be able to fish at sea. And moreover all fishing activities are threatened by European quota, rules and regulations. It is sad to see those towns gradually change into commuter towns, satellites of Amsterdam. And the source of their beauty and wealth gone. That applies to many a town around the IJsselmeer, but especially to those in the province of North-Holland. In the harbours hundreds of private pleasure yachts are moored, but no longer any barges for cargo or fishing ships. The historic, big sailing ships with their tall masts and brown coloured sails, are used for tourist trips, parties, and sailing holidays. But at least one tries thus to preserve them so that they won't be destroyed.

Monnickendam, Cornerstone

If we want to show tourists the real Netherlands, as they are nowadays, we should show them Rotterdam with the many docks, Europoort, Pernis with the refineries. Not beautiful, but that is where it happens. That is where work is found. And we should show them the Delta works south of Rotterdam, the dykes, locks, sluices and storm surge barriers which protect the many islands of "Zeeland" from the sea. This mega project was started after the dreadful floods of 1953, when Zeeland and part of Zuid-Holland were flooded by the sea in a terrible storm and the dikes were destroyed by the force of the waters. Many lives were lost. Now the islands are connected to each other and to the mainland, and easily accessible. They are no longer surrounded by the sea, which can indeed be extremely cruel. The lakes in between the former islands are partly bracken, as sea water is let in in moderation. Oysters and mussels grow well in those waters. The whole system of dykes, locks and storm surge barriers is a very ingenious work of art which the Dutch can indeed be proud of. Our expertise when it comes to building in water is now an export product.

Pictures of the "Watersnoodramp", the big disaster.

Pictures of the Delta works.

Film of the Flood Disaster. Since at that time there was no television, there was a special cinema where one could see newsreels. This film is the first news about the floods. It is very clear that on the first day nobody knew about the extent of the disaster. Only a day later it became clear that most of Zeeland had been flooded and many lives had been lost. Unfortunately the film is in Dutch, but the film is nevertheless very impressive.

A personal memory

Most people will remember exactly where they were and what they did when they heard that John F. Kennedy was murdered. And also when the twin towers in Manhattan were destroyed by terrorist actions. Those disasters have had such an impact that we will never forget them. So it was with those dreadful and devastating floods of 1953. Communications were not nearly as good as they are nowadays: no internet, no cell phones, no television, and only very few people had a telephone at all. Telephone lines in the affected area were cut off and went dead. Only when planes flew over the area, the extent of the damage became known.

At the time I was a little girl. And I remember clearly what happened. Thinking of that day again I am filled with horror, but also with shame. Horror because we could not understand how this could have happened, and that so many lives of innocent people were lost. A day later it became clear that almost all the livestock on the islands was drowned as well.

When I came down that Sunday morning I was happy. My mother had made me a new dress which she had just finished and as it was a Sunday I put it on for the first time. I hoped that everybody would admire the dress, or rather would admire me in that dress and say that I looked beautiful, just like my older sister who was much more attractive than I was. I was a very skinny and tiny girl, with straight, blond, wispy, fly-away hair, and a very pale skin which would never tan but burn, peel off and be disgustingly pink where the new skin had formed. My sister had an olive coloured skin, tanned if she only looked at the sun, and had dark, wavy hair. She had a marvellously narrow waist. In short, she was very attractive. When I came down, full of expectations, my father's ear was glued to the radio in the sitting room. I did not hear the religious or classical music with which he usually filled the house on a Sunday morning to wake us up. Instead he put his finger to his lips so that I would not say anything and said that something terrible had happened. We knew the threat of the sea, living in Scheveningen and having uncles who were fishermen. We knew about the danger of storms and people drowning at sea. But that dikes could break through, dikes which were supposed to protect us, was something so unheard of and so unexpected, that it filled us with fear. We heard that Rotterdam was partly flooded, and that in other places lives had been lost. The extent of the disaster wasn't clear yet. We only learned that the following day. I remember feeling very disappointed that no one paid any attention to my dress nor seemed to notice it. And at the same time I felt very ashamed about those feelings, as many people apparently had lost their homes and had nothing left, no clothes, no possessions whatsoever. We did not know yet how many had lost their lives and that all of Zeeland was virtually flooded. That I could feel disappointment over a trivial thing like a new dress – or rather myself in this dress – not being noticed, when so many people had experienced a disaster, filled me with shame. To punish myself I tried to imagine what it must be like to lose everything, not to have any clothes except the ones you had on. To be dependent on the goodness of others and to be forced to wear second hand clothes which people gave you.

