Home & Garden

I bet you're all dying to know what we bought at the castle so, without further ado, let's have a peek at the things which came home with us.

And the winner is ... Sheila! You were spot on, dahling! Well done! We bought the green deer, which is actually a  lamp. A 1930s Art-Deco lamp to be more exactly.
I mean, it's green, it's a deer and it's Art-Deco: if ever an object ticked all the right boxes, then this is it.

The wiring was a bit dodgy, so Jos, who's a skilled electrician, changed it and added another lamp fitting and hey presto: less than a day later it was already taking pride of place on our sitting room's mantelpiece.

Dove Cottage actually dates from the 1930s, so it couldn't have come to a better place, even if it does have to share the limelight with several other favourites.

Centre stage is taken by this pretty wooden pendulum clock, which Jos found at a local junk shop.

On its left, behind the deer, is a vintage floor and furniture wax canister. This, as well as the tiny sample pot next to it, was gifted to us by my parents around the time we moved into Dove Cottage, and have been in the same spot on the mantelpiece for coming up to twenty years now. They both came from a shop in our village, which used to be owned by a great aunt, one of my maternal grandfather's sisters. The shop, of course, is long gone, but I walk past the house it was in every weekday morning on my way to the bus stop.

Moving to the right now, where there's a motley crew of objects vying for attention. The amber glass candlestick is 1930s as well, and so is the Art-Deco bonbonnière on the bottom right. The ceramic couple, wearing traditional Dutch costume, is identical to the pair I used to play with when staying at my paternal grandparents, resulting in quite a few breakages and the ensuing gluing on of heads!

In front is a souvenir ashtray from Expo 58, the famous Brussels World Fair, containing a souvenir book of matches with an image of the Atomium.

Lurking in the recess is a plaster statue of Our Lady of Boom, which we picked up in a charity shop. Boom (the "oo" is pronounced like the "o" in bone) is the town where Jos grew up.

Above the mantelpiece is a mirror in a gorgeous wooden Art-Deco frame, which was going for a song in a charity shop as its glass is riddled with black spots. Reflected in the mirror is our 1950s light fitting, also charity shopped.

This cosy corner in our sitting room is a meeting of styles from different decades. The chairs are 1950s which we had to Phoebe-proof with plaids. The metal shelving, produced by Dutch company Tomado, and currently highly collectible, is 1950s as well, and so, of course, is the framed Expo 58 poster.

Back to the 1930s with the inlaid wooden side table. On top, a late 1950s Bakelite radio. The framed photographs are of my grandparents in old-fashioned bathing suits at the seaside (left) and Jos's mother carrying one of her plants on the right.

Opposite this corner and above the modern flat screen television (we do have some mod cons!) are two display cases carrying the poshest of my Barbies, with some of Jos's Davy Crockett collection on the right.

Is it a boy or a girl? I've never been absolutely sure, but he or she is carrying a jug of ostrich feathers, very fashionable in the 1920's.

I couldn't resist the kitsch wooden wall plaque with a tableau of plastic deer, going for € 0,50 in a charity shop. The display of vases and birds on the bottom right is sitting on top of a cabinet.

I'm the first to plead guilty when it comes to clutter, but all these objects have a soul and a story to tell. They have found a place, not only inside Dove Cottage, but in my heart as well.

After this little detour, it's back to the rest of our finds. 

As you'd probably expected, I bought several brooches. I selected four from the Brooch Lady's folders, and found another three at one of the stalls upstairs.

How cute is that cuckoo clock? The celluloid deer and the carved mother-of-pearl bird brooch were just € 5 and € 7, which is quite cheap. They both needed cleaning, but just soaking them in soapy water already lifted most of the dirt.

Have you noticed the stylish little hat in the group picture? The minute I laid eyes on it, I was in love. The stall's owner urged me to try on a rather spectacular 1920s cloche hat, but I had my heart set on this one, even though it didn't come cheap.

I thought it would rather suit the snooty Idina, so here she is modelling it for you!

The weather continued to be fine on Sunday (I'm still rambling on about last week here) so we spent a bit of time in the garden. I'd already done some serious pruning on Friday afternoon, getting rid of some of the exuberant ivy which is threatening to take over our little plot. A huge heap of twigs and cuttings is now ready to be collected by the town council in a week or two.

We also planted out our poor rhubarb plant which had been waiting patiently in its pot. No need to plant any more Aquilegia, as they self-seed like mad: look at those little seedlings huddling together in this terracotta planter, abandoned after the demise of its original inhabitant. 

