Himself and His Women and the Flowers ...

This morning, we were first up and active here in the big old house in the country ... as is mostly the case but I decided I would try releasing the hens and their rooster.

It's a process.  You find all the scraps from the previous day, add some dry bread, find the big stick and then venture forth.  You walk the course to their water trough, and drop the bulk of the food there, then wander back to the big door and prepare yourself ... not unlike the prep required for an Olympic 100m dash.

I threw the door open and took off ... sprinkling bread as I ran.  Laughing because, for-goodness-sake, they're just little creatures.

I looked behind me, the little brown hen, nicknamed Curious Chicken, was right there on my heels but the others were nicely distracted by all kinds of things.  I may have thrown the food container aside as I sprinted.  They recognised it.

Gert and Momo, the dog who protects all his humans, stood up near the outdoor dining table ... I believe they were both laughing too.

Mission accomplished, I returned to the table and we sat there a while to watch them ... as you do.

I noticed a little black hen climb into the sweetpeas. She didn't come out.  I pointed it out, suggesting we might have solved the mystery of the rest of the missing eggs.  We waited until she came out then found the big stick, called Momo ... was distracted an attack of the giggles as he played sillymomodog around my feet ... then set out.

Hot on the heels of Sabine discovering 7 missing eggs at the base of the Livingstone Daisy last night, we struck paydirt again this morning.  ELEVEN eggs had been laid at the base of my beloved Sweetpeas.

I must say, the hens have good taste.  The Livingstones and the Sweetpeas would have to be two of my favourite flowers.

In the space of 12 hours we have gone from the bizarre situation of hens and no eggs to hens and 18 eggs, just in time for the big happy family returning from France.

Anyway, meet Himself and his Women.

 

The Waterloo Market, Belgium

Gert and I have twice enjoyed one of the Europe's top 10 markets ... the Waterloo Market, in recent days.  We first heard of it via BBC's Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is and loved the idea that we could rummage around, with the possibility of finding both genuine antiques and quirky collectables there.  As a New Zealander, from a country young in collectable material history, I loved the age of everything ... and the European flavour too.

The market is held every Sunday, in the carpark of the Carrefour supermarket in Waterloo.  There are so many small stalls that it took us 3 hours walking to explore them all today.   Last weekend, unprepared for the heat and having left the house without breakfast, we gave up our exploration as heat exhaustion set in.

This Sunday we were ready.  A good breakfast, sunhats, a bottle of water, comfortable shoes ... no worries, mate.  We were off and wandering with relaxed intent.

And I came home with a few small treasures.  I couldn't afford the beautiful 19th century travel writing desk at 40euro, nor could I justify the darling old 1960s opera binocular glasses 10euro, or the exquisitely-shaped whisky hip flask but ... I did buy a pipe-rack for 7 euro.  The quote on it will make a pipe-collector of me.  And I picked up my first, a clay-pipe, for 3euro.

But it was the little blue leather coin purse pictured below, by Neiman Marcus, that I loved best.  The woman gave it to me for 1euro when she saw I only had a 20euro note.  I wasn't even haggling because she had only wanted 3euro total. 

It works like a pelican's beak perhaps.  The silk-lined leather pouch expands as you fill it with coins.  I love it.

Parking isn't usually a problem, there are clean toilets in the Carrefour complex, and there is a range of places to eat.  The market itself is laid out in an easy to explore grid too - so we backtracked to a couple of retailers, just in case the traveling writing desk became justifiable  ... 

Highly recommended.

 

1,100kms, a fire and a trans-Tasman Meeting

Last night, I realised that I had driven to Frankfurt in Germany and back without any form of ID on me.  The German police would not have been impressed had they checked ...

You can go to jail for 12 hours in Belgium, if you're caught like that here, although they let me off the one time that was discovered.

Anyway, this was how that massive day ended ... 3 Aussies, a kiwi and a Belgian, sitting round a big old outside fire, chatting. 

A post about why I shouldn't impulsively cook for vegetarians ...

