PhotocatsEyes

The dance of the Tern

We finally got solid ground under our feet again, and I got my chipper state back. And remember, the terns attack, so that is why you need a hat visiting the island.
I always feel a bit guilty when I see people go on without head cover, and I chuckle inside, as I know what is bound to happen.
And some laughed at my hat, but hey, I laughed straight back... The terns attacking me ended up like this:

You don’t mess with a safari hat, or Pith Helmet as the real name is. Made out of cork, and dressed with stiffened fabric, the sharpest beaks do not get through.
And believe me, tern beaks are S H A R P!!!
If they are not busy defending their chicks against humans, they have a rumble amongst themselves.

A lot of fighting and screaming going on. Some kickboxing too. While the chicks wait and watch. Not a good idea if you ask me to fight in front of the children.

I love the tenacity of the small terns. Not the biggest birds, if a shag or cormorant would attack like they do, you might not live to tell the tale.
Lucky for us bird watchers that the terns are small.

And lots of chicks this year. They even wonder out on the paths made for Island visitors. We have to watch our steps or could accidentally crush one.

I also encounter one last eider duck, the chick hidden under her wing. Good mothers. And camouflaged well, easy to miss them as they sit not moving on the nest. Colors mimicing the ground they sit on perfectly.

When on top of the small Inner Farne Island, you can see the boats waiting to dock again, to pick up their passenger load to take us back to Seahouses.
More fog seems to build as we speak, it all gets an eery feel. We don’t even see Longstone, with the lighthouse light that flikkers every 20 seconds.

It’s a wonderful sight to see the tiny boats bob. Skippers are talking to each other, they have an hours wait while the birdwatchers go ashore to experience the frenzy attacks of the terns.

And if the beaks are not enough, they also have some darn sharp claws on their paddles. These are seabirds, they do everything with obsession: fly or float.
The chicks have to be fed and defended, at all cost.

I can’t help it, but the birds impress me beyond words. They go in attack mode without giving up, even after years of humans visiting the island, they keep attacking. You would think that after a couple of years, they would get used to humans, nope...
And all chicks have not been born yet, moms are still sitting on eggs, not moving when another camera gets close in.

A few early chicks are humming around already, small furry balls of wool. Brownish speckled, blending in with the grassy background. Part of their defense system given to them by nature itself.

The eggs are tiny, speckled too, yellowish brown, in a neat round nest made of dried grass. For years terns and other species on the island have been sitting on nests, not bothered by visitors, the terns are the only ones to go into action when they smell danger.

I use Mr Wonderful as a lure, he put in an extra layer of cotton under his hat, and while the birds are attacking him, I watch and snap.

We usually have one grown up tern watching the little ones, one goes fishing on the sea, the other one keeps an eye open.

People do the Tern dance, trying to avoid the beaks. If no hats are available, sweaters are taken off and wound around the head. Funny sights on this micro island.

After the attack, the head has been claimed and is pronounced resting area. That is the way birds think. SImple ways. Effective.

More babies on the move. Watching where we put our feet down. I see that the wardens have started to border off the nesting meadow with some chicken wire, that should keep the chicks off the paths. Only a couple of walking paths on the island, and people do stay on them, so the nesting meadows are not trampled on.

It is the first time for me on the island that I actually see that much puffins. In earlier years, we found empty burroughs, but now here and there we see a small head pop out and check if the route is clear. One is playing hide and seek with me.

Coming out half, then go back in, worried that I will know where his only chick is now, I won’t disturb them, I keep on the laid out paths, we can visit the birds because we try to do as we should: not bother them more then needed. It is a big honour already that they do allow us to watch them.
They live in their underground burroughs, dug out with beak and paws, and raise one chick per couple. Once the chick leaves the nest, the burrough is abandoned. The chicks fly out to see and will spend the first 3 years of their life out on the waves. After that they are mature and ready to breed themselves, and they too will find a spot to dig a burrough, on the same island their parents were on. Another wonder of nature.