More signs of Spring in other parts of the garden. Our Clematis armandii is slowly reaching its zenith, the warmth of the sun releasing its heavenly almond scent. The little stone dove will soon be surrounded by the small pink flowers of our ground-covering Geranium, while Alchemilla mollis, commonly known as Lady's Mantle, is one by one unfurling its downy leaves. Quite unexpected, as I'm sure I didn't plant it there. Yet another of our self seeders!

As much as I love green, our garden was sorely in need of a bit more colour, so we made a trip to the garden centre to pick up some flowering Spring plants.

You've got to love a bit of flower power ...

I'm not very visible in this post, so I will take Idina and her fabulous new hat to Patti's Visible Monday at Not Dead Yet Style this week!

Wandering in the wilderness

It was January's final Sunday and alas another granite grey day, which was issuing absolutely no invitation to leave Dove Cottage's cozy confines.

But it was dry, and with the temperature an almost Springlike 13° Celsius, we made the most of what was on offer and went for a short walk to clear away the cobwebs.

You've seen all my outerwear before: comfortable yet stylish Tweed jacket, purple mohair beret and old multicoloured wool scarf. The blue boots, being a kind of waxed leather, might not have been the best choice for what we had in mind, though.

Note the walking stick, which signifies we were about to tackle rough terrain!

We drove down to De Schorre, a recreational domain and nature reserve on the site of a former clay pit, quiet but for a couple of families out for a walk and, at one point, a gaggle of chattering rainproof clad ramblers.

Several times a year, the quietness is shattered by events taking place elsewhere on the domain and for two weekends in Summer, it is the scene of Tomorrowland, the largest Dance Music festival in the world: its deep thumping basses can be heard and felt at Dove Cottage, more than eight kilometers away.

We parked our car in one of the streets backing onto the nature reserve, entering through a small municipal garden, a pond with some benches and a jetty at one end. A half submerged rowing boat, its timbers battered and rotten, was tucked away in a corner under some trees. 

A red metal sign shouted the word STEEN (stone), a reference to the area's brick-making past. It is part of a fragmented art installation, parts of which can be found all over the domain, poignantly telling the history of the brick industry which used to thrive here. Another clue can be found just a couple of meters further along, in the word KLEI, meaning clay.

Traces of the once-flourishing brick industry are still visible in the landscape laid out on the banks of the river Rupel, which is scarred by centuries of clay-digging and dredging.

Some of the old clay pits are now beautiful nature reserves, where nature has once again reclaimed what is hers, the now water filled quarries havens for dragonflies and damselflies, frogs and other amphibians, as well as several species of waterfowl.

Here at De Schorre, sets of wooden steps take you from street level about 25 meters down to the bottom of the former pit, where a network of boardwalks leads you through the wetlands created by months of rain.

At one point, a stream of mud had avalanched onto the boards. Without any means of escape, there was nothing for it but to risk ruining my boots. Remember that this is no ordinary mud, but heavy clay which sticks and tries to root you to the spot.

The red metal panel here reminds you of the fact that during the industry's heyday at the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th centuries, there were more than 150 factories in the area, making the industry the biggest in the world. Now, only one factory remains active.

The stepping stones on the bottom left mark the start of a so-called "barefoot path" leading into the depths of the wilderness. Where the stepping stones end the path has turned into a stream, so I guess a pair of sturdy wellies would be the appropriate footwear here!

Soon after the boardwalk path ends, you are faced with a ghost of the past in the form of a ruined and graffitied brick building and elevated tracks on tall brick pillars.

This is a landscape full of stories. The stories of the men, women and children, who once worked here in appaling conditions, performing extremely heavy, monotonous labour, for twelve hours a day, earning a pittance. 

It was Jos, who was born and bred in the area, who took this photograph in the early 1980s, showing the factory still in working order.

Close your eyes and imagine dozens of waggons being drawn up the elevated track towards the engine room, carrying the heavy clay from the pits.

Taking the path around the back of the construction, we walked between trees and along some muddy stretches until another piece of industrial archeology came into view.

This rusty red dredger is hanging on for dear life to the reed clad edges of a water filled clay pit, contrasting deeply with the unearthly green of the water. This is a secondary clay pit, excavated by the greedy dredger, and another 25 meters deep.

Flooding means that you won't be able to keep your feet dry while sitting on that bench.

From here, a steady but gentle climb brought us back to our starting point and our car.

Back home, it was time to show you what I was wearing underneath my jacket. You have already caught a glimpse of my frock, which is a 1980s does 1940s number. At least that is what I think it is. The fabric, featuring a blue, pink and orange print on a chocolate brown background, is satisfyingly swishy, aided by its equally swishy lining.