Tonight, laughing some, my Rwandan friend and I decided to try and cook dinner for the vegetarians sharing this big old house with us ...

You need to know that she had been studying and I had been working all day long ... that we're not vegetarians, that we have a ton of zucchinis and eggs that need eaten and well ... yes, these are disclaimers.

So I found a recipe that seemed like a rather delightful zucchini patty, using eggs too... as a bonus.  The hens are all laying.  There is this constant egg avalanche going down here. 

We didn't take the excessive watery nature of the zucchini into account and ... the recipe didn't mention it either.  So we grated zucchini, broke eggs, realised we were going have to take a hit because we didn't have baking powder in the house, chopped onions, smushed garlic, added chilli (to their batch) and cumin. 

And I whipped up the little cherry tomato and feta cheese salad thingy that appears, quite oddly, in the middle of the recipe. 

I can't even think of tonight's zucchini fritters without giggling.  The excess of water made it seem like we'd added cheese AND as I cooked them, I had another of those 'recovered memories' of cooking in a previous life ... in a previous marriage ... in another country.  I remembered that I used to squeeze the excess liquid out of the potatoes when making potato fritters, or pre-cook them ... never mind.

The vegetarians, the charming Aussie bloke from Melbourne and the lovely woman from Long Island, soldiered on and took second helpings. 

I quickly wandered off and made a 'ohmygodi'msorryhere'sapavlova' dessert and all is good, here in this Wallonian world, that region where we completely lost touch with anything resembling summer.  Tonight the house smells of woodsmoke and food.  We had to bow to the weather gods and light the fire.

But last night's dinner ... now that is worth posting a photograph.  This is what happens when a vegetarian cooks vegetarian food.  It was stunningly  good.

The Belgian Summer ...

It's not happening this year ...the rain keeps returning, the grey skies reappear again and again.

We've had glimpses of a glorious summer but no, it disappears and is replaced by weather so foul that you forget that you had those warm and promising days.

On the bright side, the garden continues to thrive. The rhubarb, back home, has been prolific.  Here in Wallonia, the zucchinis are going crazy too.  We fight our way through a reasonably abundant supply of fresh tomatoes and beans.  The hens are all laying, so we 4 are dreaming up things to cook with those eggs. 

Peach clafoutis and pavlova are at the top of the list, quiche too.

I  have set up a work station at the dining room table, here in the light-filled kitchen, keeping company/kept company by the lovely Rwandan woman studying for her examinations.  I think we have given up on summer.  She mistook this morning's drizzle for snow. That it didn't seem impossible probably tells you how we feel about summer these days.

Anyway, here's a glimpse of the house where I'm staying ... just a corner for now.  I have to work out how to photograph it, in all its hugeness, and I need to learn the story of it more precisely.  There is a Nobel prize winner involved in its history ...

Dinner outside in Wallonia ...

There are two Americans, both from NYC ... an Australian, a Belgian, and a woman from Rwanda, and me ... that New Zealander.

There is lasagna, red wine, lots of Belgian beers and there's this exquisite sheepdog creature who chases that ball that he drops at the feet of anyone who might care to throw it for an hour and two.

There's an excellent soundtrack playing and the air is warm.  We're out in the countryside, all cooking and talking and mocking some ... as happens sometimes.

Life is kind of beautiful really.

A Boy and his Scooter

A couple of weeks ago, I moved in with a family for 24 hours and proceeded to capture a slice of life of their life documentary photography shoot.

It was such fun.  As a family unit they have this incredible energy and work as a team in a way I've rarely experienced.  I've been curious about families since I was small ... a child ethnographer, for reasons I don't understand. 

Daily life was chaos and celebration, caught up in this energetic bundle of people and intelligence and kindness, and frustrations too.  Just as a family should be ... if that 'should be' was according to Di.

It was a privilege and so much fun.

At one point, it came about that I wasn't allowed to continue with the shoot until I had taken this photograph.  Mr 4 insisted, in so charming-a-way, who could resist.