I still remember that dress, made of dark red wool . It was decorated with yellow zigzag braiding. It concealed the extra seams in the sleeves and at the hem. My mother used to buy remnants of material because that was cheap. The lenghts were always too short and my mother would move the pattern around on the material as if she were solving a jigsaw puzzle, till she had fitted everything in and not a scrap of spare material was left. But it implied extra seams in places where one would normally not find them.

Not long after this terrible flood there was a new girl in our class at school. She came from the islands. She fascinated me, because she looked so different. In Scheveningen everyone had blue eyes and fair hair. She had dark curly hair and very dark eyes, which looked extremely sad. I never saw her laugh. She just sat there. Our teacher told us that she was a refugee from the flooded islands, and that she would stay with us till her island and her home were habitable again. I never dared to ask her what she had experienced and had lived through. She seemed to be surrounded by a cloud of sadness. She stayed at our school for the rest of the year. Her name was Francisca. I have loved that name ever since.

Since that flood the nightmares began in which I drowned in dark, black water. I would wake up in a sweat, but as soon as I fell asleep again, the dream repeated itself or continued. Nobody heard my screams, nobody noticed me when the water closed over my head.

Visitors

A visit of a friend from Minneapolis has turned me into a tourist in my own country for the past five days or so. It is really lovely to have such a mini holiday, with no responsibilities except being a tour guide - and a cook. Unfortunately the weather was mainly cold, wet and windy. We did see some sun, but compared to the weeks of glorious sunshine and summer, it was more like autumn or a very cold spring.

Instead of going for a tour of the Delta Works, showing what the Dutch are capable of when it comes to managing the threats of the sea, and the results of our technical ingenuity, we went to some towns and villages north of Amsterdam, an example of what Holland looked like in the former century.

Marken and Monnickendam, Volendam and Edam may now be in varying degrees tourist traps, but on a cold day, windy and with a fine rain coming down at times, the towns were not really busy on this Whit Monday. North of Amsterdam many towns still have houses built of wood, painted in blue-grey, or green with white stripes. At one time those towns were prosperous, when what now is the IJsselmeer still was the Zuiderzee (Southern Sea) and open to the North Sea. Most towns were sea faring towns, there were whalers, simple fishermen, but also the very wealthy East India Company (VOC) was based in these towns. Many houses and streets still bear the names of distant lands or of the products they used to store.

Durgerdam

We started in Durgerdam, just a small and narrow village along the dyke of the IJsselmeer, looking out over the expanse of water. At least, that used to be the case. To my dismay I noticed that Amsterdam had taken possession of many of the islands in the IJsselmeer. Once working islands and docklands, they are now residential areas with apartment buildings, encroaching on the views and the horizon. The houses have an extra, lower floor at the back, at the same level as the fields which are below the water level of the IJsselmeer.

We proceeded to Uitdam, where the houses are built mainly below the dyke, with no view of the lake. At this time of year they look like the illustrations from a book of fairy tales, the white and blue painted clapboard houses, the pink hydrangeas, the green lawns and the picturesque shutters. Even on  a grey day the houses look pretty.