The peeping one finally decided that I seemed harmless enough and flies off, to go fish.
I go to the edge of the island, to the puffin rocks as I call them, to get as close as possible to the little flyers with orange make up...

Some more about them tomorrow! Same time, same blog...

Puffins and terns: present and in attack mode!

We went for our yearly Farne Island trip yesterday. Cornflake, Mr Wonderful et moi. And it was a strange experience. Mostly because of the weather.
I was anticipating Easterly winds, meaning heavy roll and swell, Sea Sick in the tarot cards...
A heavy fog, and rain on the way up North, we were scouting the skies in the car, looking for some blue to appear, but it would be four in the afternoon before the sun finally burned through the thick fog layers.
We started our trip by picking up boat tickets, in Seahouses, talked to a couple from Holland, and met up with Sea Dog Meghan. Photographed on earlier occasions, this time she was really cute.

Wearing an instant doggie suit, made to pick her up by the handle, as she is becoming too old to go down the stairs to the boats. Ladders is a better word. Depending on the water in the harbor and the tides, you board high or low, the vertical ladders are not for me either, sadly enough I am too big for a handle.

It looks like this... Broad ribbons go under her belly, and support her, and you can just pick her up and swoop her to where you want her. She is a heavy one though, a yorkie allright, small dogs, but this one is a SEA DOG and is a bit over format. It was nice to see her back.

Boats were already floating in and out, lots of activity in the small harbor, almost totally geared up for tourism. Eco and normal. Divers, bird watchers, seal watchers, they all end up in Seahouses to take one of the boats to one of the islands around.

In town, shops are open and the tools of the trade are stalled so kids can pick the one they want.

Fishing nets, lined up, candy colors, the net being a better option, as there is not much sand in Seahouses itself. You have to venture more to Bamburgh beach to find sand.

It was low tide big time, so we had to board on the outer side of the harbor, next to the lighthouse. We even found parking on the pier itself, while I had tought that Seahouses was going to be crowded. The british kids are not out of school yet, the boats were not packed like sardines like on other occasions.

We choose the somewhat bigger boat, the Glad Tidings III, the two left before us, with no shelter against possible downpours, I preferred the bigger brother. With at least a decent stearing hut to shelter behind.

Mr Wonderful was up for the trip, we both found a nice spot on the boat, we both like the sea and the water.

Leaving the harbor behind, it soon became clear that fog was out there, it soon engulfed us, we heard lots of fog horns sounding.

Visibility was in patches, I would have said 50 meters, the islands were bearably on the horizon, other vessels had to come rather close before we could spot them.
Nowadays fishermen have GPS and radar, but I can imagine that this is how boats run on cliffs, especially in the dangerous waters around the British Isles, with known sand banks, hiding under the waves, together with rocky outcrops from the Islands. You need to know your way around in these waters.

No problem for our skippers, they do it on a daily base, and know the waters with eyes closed. Good to know...

On good days, Bamburgh Castle is always a marker, but today, only a vague masse is there, and only people having been here before know it is Bamburgh.
I had taken medication against seasickness and did pretty well, up to the last half hour from the trip going to the Island. They never go in a straight line, we are taken to see seals, and have a view of the pinnacles, with shags, kittiwakes and puffins nesting on top, the swell was beginning to get to me.

Holding on to my camera, like a drowning man to a life boey, and try to avoid all thoughts of fish food, although I came close.

The seals were their normal selves, fat and easy going, waiting on sun to appear to start the more serious basking for the day.
I love them, in the water they are pure elegance, outside they look like big lumps, needing all the weed they can find to rest comfortably before going back into sea for fishing.

Two different breeds, grey ones and speckled ones. I forgot their names. Fog does not only clog up the Northsea, it also affects my brain directly.

Close to the seals we saw something red peeping out of the water, at first looking like seal heads, but they were divers. Funny. Often seals look like little men bobbing up and down in the waves, this time they were real men.

The pinacles still the same as last year. Waves crashing upon them, birds on the top. The sick making smell of bird guano... Nothing changed.
Except the big group of puffins we saw. I have been to Seahouses many times, but this was the day of the Puffins.
Thousands of them...