 

 

A small space next to a window out in the country...

There is not much better, I believe, than waking up out in the country. 

Wandering down the exquisitely substantial staircase this morning, unpacking my Nespresso machine once in the kitchen (well, yes I did bring it), and the bread, butter and peach jam, I realised I had really done it. I had moved to the country ... just for a few days.

The family surged in and around and out and then were gone ... in their car packed full of people and laughter, heading for France.  I waved them goodbye, with the Wwoofers - a lovely Australian and American couple - and the veryvery sad dog. 

The roof guys arrived ... Eastern Europeans I've been told.  And I wandered back up those stairs to create some desk space for me and my boxloads of research and work.

Here is my space.  I look down on a small forest from my first floor window.  The set-up is not ergonomic in any way, shape or form ... in fact, I suspect it runs more along the lines of one of the top 10 ways to deliberately destroy yourself.  I'll work on it over the next few days.

Meanwhile, 29 celsius is expected today.  The sky is a deep blue, as I sit here at the window.  The garden is full of courgettes, tomatoes and all kinds of other delights waiting for dinner tonight.  The hens are rumoured to be laying well.  I may have packed some of my favourite Spanish red wine ...

Now, to work.

Moving to the other side of Belgium ... stories to follow

After 7 years spent living here in the heartland of Belgium ... I'm heading away from 't stad' and out into the 'parking' that is the rest of Belgium, or so some Antwerpenaars have told me.  't stad being 'the stad' abbreviated ... or the city.

I'm off on a 2 week Wallonian adventure, complete with one fierce rooster on whom I've been told not to turn my back. 

Stories will follow.  Meanwhile, meet the rooster.  He's the tallest scariest rooster I've ever seen.

 

 

 

The Price of Water in Finistère by Bodil Malmsten.

I'm in my garden in Finistère filling out change-of-address cards.  It's an afternoon at the beginning of September 2000, a  soft haze over the countryside.  The Atlantic is breathing tides and seaweed, the reassuring sound of the warning buoy like an owl.

I live in Finistère because I've moved here.  It wasn't by chance; for a woman of experience there's no such thing as chance.

Sleep with open eyes and you shall find.

... In the same way that there's a partner for every person, there's a place.  All you have to do is find your own among the billions that belong to other people, you have to be awake, you have to choose.

Extract from The Price of Water in Finistère by Bodil Malmsten.

Who could resist a book with an opening like that ...

I'm a reader who loves to fall in love with the opening paragraph.  I found this book today, by chance, in my favourite secondhand bookshop here in Belgium.  And fell in love.

I began reading it while waiting for the metro, read it as we slid through the underground on Tram 5, and will read it whenever I have a moment spare. 

It's beautiful so far.

 

RIP - Ivan Sinnaeve aka Shrapnel Charlie

Today I learned that Ivan Sinnaeve, better known as Shrapnel Charlie, had passed away yesterday, via The Belgians Have Not Forgotten blog.  And the news continues out into the world, via those who knew him, everyone sad to have lost him.  He had a way about him that left people smiling.

I went searching, and found my story of meeting this remarkable man ... back in 2009. 

I met Shrapnel Charlie yesterday.  Meeting him was as a part of my quest to create a photography exhibition about the people out here on the Westhoek ... the people who take care of the memory of the soldiers who died in WW1.

Valerie was my guide, my patient guide, who drove me to Ieper where we both enjoyed meeting this lovely man.  He was quiet yet brimming full of fun.  It soon became clear that he was also a man known to many all over the world.

Ivan Sinnaeve is his real name but he explained that the Canadians had needed to find their own way of dealing with his ‘Russian-sounding’ name and then, failing with the Belgian pronunciation (E-van), they decided to christen him Shrapnel Charlie, in recognition of the magic he works with the old shrapnel found out here on the WW1 battlefields of Flanders. Shrapnel he said he had initially been accustomed to finding out in this vegetable garden, as  turning the soil anywhere in this area usually means finding some artefact from that terrible war.

