I am in Bruges, beautiful, medieval Bruges. Wandering through the narrow cobblestone streets, looking up at the churches and towers is like being in a fairy tale, transported to another place, another time. The sun has been shining and the bells singing, ringing out familiar as well as not-so-well-known songs from the 47 bells in the carillon belfry tower, or simply ringing out each quarter hour. Except for the fast moving cars and trucks, vans and bicycles speeding through the narrow streets, I am walking in history, transported to the long ago past.  

     Known as Brugge here, Bruges was built originally as a fortress in the ninth century, with the intention of warding off marauding Vikings, but now it is one of Europe's best preserved medieval cities.  We entered Bruges through one of its gates. In the 19th century neo-Gothic restorations were added where needed, but they blend in beautifully. Canals wind throughout the city; tourists take canal boat rides, photographing the uplifting architecture, and the swans, which are protected by the government and quite well fed. Bruges, in addition to their chocolates, beer, waffles, and Belgian fries, has been well known since the 15th century for its lace making by hand; in fact, Bruges has become a world center for lace making, a lovely thing for which to be acknowledged. The art is dying out as it is very expensive to train the artists who make the lacework, but here one an still buy traditional lace wedding gowns, parasols, doilies, dresses, table runners, shawls, whatever is desired. But do not expect to be able to do this in a decade or so unless you want your lace made by machines. 

     In addition to the music from the bells, from Tuesday through Saturday afternoons this week (lucky us!) there have been free harp concerts by Luc Vanlaere at Sint Jan. I loved his creations so much that I went back twice to hear his unique music, played not only on harps, but also on stringed instruments he has invented, plus other instruments from around the world.  Try to listen to his work online; it fits this city so well, both being ethereal works of art.

     Yesterday I traveled to Ypres, to Flanders Fields. Not being a history buff, I still thought that being so close to that area I should learn about their experiences here during WWI. Even though 100 years have passed, people here still feel the effects of the Great War. Just last week a farmer was digging up a meadow that had lain fallow all those years, and at first he hit what turned out to be a shell, then another, then another, then he called in the army. Over 70 unexploded shells were found in that field, just last week! But finding things from the Great War is not what the people living here focus on; what is important to them is remembering and honoring their dead. Everyone here lost relatives; people check for their loved ones' names on the walls at Tyne Cot, the largest cemetery in Belgium with over 12,000 burials.  People lay poppies at the feet of cemetery markers.  The countries who fought here, the Belgians, British, Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders, and who lost so many men build monuments and place tombstones, inscribing names on them if they are known, or simply saying "An unknown soldier," or "Known only to God."  Yesterday we visited the Trench of Death, walking through sandbags and cement built up to protect the soldiers from the Germans; we visited the extremely emotional In Flanders Fields Museum; we walked around photographing the award winning Canadian monument of the soldier with bowed head; we clambered up Hill 60 and saw the Caterpillar Crater, the largest crater, a perfect circle within a wooded area. All is peaceful now, but just looking out over the flat, flat land, imagining the young men who fought and killed and were killed here was a powerful experience. We ended the day at the Menen Gate, listening to the Last Post, a bugle call that has been sounded here every evening since 1928, in memory of the British soldiers who have no known burial places. On our drive home we saw a part of a highway that simply ended in piles of dirt; work will not continue here because this was another place where the Great War was fought. This is all sacred ground.