Comical red beaks, marked eyes, and orange paws. Puffins as we know them. The fishing seemed to go allright, as I did see some of them with fish.

They are amazing when they lift off from the water, pulling their heavy body up in the air, with only small wings. It’s the speed of the flapping that does the trick.
The guys flapping like crazy overhead are puffins.

Getting closer to the Island we see what they are fishing for in the undeep waters, small black fish and sand eels. Their major food force. Needed as they use a lot of energy raising their single chick.
I am praying that I can get off board, as my stomach is sinking deeper by the minute, and I am loosing the will to live...

I need land! Soon! Let me kiss the ground... never mind the bird poop. I need to get on dry land!
Our stay on the Island is a rewarding one, loooooots of nesting puffin pairs, the burroughs are filled to the brim. Wowhsee, Terns, here we come.
And don’t laugh about my hat, I did not get hurt...

't Was June...

And the buttercups are blooming full swing. A good thing, as buttercups and gypsie horses are a good match. I feel the vibe. It’s the beginning of June, and I know that soon the bow wagons will appear, and the nasty car drivers. Who get frustrated being stuck behind a bow wagon.

Not me sir, I love to be stuck behind a bow wagon, it tells me that the gypsies are back. Like the seasons, they keep coming. Every year.
And I LOVE it.

I get very very exited when I see the signs appear. A horse drawn carrariage, one man on the carriage, the horse nicely trippling...

The electric warning signs appear on the side of the A66. The direct route from the A1 at Scottish Corner to Brough-Appleby, where the big annual meeting of the English and Irish gypsies takes place. That is why on the first of June this year, I leave home to go North, to Appleby, to put my books to sell in the Tourist Office, and hoping to meet some early birds, already settled in town. I have no idea that for the first time the gypsies are not allowed in town before the 4th of June, the official date of the starting of the fair.
It is the Big Gypsy Horse Fair.

The A66 gives me splendid views over the surrounding moors. Hills and valleys, carved with little roads. Bordered with the familiar stone walls, stretching as far as the eye can see.

It is a huge surprise to suddenly detect the first travellers, camping on side verges as the town center for now is no-no.
Fair Hill will open on thursday, and it is monday. For 3 days, the tiny roads all around Appleby will be jampacked with caravans and bow wagons, in no particular order, till they get permission to go through town up to Fair Hill. The big meadow becoming a camp for a week.

I spot the first bow wagons, with the typical green cloth for cover, the little steps attached so one can go in and out.

A small gypsie boy, I love the kids. They are so confident, ready to tell you what they did today. This one has no idea how I know that he has been painting.
Finger painting. With blue and red. His eyes go wide open when I tell him that he used those two colours. The innocence of small children. There is as much paint on his face as on his hands. Funny.

Across the road a family with bigger kids, the same confidence. Open looks, curious towards non-gypsies. Friendly and social. I do not get why some narrowminded folks hate gypsies and their lifestyle. I have met many over the seven years that I have been visiting Appleby, and I never had an unfriendly remark. They share life and goods with me, tell me their tales, the adventures. Their life often littered with racism sprouting here and there.

A very traditional kind of people, tradition is everything, I am proud if they confide in me, if they ask me if I want to take their photograph. Sure, that is why I came.
To listen and see. Look and see. Taking in.

The travellers are all about family. The highest tradition of all. Family is what counts, and they take care of each other. We non travellers could learn from them.
Their life on the road in small moving housing conditions makes them a tight community. Where parents and kids live close together.

On this gorgeous sunny day the family mothers gather, telling each other about the past year, catching up on tales. The lady on the right in the above picture has been coming to Appleby for 63 years. First with her parents and grand parents, now being a grand parent herself. I will meet her husband a couple of minutes later, he is talking to the pot and pans guy.

Gypsies are good craftsmen. They know their profession, and are proud to deliver products that can keep up with a hard life on the road. In all weather conditions.
Small camp fires demand old fashioned cooking ware, and that is what this black smith is known for.

