Central Bruges is another medieval movie set surrounding a large square in the shadow of a famous thirteenth century belfry tower.
I half expected to discover a dead body at the foot of the tower below the balcony. If you’ve seen Martin McDonagh’s hilarious film “In Bruges” you’ll know what I’m talking about. And for all I know there could have been a dead body there, most likely a victim of one of the careening bicyclists, only it was hard to tell from the crowd of tourists standing around either observing the corpse, or just standing around observing other tourists standing around.
After we got off the train from Ghent, a thirty-minute ride that brooked no delays, we peeled away from an army of students striding up the walkway by one of the canals that, except for the site seeing boats, probably haven’t changed much since the twelve-hundreds. When we saw the youthful horde stream over one of the canal bridges we went in the opposite direction where I spotted a quiet coffee shop. I needed a cappuccino desperately.
The thing about getting on and off trains in Belgium from my perspective is that everyone seems to be in a rush for an important meeting. It doesn’t matter if they’re in shorts and flip-flops, or whether they’re knocking back a beer, they’re late. In Ghent, to lessen the youthful exuberance, they fence off a plaza and hold a Red Bull relay race.
But in Bruges I just couldn’t figure it out—what kind of appointment in a medieval tourist trap would call for a frenzied pace? “The Hans Memling exhibit closes at five! Out of my way!” “Hold on! It’s only noon.” “Out of my way!”
Or maybe I can’t admit to how slow I’ve gotten. A little movie footage would clarify things. At any rate I not only needed a cappuccino, I needed a sugar rush to keep up with the mob. So I ordered my first Belgian waffle with strawberries and whipped cream drizzled in chocolate.
Caffeine and a sugar buzz alerted me to darting bikes and jostling teenagers. Ella found a quiet route down some picturesque streets to a lace museum and I began to experience time slippage. The hurried present melded into a medieval tempo and things began to slow down. I could stop and admire the rooftops. I could watch workers repair sidewalks by replacing cobblestones.
The work it must have taken in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries to build this town! I imagine the constant labor, but somehow frenzy isn’t part of it. Plodding, pressing on, but rushing about? Nah. It had to have taken the patience that goes with religious reassurance, the sort of patience it takes to finger bobbins into threading lace, a craft nuns were especially adept at.
Studying the beautiful webbed patterns of lace collars slipped me further away from the present as if peering at the intricacy of the delicate weaving were a form of medieval hypnosis. I was ready to enter the Adornes Domain.
Off of one of the quiet cobblestone streets away from the main square, the Adornes Domain is a medieval estate built in 1429. It is kept by the Count and countess (they don’t capitalize the c in countess—don’t ask me why) Maximilien de Limburg Stirum, the seventeenth generation of the Adornes family. The Pieter Rooms, some of the oldest in the estate, are named after Pieter II Adornes, Anselm’s father, a wealthy merchant banker,who finished constructing the estate. In the stony walled, stone-floored, low-ceilinged rooms the story of Anselm gaining his fortune is portrayed on hanging plexiglass panels. In the early 1470 Anselm left Ghent to go on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He traveled down the continent to Genoa where he gained passage to Jerusalem, paid his respects, picked up a few relics, and returned to Ghent in 1471. The entire trip took 14 months. Shortly after his Jerusalem venture, Anselm developed ties with the Scottish crown. James III invited him to Scotland to help develop trade relations. He traveled to Scotland as a diplomat and royal adviser and was killed in 1483 in the Scottish Highlands during political unrest that marked him for being involved with royal business. His heart was sent back to Ghent where it could be buried in the Adornes Jerusalem chapel. The Adornes family remained linked to Scottish affairs for generations.
The grassy courtyard of the estate was a beautiful place to relax and gaze at the azaleas.
I could imagine Anselm sitting there regaling Pieter II with his adventures. “Sailing out of Genoa I met this nut, Columbus, who was trying to get me to invest in this crazy voyage.” “I warned you. Let me do the banking, you keep your eye on the Holy Sepulcher.” “Don’t worry, when he started going on about heading west across the ocean and ending up in China, I paid for my drinks and went back to the boat.” “Did you have rats?” “Oh mercy, yes. I saw them as a sign from God. Suffer the rats to come unto me.” “Were they as big as the ones down by the canal?” “They were huge! I could have saddled one and ridden it into Jerusalem.”
The garden was adjacent to an orchard.
The Flemish masters were great at adding orchards to create depth in their paintings and this small stand of trees expanded my sense of time in reverse of the Flemish masters. I was centered in 1471 with 2026 as background. Another time-fold.
From the garden we ducked into the Scottish Lounge. I furthered my sinking into the past by finding a seat on a wonderfully soft easy chair where I could look up at the tapestry. Ella struck up a conversation with a woman who was visiting from Brussels.
After trying to explain to the Woman from Brussels why Americans were demented enough to elect Trump, we went to explore the chapel inspired by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. It had two floors. The upper floor, more like a landing, was devoted to private worship. Below was the main chapel with an altar reminding the Adornes clan that as wealthy as they were, they were mortal.