I accessorized with a blue ring and blue beads. I was also wearing tights in the same blue, which you can just about see in the opening photos of this post.

The pink in my frock's print lead me to choose a pink cropped cardigan with a drawstring at the waist. I must admit I had forgotten all about it and found it shoved at the back of my wardrobe while looking for something else entirely. The large brooch featuring the 1920s flapper girl seemed like the perfect companion.

I'm taking my outfit to Patti's Visible Monday at Not Dead Yet Style. Do have a look at what all the other visible girls are wearing!

Bertha's wardrobe

Yesterday, it was exactly 112 years ago that my maternal grandmother, Bertha, was born.

She arrived in this world on the 6th of May 1905, and must have caused quite a stir, as she'd brought along her twin brother, Augustinus, who would go by the name of Gust.

The twins were my great-grandparents' first borns and they were joined in 1909 by a little sister,  who sadly didn't get to see her first birthday.

Although my grandmother sometimes alluded to her being a twin, I'd no idea what had happened to her brother, nor that she'd once, however briefly, had a little sister.

Bertha & Gust

Many years ago, my Dad gave me several boxes containing photographs and documents belonging to my Mum's side of the family.

Among these was my great-grandparents' "marriage booklet" (called trouwboek in Flemish), which is a kind of marriage register every couple tying the knot here in Belgium is issued with. In this booklet, all children resulting from the marriage are officially entered, with their full name(s) and date of birth. It also mentions the date of death of any children still living at home.

It is from this booklet that I learned of the existence of the little sister, and that Bertha's twin brother had died in 1931, aged 26. When I asked my father if he knew what had happened to him, he said that Gust had died as a result of an accident at work, but that was all he knew really.

It was also from my Dad that I learned that just before the First World War, my great-grandparents acquired a plot of land in our village (I have the original deed, found at my dad's a couple of months ago) and were making plans to build a house. When war broke out, however, they abandoned the project, and fled to neutral Holland, living with family relations of my great-grandmother, Aloysia.

In Holland during the First World War
Bertha is the girl in pigtails in the middle row

According to her "praying card"  (called bidprentje in Flemish, a small memorial card, which is distributed to all those who attend a funeral), she was actually born in Ossendrecht, Holland, and it is possible that she was at least part Dutch.

My mum on my great-grandmother's lap around 1937

My grandmother sometimes mentioned her Dutch relatives and I vaguely remember some of them being present at her funeral.

In one of my boxes of photographs are several portraits, printed on carton, mentioning the name of a photographer in Bergen op Zoom, Holland.

The lady on the right is my great-grandmother, Aloysia.

When the family eventually returned after the war, the house was completed, and it was there they, and later my grandparents, continued to live, until the house was sold by my parents after both my grandparents had died in the late 1970s.

I have many happy memories of that house, where I had lunch every weekday and spent many a Wednesday afternoon (school half day), until right before my grandmother - the first to go - died in 1974.

It was there, in one of the attic rooms, that all the photographs were kept in a chest of drawers, along with a beautiful, shiny conch shell.

By the time I came along, my grandmother's health had seriously deteriorated. She - like my mum after her - suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, and painfully hobbled along aided by crutches. Later, she even slept on a pull-out couch (bought from a mail order catalogue: how peculiar that I remember that part) in the front room, as she was no longer able to get up the stairs. As she wasn't very mobile and hardly left the house, she had gained quite a bit of weight, which is mainly how I remember her.

It is me she is holding in the photo on the left. Taken in 1962, it is hard to believe that she was just one year older than I am now. The photo on the right was taken in my parents' house in the late 1960s.

My Dad used to tell me that Bertha was reputed to have been quite a beauty when she was young, pointing to a couple of framed photographs on my grandparents' mantlepiece, depicting a glamorous lady in old fashioned clothes, which he claimed was my grandmother!

Now, back to Bertha's story, or at least what I know of it, as it all seems to be shrouded in a veil of mystery.

Let's fast forward to my grandparents' wedding photograph.

Bertha married my grandfather, Alphonse, in November 1934, when she was 29 and he was 31.

I often wonder at the fact that they married so late in life. It's so sad that there's nobody left to ask. How I would have loved to talk about all this with my Mum, who wasn't very forthcoming on the subject of her own accord.

It strikes me that the couple isn't smiling in their one and only wedding photograph. The wedding group, all dressed in black, look as if they have gathered for a funeral, cowering in the bottom of the photograph, with that great big sky above them and washing drying on the line at the edge of the frame.