The earlier mentioned hubby is here, I do not understand a word they say, the conversation is in Gaelic, some kind of old English, mixed with gypsie sayings, not translatable if you have not been growing up with the language.

The horses, the horses. Vanners, the breed gypsies are famous for. Elegant animals, with sturdy paws. Bred to pull the bow wagons, sharing a life on the road with their masters.
They seem to be happy to trot in the beautiful rural landscape, pulling whatever they are made to pull. Greeting other horses on the road with a loud hinny.

And I meet up with two gorgeous little girls, sisters. Very alike, no twins. I really care for the gypsie kids. They have an outspoken innocence, not messed up like a lot of non gypsie kids. Their world is what is outside the caravan, on site where their parents took them. No electric games, maybe a small television. The kids enjoy being together with other kids, playing with what nature gives them. A little creek a bit further down the road is their swimming pool on this hot summers day.
I promise them that they will be in my book next year, and they smile.

The sisters are very girlie, the brothers very boy-ish. Posing for the camera, I do not instruct them, they pick their own pose, that is how they want to appear in the book.
Their mom is watching it all with proud glances. I want to stay longer, but have to get to the Tourist office, to drop off the books. So I greet all and go on my way.
The sun is scorching. I am confident that this year’s gypsie fair will be a blast again. Yeay...

I feel totally lucky that I am able to see them every year, and spend time with them. My camera breaks the ice, and year after year I meet the same people, see the kids grow up.
They are starting to know me. Not a year too soon I think. It will be my seventh gypsie fair. Wowsie... Let the horses trot...

Jessica Sprague is at it...

click here to be taken to the enroll page

Babies and pups galore...

It’s all about Frenchie pups. Tiny creatures born fourteen days ago, now with eyes open already, peeking into the world.
And I was fortunate enough to be able to meet them and hold them. Balls of fur fitting in one hand. Lets not mention that it pooed on my shirt. And I smelled like dogs afterwards...

My friend Annette her French Buldog had pups, and called me to know if I wanted to photograph them. Hey, who is asking...
I dropped everything and speeded through Darley to get to her house.

Not only do they have the Frenchie pups, they now also have an English buldog called Mrs Bully. The opposite character of her name.
Very very docile little five month old female, all to happy to roll over to have her belly scratched.
I loved the energy that youngster had. So utterly sweet. She will be bigger then the frenchies, and wider. They are a sturdy breed, fierce, not easily scared, and good attitude. Fun to watch and fun to be with.

She is very fast to catch on, and knew what we wanted from her, some unposed poses, so we could snap her.

The beastie more then obliged. I had to laugh when she rolled out her little tongue, some play was in her future.
It was extremely funny to see her seek shelter next to Shrek, two fat bellies together. Animals can be such gloom breakers with their little quirks and things they do.

On that same day, I had promised to teach my neighbor how to make a nice little photobook starting from a toddlers cardboard book.
I put it all out in the kitchen, as I have a big table there. Organised was the word.

I am working on a Paris book, was not really happy with the crazy Paris book I made two years ago, so am in the process of tearing all the photographs out to glue them in a new scrapbook that I created from scratch. I have a whole bag of card board pieces, just big enough to turn into covers for books, where i can decide how big I want them.

A good soldier always needs his arms, so I had it all on hand. Tape gun included. A big tupperware bowl for the paper scraps to bin, glue, cutters, cola to keep morale high... Punches.

And two example books to have a glimpse what is possible with card board that was saved from the bin. Don’t bin it, cover it up with nice paper, some ribbon, a couple of stickers, and there you go, a book is born.

I am pretty chuffed with my baby book I must say. The only thing missing is more photographs. I gave my son and daughter in law a good camera, all I need now is for them to start using it and send me the results. Can’t scrapbook without photographs.
And I promised them to make a book for them too. Of course. If they want. Don’t want to impose myself.
Off to base now for some grocery shopping... Talk later. On sunday we are off to the Farne Islands, to have a go at puffins and their chicks.
Trying to avoid the sterns (or is it terns?) coming at us in a dive flight with their sharp beek wide open...
Will report back!