Next was Marken, once an island in the IJsselmeer, now – since the mid-fifties of the twentieth century - connected to the mainland by a dyke or causeway. Because of its isolated position for so many years, it has its own local costume and its own type of houses, which seem to be put haphazardly on any piece of higher ground. The local costumes are very colourful, and it is one of the few places where local costumes are still everyday wear and not just worn for the tourists. Especially on festive days, like Whitsun, and on Sundays the costume is worn. Today we are not in luck. When I ask a shop lady whose tiny shop is full of large bolts of the colourful material the costumes are made of, why I see nobody in those costumes, she laughs and says that this weather would completely ruin the expensive clothes. The day before, Whitsun, it was sunny and so many people wore their costumes. In the not so long ago past, the inhabitants would only have these costumes and work in them in all weathers.

 The two ladies in the museum wear this every day. They never had any other clothes.

When the IJsselmeer was still open to the sea, the island was regularly flooded, so the houses are built in high places or on stilts. Now they have enclosed the stilts and have their sculleries, washing machines etc. housed there, as there is no longer any danger of flooding. The living rooms are over this basement. So in front of the wooden houses, stairs are leading to the front door. The houses are painted dark green with white decorations, built very close together.

  

Hay and fish were the products Marken traded in. The harbour still houses old fashioned sailing ships with brown coloured sails, working ships which are now privately owned and used for pleasure trips. There are fish stalls everywhere, and the smoked eel is absolutely delicious.

Because of the weather it is still relatively quiet on the island. I see parts of it I had never been too, for the island is divided into "neighbourhoods", mini communities.

For the tourists there is a factory where wooden shoes are made and demonstrations are given. I do not remember it was there 20 years ago. But at that time there was no big parking lot either and anybody could drive to the harbour. Now tourists have to stop and park and go through Marken on foot. It is still a working village, not a museum, and one hopes it will stay like that.

We spent a few hours here, and I even bought some lengths of material, and a pair of wooden clogs with leather uppers, Swedish clogs especially for work in the garden.

The next stop is Monnickendam, a different town altogether, also on the IJsselmeer, but mainly with brick houses and very beautiful ones at that. We have a drink on the terrace in the former fish banks on the quay of the harbour for the big old sailing ships.

Fish Bank Monnickendam

We admire the lovely gables of the houses, the gable stones, the fancy clock in the clock tower. Then we see an announcement of a Bach concert in the big protestant church on the edge of town, that will take place that very afternoon. It is an extra bonus. Our feet are protesting, and it is cold. We have done too much walking and sightseeing, so to rest them while enjoying a concert is a welcome prospect. The church is packed, and the concert with organ music for Pentecost and a cantata by J.S.Bach also written for this special day, is a joy to listen to. The musicians are excellent performers, singers and players alike, and we hear many an instrumental and vocal soloist.

Historic sailing ships

a gable stone, Monnickendam

organ of the church in Monnickendam

When we emerge after the concert it is dry, but the streets are very wet. We drive to Volendam, a dreadfully touristy place. Here the local costume is totally different from the Marken costumes, and only worn for the tourists, but not today. The dyke along the IJsselmeer and the harbour is very attractive, with a beautiful view of the lake. But it is rather spoilt by the crowds of people. Every other shop is either a fishmonger's, a fish stall, a souvenir shop, a cafe or a photographer's where one can change into the local costume and have one's picture taken. It has been made into a pedestrian area out of necessity. We just walk around the harbour and fortify ourselves with some deep fried cod pieces, called "kibbeling", before setting off for the next small town of Edam, well-known for its cheeses and cheese market. It is more rural and more like Monnickendam, with a mixture of wooden and brick houses. The church on the edge of town is immense and very beautiful. We do not go in this time but turn and drive back home. Time to put our feet up!


Here is one of the organ pieces performed. Quite a slower tempo than in Monnickendam, but nevertheless beautiful.