A carpenter by trade, Ivan’s career was cut short when his back was broken in an accident, leaving him with constant pain and time on his hands.  He told us he fell into this business of recreating soldiers and regiments from long ago ...but not as a real business.  Ivan, like so many who work hard at preserving the memories of the soldiers who died on Flanders Fields, never charges anything that would see him making a profit from the war dead.

We took us out to his garden shed, a space considered holy by so many kiwi men I knew growing up ... but even I have to admit, his shed was magnificent.  I could imagine the kiwi blokes drooling a little, as they ran their eyes over the collection of ‘stuff’ Ivan keeps out there.  The shell - preserved so you could see how it worked internally, timers on the end and including the containers of shrapnel.  He took us through the process of making a shrapnel soldier and I ended up learning more than expected from my photo-shoot.

This was no passive photography shoot.  Ivan is a charming and amusing raconteur.  And charmed we were, by this man who has created so many thousands of shrapnel soldiers during his time.  We were sad to leave, as we could have easily spent the day with him however, it was time to give him back some of the peace we had shattered, while photographing him doing this thing and that.

Many thanks to Ivan, and to Valerie, it was a lovely way to spend a morning.

A Saturday in March ...

Yesterday was  a day of reorganising the space that we have here in the 3-storey tall narrow house.  Gert and I ended up working right through the day, simply because I had decided to create a space of no distractions ... a place to finish this book I've begun.

I have two novel manuscripts started too, and another of interviews with New Zealand climbers.  That one went through two very positive publishing meetings before being rejected.  Back then, the public wasn't so interested in the crazy beautiful lives of climbers and mountaineers.  Other publishers were suggested, those who might take the risk of low sales, but then my mum began dying, I had finally started university, and somehow the manuscript has become another thing that I carry.

There are poems too. A new one that came on the train that took me across Belgium a few days ago.  A  poem that I like, and I am my toughest critic.

But anyway, photography took over as my dedicated form of expression.  You can slip everything into an image.  Sometimes it's like a poem, other times it's a novel and tells a story but mostly there is the pleasure is not being sure of what you have captured until you are done.

So I have a writing space now.  A  huge IKEA table that serves as a desk, and enough shells and stones to break my current desk collection in two while maintaining a beautiful pile of beach treasure on both desks.  Facebook, phones and non- related books are all banned from the new space.

However, in moving my writing stuff, in taking my favourite images up there, in moving all of my books on Genova... I created what seemed like a huge space down here in the 'everyday' office place.  But even that was fun, moving that bookcase there, those images here, that scarf-hanger too. 

We had Paola and Simon over for dinner last night and they were curious to see these changes, the ones I had earlier mentioned being in the midst of over on facebook.  Well ... here in the everyday office space, I realised, when looking through their eyes, that these huge changes weren't really so obvious despite the fact that they had felt like a major upheaval.   My new writing space was approved of though.

So that's how we spent our Saturday.  Dinner was delightful ... aperitivo by Paola and Simon, an Italian rib and sausage casserole by Gert, followed by one of his delicious cherry Clafoutis.  Excellent conversations, good people ... a really excellent Saturday.

I'll leave you with one of those photographs that surprised me.  I saw this tap dripping in Istanbul, in one of the many ancient places there.  I photographed it, ignoring the hustle and bustle of people around me, in that city of 14 million people.  Today, I have it here next to me, in a 30x45cm format ... I have to rehang it later but just having it here, so close, made me really see it again.  I really love it but couldn't have imagined this capture at the time of taking because it was so beautiful and how do you capture beauty ...

 

 

 

View from the MAS Museum, Antwerp

I went out into the city searching for beauty today.  It had started well this morning ... there was blue sky and sunshine but I moved too slowly and voila, by the time I left the house, it was grey.

A few weeks ago, I had made one fast family visit to Antwerp's relatively new MAS museum and had found myself wondering whether the top floor might not feed my need for a view.  It's not bad but, by crikey, it's flat here.