Bye for now.

Same aunts, different places

Yesterday I was talking about my aunts. Sisters from my mother. More mother then aunt really. I have always felt sheltered and safe in their presence, even if life was beating me seriously.
It is why whenever in Belgium, I keep visiting them. Not always possible to see all of them, and then Aunt Blanche passed away a couple of years ago, leaving me with an feeling of guilt. I worked in Brussels, and she lived 15 minutes away from the newspaper, I could have visited her so much more but didn’t. Things that one regrets forever.
On my last trip I hopped in with two of my aunts.

Uncle Henri was doing the dishes. Sitting down as he got hurt by falling through a roof helping his son build up a garage.
Fathers helping sons, sometimes it does not work out as it should.
This is the uncle who had the bright idea to put his bait for fishing in my aunts fridge. In the middle of the night, my aunt got up to get something downstairs, and the bait had escaped and was crawling all over the fridge.
I would have screamed my lungs out, just like my aunt did!

“RITTEN!!!! (Her name for him if she is crossed)”
“YOUR WORMS ARE IN THE FRIDGE, ON ALL THE FOOD... COME AND CLEAN IT UP”

Funny story looking back, Ritten never put his bait in my aunts fridge again - he might not have survived a second escape.
Grin....

They have two kittie cats, a long haired one with a very gentle character. And A grey patched one, nasty character. I have learned not to touch it or to go close to it. It believes it is a guard dog, rottweiler to be correct. And it bites accordingly.

Uncle Henri is one of the few who can pick it up and live to tell the tale.

Their granddaughter Wendy is visiting, pregnant and tired. The baby is huge and all the way up, no birth soon if you ask me.
She is overdue. I was supposed to go over and take some baby pics. Well, no baby, just knowledge of where it resides for now.
Safely inside, snuggled in.

Brings back vague memories of when I was preggers. Oldest beanstalk was ten days early, surprise effect. But the third one was over time and I got induced, it still weighed only 2kg700, tiny tiny baby. I bet Wendy’s baby will be a lot bigger. The last time she went for check up it was almost four kilo’s. I do not get why they don’t induce, over time, 4 kg and growing at the speed of lightning... Who wants to deliver a 5 kg baby?

With that question in my mind I take off for Menen, where auntie Madeleine is living in her new service flat. A first for me, the last time I saw her she was still in her house.
Different alright. She tells me that she had to adapt to the two room floorplan, and no garden.
A big thing for my aunt. She lived in her garden in summer. Keeping stock on potatoes and tomatoes.
Canning in fall, to have food in winter without having to go shop daily.

I brought my book from the previous trip, and yup, coffee is on the table, cookies, and stories... Oh those stories.
Too bad time flies when I am with her. I wished I could sit there for days on end, and just listening.

There is an old flemish saying that old trees are hard to replant, this old tree was very hard to replant. Madeleine lived with seasons, outdoor seasons, planting, harvesting, flowers, a busy life.
Now she is spending long days inside, missing her garden. She always has been a knitter, all of us are, the Cottyns I mean.
I got the knitting gene too from my maternal grandmother.

Tante Madeleine has set her attention to doll knitwear now. Every naked doll in Menen ends up in her flat, and gets a fashion make over.
Very stylish, no pattern, Madeleine knits it all by feeling. Socks, knickers, dresses, jumpers. Every doll looks ready for the red carpet.
But will go to kids without toys. I am glad that Madeleine can keep herself busy, in the way she does.
An avid reader too, she has gotten used to her new life.

We chat some more, some more stories to remember for me, and it is time to go. Meeting up with my sister for lunch, and then back to Zeebrugge, to the boat. I will wake up tomorrow morning in Hull Harbor.