A funeral

June 7th 2011

A strange day yesterday. To start with the funeral of an uncle, who belonged to a very strict protestant church, what they call a "black stocking church". Women who are members of that church never wear trousers or slacks, always skirts, and black stockings or tights. They wrap up in layers, a blouse, neck scarves, a vest and jackets so that not an inch of bare skin is visible. No plunge necks for them, which might be a sign of good taste. Given the fact that this uncle has produced six children, the number of family attending his funeral was rather small. Two of his daughters never married, another daughter has only one daughter who wasn't there but took her father's side after the divorce, one of his sons is partly handicapped and although happily married never had any children. His oldest son has broken off all contact when his father remarried a widow after becoming a widower himself. He has never forgiven his father, and so neither he nor any of his children nor grandchildren attend the funeral. The only children and grandchildren present are the offspring of his oldest daughter.

My uncle was the last surviving member of a family of eight, one of my mother's six brothers. He died at the age of 94. Later in life he became a member of this very strict church. When I arrive at the cemetery where the service is going to take place, I only see a sea of black: men and women, the men with leather-bound bibles in their hands, the women with black stockings, black skirts and black hats. I do not know any of them. Apparently they all come from the village where my uncle lived for the past 15 years or so, from the nursing home and the church there. At the very last moment two other cousins of mine arrive. None of them liked my uncle, who did not like any of us because we did not share his very gloomy religious beliefs. He wasn't a friendly man at all, at least not to us, did not attend my mother's funeral, his own sister, because we went to a different church. He just sent a black-rimmed card with "My condolences" written on it. I could have murdered him and decided I would never go to his funeral. But since his daughters, my nieces, are very nice women  and I live closest to the place where he will be buried, I decided to represent our family, for his children's sake.

The service, which I expected to be short seeing the liturgy, was intolerably long. It began with a psalm, which was sung on notes all of the same length, in a tempo so slow that I had to breathe after every two notes. It can hardly be called singing. It drags along and in order to reach the next note people slide up and down like a plane landing or taking off. It is a most unusual sound, the sort of singing we used to hear when we were children and listened via a special band to the church services which were broadcast from the hospital ship cruising on the North Sea. The sound came to us in waves, as if carried by them. As a child I found it extremely fascinating.

Then a prayer, which turned out to be a full sermon, admonishing us and explaining things to God, who is supposed to be all-knowing. After the "amen", I expected a short sermon, but it was a repeat of the prayer, and much longer, talking about God's wrath. It went on and on. At last, another psalm, just as dreadful as before. The preacher did not tell us anything about my uncle's life, nothing personal except his struggle with God's wrath. Nothing about his days as a fisherman in Scheveningen, the family he came from, the world of his youth which has disappeared as well as the life at sea he led as a fisherman. Nobody else was allowed to say anything. Or if they were, they didn't. There were no flowers, not even a single one on the coffin.

At the pit, we got another sermon of some ten minutes, another repeat and the awful warning that my uncle was exchanging his living quarters here for a dwelling in the heavenly realms above. But that for us that was not at all sure. If we did not experience God's wrath, and then his forgiveness, there would be no place in heaven for us when we would depart this life. It was most comforting!  He then concluded by saying the Credo, which we were only allowed to say silently in our hearts with him. Well, why do people belonging to such a denomination wonder that youngsters leave the church once they leave the protected environment of their parental home or their village and go to study at university?

There was a very small group of people left afterwards for the customary coffee and cake, as the black contingent from my uncle's village had left, some with their hats tucked away in big plastic bags, and there was hardly any family except his own children and some of his grand- and great-grandchildren. Such a contrast with my father's funeral when the church was packed and the preaching was about hope and God's love. And we as children had the opportunity to give a short resume of his life, his love for my mother, for us, his work for the church, his unfaltering faith in God's mercy and love, and in the resurrection. It was a true service of thanksgiving for his life, the life God had given him.

It was nice to see the two other cousins and the wife of one of them afterwards. We discussed a possible family reunion, as that would now be the only chance to meet, except for the funeral of an aunt at some point in time, who is an in-law.

I returned just when my time according to the parking metre was running out. Even when you go to a funeral, there are no free parking spaces in The Hague.