My Mum was born almost exactly one year after the wedding, and I particularly love the photograph of Bertha proudly showing off her little girl in her pram!

But I keep getting diverted.

Among the myriad of photographs I inherited are quite a few showing my grandmother - pre-marriage, I suppose - posing in different outfits and locations, always dressed to the nines.

In some of them, she is posing with her equally stylish friend.

The garden was a favourite backdrop, while both the photographs below, where she is posing on her own (left) and with my grandfather (right) are taken in our village, which is only just recognizable today.

She really had quite a wardrobe and I presume she made most of it herself. There was, after all, an ancient Singer in a corner of my grandparents' dining room.

The bottom line is that I might very well have inherited my passion of clothes from her, along with her name, Bertha, which, her being my godmother, is my second name.

I wonder what she would have thought of this Polyester Princess lark ...

Don't know why there's no sun up in the sky

I've no idea how it is that weather forecasters are getting to keep their jobs.

It's one mistake after another with them. Anyone else would get the sack if they made even half of the mistakes these people do.

Yes, I know that even with the latest technology, the weather can still be pretty unpredictable, but then what is the use of pretending that it is and pulling the wool over people's eyes?

We'd been promised a little bit of sunshine all week, but the weekend had come and gone and still we were left high and dry.

Saturday was such a dark and dismal day that we had to resort to taking outfit photos inside the house again.
It was far too cold to take off my coat and show you the dress I was wearing underneath in our usual spot.

I'd chosen a dress I'd forgotten all about until I suddenly remembered it last week.

Only, I couldn't find it anywhere.

Turns out I hadn't hung it up in my wardrobe yet, as I was still deciding whether to keep it or not!











It's made from a rather coarsely woven fabric and just a tad on the big side, but I like its groovy pattern so I'm not going to part with it just yet!

I added my burnt orange tights, a brown cardi to which I'd pinned the orange flower brooch I bought at last weekend's flea market, and a strain of amber beads.















It started snowing lightly when we ventured outside but we wanted to make the most of the available daylight to make the rest of the outfit photos.

Nothing new here: I chose my fake-fur jacket which is light and comfortable to wear while providing me with the necessary warmth at the same time (best buy ever!), my burgundy woolly hat and my purple crocheted scarf.

The buildings with the chimney in the background used to be part of one of our village's breweries - all of them long gone - which were converted to offices and housing many years ago.

Where we were off to should come as no surprise: it was time again for our favourite indoor flea market in nearby Mechelen.

Although there were quite a few treasures to be found, we were very restrained and only made a couple of small purchases.

So, what did we get? Well, several brooches, of course. I bought five in total, four of which, including the celluloid Edelweiss, for € 1 each.

We weren't going to buy any more Lourdes souvenirs, but then I saw this miniature holy water font. With its Art Deco design, and priced at only € 2,50, it would have been quite silly to leave it behind.

These empty metal photographic film canisters, from three different manufacturers, including Gevaert, which was a Belgian company, are interesting little additions to our collection of old cameras and accessories, which I must tell you about some time.

Here's a closer look at the Gevaert one:

Gevaert is a local company, which was renamed Agfa-Gevaert in 1964 after a merger, and I'm passing its factories each day on my way home.

In addition, both my grandfathers spent their entire working lives at Gevaert.

The company has dropped the Gevaert part from its name in the meantime.

How sweet is this vintage Gevaert ad?














Tying in with the photo at the start of this post, this German ad for Gevaert isn't bad either.

I can assure you that the little man living inside our weather house doesn't have a camera, though.

In fact, he is quite a lazy so-and-so, hardly venturing outside his little cottage, and letting his wife do all the work.













Our final purchase was made from a huge pitch full of boxes containing old bottles in all shapes and sizes. While we were admiring the many quirky and colourful inkwells, codd-neck bottles and assorted perfume bottles, the seller told us they had been dug up from landfills, and he filled us in on the the time consuming task of cleaning and sorting them.

I selected this pretty little bottle with a weathered Bakelite stopper, as I liked its flower design.














I'm quite ignorant when it comes to perfumes, especially vintage ones, but as the name Mury was mentioned at the bottom, I soon discovered that it used to contain Narcisse Bleu, which was first introduced in 1925.

In fact, although I found pictures of Narcisse Bleu bottles in various designs, I only came across one or two pictures of mine, and so far I haven't been able to find out its age.

By the time you are reading this, the sun has finally made her long awaited appearance, restoring my belief that Spring is now definitely around the corner, bringing with it the first of the ... daffodils!