But I want to live in the moment, home is tomorrow. I still have to finish today!
I will see my aunts back in October. When I visit my grandbaby...
Woohzee, five months to go... Counting furiously. Harping on my son for not sending me photographs...
Maybe I need to give a doll to tante Madeleine too for an overhaul...

Talk later!

Women who run with wolves

As it happens now and then, I did a reshuffle of my computer and stumbled on some photographs of my aunts. Living in Belgium, which makes the times that I can visit limited.
I used to visit them often, it felt like going home, more then my own home. I had 3 extra motherly figures, that I could turn to in bad times. It seems only appropriate to visit them in good times too now.

Funny women, all born in the same nest, yet with very different lives, and very different attitudes towards life.
Out of the six out of that nest, only the youngest was spoiled rotten by her older sisters, and we all know that a spoiled toddler grows into a wanting to be spoiled grown up. If that does not happen, a life with continuous longing for things that are not there is set in place.
Parents in our days now do not see that spoiling their children makes kids that will never be prepared for real life. Who will spoil them after the parents have gone? Do we really want our kids to grow up being miserable all the time because real life does not spoil.
(Well, not quite... I surely am spoiled now, while I never experienced it in my childhood).

My aunts are wise women, they have seen all layers of life, they lived through a world war raging through their little village.
Their mother died pretty young, at the age of 63. Seemed old enough when I was a kid, but now, at 53, I do realise that 63 is no age to go.
My aunts had lots of hardship. Sent out to work on an early age, they kept working through their life, trying to bring a better life for their kids.

It’s always fun to be with them on an occasional saturday afternoon. Mostly, the oldest one picks up the middle one to visit the younger one, coffee and cookies on the table, and we are good for a couple of hours.
I love to listen. They have stories in abundance.
Daily life stories, no heroic tales, nope, just the life stories of normal women in Belgium, a tiny country next to the sea.
Yet stories that are so touching that I can never forget them.

It’s sad though, all those stories are there, about real people in real lives, but they can not be told or retold as some family members think the stories are not to be shared. They do not realise that with the stories buried, part of our heritage is gone too.
We are those stories. We came out of those stories.

My auntie Madeleine loves browsing my photobooks. She looks at them with so much interest, it sparks her memories, and I know that more stories will be shared with me.
It is a very rewarding thing to show her a scrapbook from a previous trip. I feel seen and her interest is genuine.

Too bad that she moved out of her small house, with the garden and flowers. She is now living in a service flat, the sisters have to go visit her there now. I am glad that I took pictures of her house, her walls, little snippets here and there... A rusty Christ, a bell to announce visitors, a window with cobwebs.

The window with cobwebs belongs to the pigeon house. My uncle had pigeons, and I remember the eary smell and the warmth when climbing up the ladder to the small attic where the cooroocoos lived.
He knew his animals, and they usually came back home after being dropped off in France. Flying back to the nest. The shed with the pigeon hotel in the attic.
I even have one of the pigeon baskets in my house. Still smelling a bit like pigeons.

The willow next to the little creek running along the house. With a roofed semi building next to it. Sort of a garage anno Flanders 1950, in the days used to house rabbits.
All self respecting households had some rabbits. Proteine needed in times when meat was hard to get to. Rabbits were called the poor people’s proteine base. Poor being relative here...

Next to pigeons, rabbits and chickens, lots of flemish people had a veggie garden. A ritual, coming back every spring to summer, neatly planted rows of potatoes, carrots, peas and other things to grow. My aunt had tomatoes too.

I think it is sad that we have to shut up about our family history because some of my nieces and nephews do not like it to be reminded to days gone by. They think it is undone telling strangers about family things. “It’s not right” to share stories with the outer world.

They do not see that they loose big time... Our past was rich, not always in money, but surely in stories.
I for one dearly enjoy an afternoon with my aunts. They keep telling me things, I learn from them, I like to listen to them.
Their stories make me come to life. Can’t wait till the next time I go to Belgium...

Going to Town

Back in Kortrijk, when I was visiting in May, as usual I ended up in the Beguinage. My happy hour. I feel close to my dad in that place. Don’t know why. They are continuing to fix it, house per house, and the waitinglist for people wanting to live there is getting longer.