Then the day accelerated with a scheduled visit to my accountant for the tax forms; a shopping spree as therapy after the dismal morning, the excuse being that there is a sale on; a visit to the market for the healthy things in life, which seem not all that healthy now that a there is an epidemic going on in Germany supposedly brought on by agricultural produce. And then last but not least an unexpected visit from a friend for whom I cooked a meal, making use of all the fresh produce. We enjoyed the melon and cured ham, the fresh beans and the salmon fillets, all accompanied by a nice and cool chablis, and then big, sweet cherries, followed by a coffee.

It is always so much nicer to share a meal than to eat in solitude. The food tastes a lot better, and so it was a satisfactory ending to a memorable day.

Smells and Bells and singing

Sunday June 5th

I wake up to a rainy day, and a temperature which is at least 15 degrees lower than yesterday.

Today is the rededication of St. Boniface, the Anglican church in Antwerp. After a request from the choir mistress for tenors and altos to help her out on this important occasion, I have volunteered, which I now slightly regret. So I set off at 11.15, my third visit to Antwerp in just three weeks time. When I stop to pick up a fellow chorister who will join me, I find her in bed and sick, so I will have to drive to Antwerp alone. The temperature rises gradually, and in Antwerp it is warm although overcast. The church is in the Jewish quarter of Antwerp. It always amazes me that the men here are so formally dressed in white shirts and black trousers, whatever the weather. The little boys playing in the street are dressed like their fathers, smaller replica's. Usually I come here on a Saturday when the area is very quiet. Today it is far more lively, with parents and children on bikes and walking in the streets.

Fortunately I have taken some sandwiches with me, for once in the church I notice there is no food till after the service which won't start till 3 o' clock. No coffee or drinks either.

It always makes me a bit nervous when I join a choir I am not familiar with. Will the regular members accept me or feel it as an intrusion instead of a help? Do I know the responses? Do I know what to do during the liturgy? But the choir director is a very inspiring young American woman who succeeds with a smile in welding the regular choir plus the extra's into a unity. The Parry – "I was glad..." - goes well and is sung with gusto and conviction, and so does the Mozart, a totally different piece of music. We sang a four 

part version of the Parry, not for double choir. Here is the original version. 

To my dismay I have to lead the procession in my borrowed robe which is very long. So I have to be careful not to make a faux-pas, literally that is. We gather in the vestry, the bishop and a lot of clergy in their most festive attire, and the full choir. It is bells and incense today, and although the incense is meant to go straight up to God, we have difficulty not choking on it in the congested space we are in. Fortunately the church is spacious and airy, so once there the incense doesn't irritate our vocal cords any more. The service is a most joyful occasion and the singing goes well, except for last three notes which I have been appointed to sing on my own in the Agnus Dei. There wasn't a lot of choice, as there are only three alto's, a regular one and two extra's from other choirs, myself included. The three of us have difficulty making enough noise to be heard, with six soprano's in the choir stalls opposite us. My hymnbook has miraculously disappeared during the break between the rehearsal and the robing. Fortunately almost all the hymns are unison and except for one I know them all. Today is the day of Boniface, so it is proper to rededicate the church of St. Boniface today. And we celebrate Ascension Day at the same time.

As befits an Anglican Church, there is a tea – tea, very thinly sliced sandwiches and cakes – in the garden between the vicarage and the church after the service. I must admit I am very thirsty and I can also do with a bite. It is nice to mix with people, some of them known to me, and to hear how much the congregation has appreciated and enjoyed the 

choir. At least I did not come here in vain.

Clergy and choir in equal measure

When I drive back the progress is slowed down considerably by traffic jams. I presume that many people are heading home after a four day break. It takes me almost an hour longer than usual to get home. When I leave Antwerp it is still warm and my thermometer registers 26 degrees. The further north I drive, the cooler it gets till I reach home and see to my dismay that it is only 17 degrees. 