It’s a five year plan, one by one, the tiny houses get a make over, to adapt them to modern life. They stay tiny, but I can imagine how wonderful it must be to live in this piece of history. The last beguine has gone, is now in the old people’s home in Heule, I bet she misses her spot too.

It looks as if Johanna van Constantinopel has gotten a brush off too, she looks refreshed. Or maybe it is me finally getting to grips with my camera. Who’s to say.

It’s a warm summer’s 30 degrees day when I am walking around, the sun is playing and puts shadows around. Light and shadow, the red roofs shine against a blue sky.

I have a meeting with yet another pinguin, she belongs to the brand of nuns that played their dirty tricks on me when I was a kid. The nuns devoting their life to Saint Nicholas, the children’s friend. What a joke...
Their convent is just around the corner. I wonder if the dormitory where I slept when I was five is still there.
It’s where I decided one day to test if God existed. I told him silently: Look you little bugger (I would not have really said that as I had no idea about the word bugger) - I will put this dry piece of cloth in the sink - we all had a small sink in our couchette - and if you exist, that cloth will be wet in the morning.
A couchette is sort of a cubicle, it is a cardboard separation wall, making for a small room, but it does not reach the ceiling, you can for instance climb on your bed and then cupboard and take a peek over it. Into your neighbours couchette.
(Yes, I did that too one day...).
Needless to say that the cloth was dry in the morning, maybe my ways of testing were not totally scientific enough.
But hey, I have known or believed since then that God is man made, not the other way around.
And in his name, the most horrible things are happening. So please keep me away from pinguins...

She sees me and flees. YEAH, go, I am a grown up now, you can’t harm me anymore... In fact, it could now become my turn to kick some asses. I know, the Beguinage is not supposed to be a place where you think thoughts like that.
I should be in my own personal zen state. Me and the cobbled streets and the green doored and green windowed houses.

In the far corner, close to the big house that belonged to the abbess, a few really show their age, in dire need of restoration.

It is mind boggling to see that i 1667, a woman could have gone in that door and felt at home in the safety behind the walls.

It looks as if it has snowed, a white powder on the window, it’s not snow, I don’t know what it is. Maybe fungi...
The houses had no heating, damp could cause the residue.

I can just see the top of the gun powder tower peeking over the roofs. Dating from times when the city needed a gun powder storage place. When times were hard and one never knew what intruder the day after was going to bring.
I wished I could go back in time at least once, and meet some of the first people who lived here. What would their stories be?

Someone put a small flyer up asking for rest and peace, to admire the flowers and resting places. No biggie, I can enjoy the peacefullness of this place to the fullest.

The little chapel (the Beguinage has two of them, a big one, and this small one, with only a virgin Mary in it) is showing off the blue round window. Who decided that it had to be a round window in this building, and who decided on it to be blue?

Who drew the plans for the spot, and made it into a haven for girls without means, to kindly be giving their life devoted to God en their fellow people? Not nuns, you had to be rich in order to become a nun, the girls here were what I would call lay sisters as in lay brothers, working as inferior classes to do the dirty jobs in the convents.
The Beguinage is not a convent, but the spinsters who ended up here did a lot of the dirty and so much needed jobs.
I wonder if Almshouses would carry the load of the Begijnhof.

The round tower always speaks to my imagination. I have never been inside, and hey, that is a thought, next time I am in Kortrijk, I will put on my bold shoes and ring some bells to see if I could have a peek inside.
The tiny tower stands in the shadow of the Saint Martin’s church, big and little brother.

You can also stay in one of the houses now transformed in a bed and breakfast. That would be a great idea. Worth of exploring. How would it be to wake up under the Saint Martin’s tower, hearing the bells?

One last frame and I am off to get dinner with my sons and daughter in law. A full house. It was nice to have a short period of silence in the otherwise busy trip days. Alone with my thoughts, enjoying history at its best.

More later!

A "Thank You" goes a long way...