Leyden Organ Festival

Leidse Orgeldag/Leyden Organ Festival

Every year in June one Saturday is reserved for the many interesting pipe organs in Leiden. People come from all over the country, for a day out, and for a pilgrimage to these organs. The Pieterskerk, the Hooglandse Kerk, the Waalse Kerk, the Roman Catholic Hartebrugkerk, and the Marekerk are the best-known of the churches. But there are also organs in smaller churches, in the Lokhorstkerk, the Lutheran Church (not so small) and in the concert hall in the Breestraat. (The Stadsgehoorzaal). It is a beautiful day again, a summer's day if there ever was one. The canals are full of different types of pleasure boats, the cafés on the boats moored along the quays overloaded. It is so warm that people take shelter under sunshades and parasols. Along the canals lots of people stroll around the market stalls, the stalls with fruit and vegetables, with fresh fish and flowers;  the Turkish bread and herb stalls, the tubs with all sorts of olives, dates, nuts, seeds. Every time I go into Leyden on a sunny day like this, I wonder why I do not go more often. The centre is relatively small and one can easily walk around. There are many interesting buildings apart from the churches. On Saturdays there is also an antiquarian book market around the big municipal library, housed in an old building with a courtyard where one can sit and read undisturbed , enjoying the plants and the sun in a very quiet place. No noise from outside seems to reach this secluded courtyard.

I am fond of organs and organ music, but can't help wondering why some organists play so uninspired. There is nothing wrong, they don't miss a single note, they play dead on the beat, it is all correct and according to the score, but utterly boring. Why should organ music so often be like that? Especially the purists embracing the religion of early music practices and historically correct instruments, seem to take all my joy away. Stoffel van Viegen once recorded a CD on the organ of the Dom in Utrecht. It is called "Happy Music", and that is what it is. One feels happy, joyful, exhilarated by the music. It is playful, light, the stops well chosen and varied. After all, a pipe-organ is an orchestra in itself. Apart from flutes, one can hear strings, trumpets, bassoons, just about any instrument can be imitated in an organ. It all depends on the shape and size of the pipes and on the material they are made of. Why not use that? Why not play joyfully. Why stick exactly to the beat? Where are the dynamics, the colouring, the variations?

The organ of the Pieterskerk

But of course this does not apply to all organists. I really enjoy this day enormously, some music more than other music of course. The three famous organs of the Pieterskerk, Hooglandse Kerk and the Marekerk are all beautifully restored, their pipes polished to a shine. Gilded ornaments dazzle one by their brightness. The pipes reflect the light of the brass chandeliers, which is a feast for the eyes. The organs date from different periods, and so the music we hear is also varied, ranging from the sixteenth century to the twentieth. Hassler, Scheidemann and Bach and sons rub shoulders with the French romantic composers, Cesar Franck, Camille Saint-Saëns, Louis Vierne. John Stanley is juxtaposed with Maurice Duruflè. We hear Guilmant and Jean Alain. Each recital is introduced by the organist himself who explains his choice of music. We also hear transcriptions for organ of harpsicord music by Jean-Philippe Rameau, which sounds surprisingly genuine. I am usually a bit sceptical about transcriptions, but today I have to change my mind. Two members of the Brassband Warmond, a neighbouring village, play in front of each church some ten minutes before a recital begins, and lure us into the church with their "happy" sounds. Passers-by stop to listen. We are very lucky that it is such beautiful weather.

The best part of the day is unexpectedly meeting  a befriended couple and enjoying a coffee and a fresh croissant on their improvised sidewalk terrace in front of their town house. Later one of them, my writing companion, joins me at one of the recitals and afterwards we have a drink together on a terrace, basking in the sunshine and watching the busy comings and goings of boats on the nearby river, the confluence of two old branches of the river Rhine, which are now more or less part of the canals of Leyden.

There is just about time to do some essential shopping before we have to part. After collecting my bike which I left chained to a fence around one of the churches, I cycle home, humming "happily".

Organ of the Marekerk