Not a very happy camper right now. I have no idea what is going on with photography. Last week I read on Heather Spohr her blog that she was over the moon as a friend sent her some photographs from her passed away little Madeline. It tugged at my heart, as I am often shooting pics for friends, don’t charge, send them the link to the download site so they can pluck them off for free. After I have done a lot of work to them. I wonder if people think that taking the photograph is all that it takes. Maybe they don’t know that for 150 photographs I shoot there is at least 3 days of processing involved.

Anyway, I am not happy as the above shot came out of a gift session I gave to a good friend of mine. Her son had a baby, and I had suggested that my present could be a photo shoot. Which we did when I was in Belgium.
I did send them the link, to the young couple I mean, and we are now 3 weeks further. I have no idea whether they saw the photo’s, I have no clue if they liked them, I don’t know if they saw them... And even if a thank you goes a very long way with me, I am still waiting on a sign of life.
It strikes me as utterly rude that people don’t even get around to hit the reply button in their email application anymore, to just say thankyou...
It makes that I am turning away from photographing people big time.
I know of course that I do not take photographs just to get a thank you, but it would be nice now and then to get one...

Yet a post like Heather’s tells me that taking pics of kiddies from friends or people I know can be a good thing, as obviously not all people are rude and unappreciative of a photographers time and effort.

It’s a life lesson: if you want to be a real photographer, don’t do like me! Don’t give pics to friends of their kids, as in a lot of cases they don’t even bother to thank you, and in some cases, it’s pearls for the swines.

I was happy to read about the photographs of Madeline that arrived at Heather’s and Mike’s house, and how pleased they were. It’s an added memory, and memories is all they have of their little Madeline.

Off to do some processing now... For photographs I did charge for. And the people thanked me in advance already... A pleasure to work on jobs like that.
The reading between the lines? Dunno..................................

Bellwood Nature reserve

Let’s begin with the baby book. It’s empty... No baby so far. Only a couple of pics of the parents, that will go in today. I had fun making this book, up to the point where Mr Wonderful drilled holes for the rings. The cardboard gave way so I had to find a solution to hide the ugly borders of the holes.
I spent yesterday afternoon die cutting circles, and then with a hand punch cutting out little holes in the middle of the circles. If you are still following.
The things one does for love... The sad thing is that I am perfectly happy sitting there punching and cutting. I’m pathetic on certain days.

On the squirl front: we have secured our bird feeder with a special anti squirl gate. The momma squirl can still climb up, but then gets stuck in the parasol, her birdfood eating days are over. But we did not set her dry. We got a designated squirl feeder, so now she is happily munching away at her owl level.

We were a bit worried at first, thinking she might not find the food under the cover, but hey, it’s a SQUIRL, they do find a way to food.
It was a treat watching her. Tiny animal, with a squirl Einstein brain. She found how to lift the cover to get to the peanuts inside.

Then she sits on top of the feeder holding the nut and eating it. I love my mini nature reserve. Amazing what two feeders can bring in of wildlife, if we may call feathered and furred friends “wildlife”.

Time for another one, only 2300 left, but she should be able to eat for a couple of days. And we have another container of peanuts ready on standby.

The difference with the birdfeeder is that no acrobatic showoffs are seen. And I need to trim the bush a bit so I can snap to my heart’s delight.

After a while, she obviously is hearing the shutter from my camera, and is coming down to have a look. Eminent danger????

No eminent danger, the eating can continue.

Wait, I heard that noise again. Who is it? What is it? Do I need to run or hide?

Did it come fro behind me? Man, this is something... A girl can’t even have a quiet dinner these days...

What??? Where? Who? Am I nuts or what? Those peanuts must have a psychedelic element as I keep hearing things that say danger but nothing happens... Not an easy life for a squirl... I tell ya!

Let’s dig in another time... After all, one can’t think straight without food in the squirl stomach!

The Squirl chronicles will be continued at a later date. When Mrs Squirl has become more used to the sound of the shutter.
It’s a promise...

Carpe Diem!