Ghent · Friday — Anchor Day: The Beguinage and the Absence of Ceremony

Day 4 · Ghent

Friday — Anchor Day: The Beguinage and the Absence of Ceremony

Friday, August 7, 2026 Begijnhof Sint-Elisabeth / Prinsenhof

inside the Klein Begijnhof courtyard, on a worn stone step at the base of the chapel door — a low Baroque doorframe of pale limestone above her, the white-rendered facades of the béguine houses forming a closed rectangle around grass so green it registers as wrong against the grey overcast, a lime tree in the near corner holding a single bird that has just stopped moving — seated on the chapel step, mid-breath, eyes lifted toward the lime tree where the bird has just landed and gone still

The gate to the Klein Begijnhof opened at some point just before I arrived and the courtyard was nearly empty — one woman near the far wall with a watering can, working methodically, not looking up. The white-painted facades held the early light the way plaster holds moisture: completely, without giving any back. The overcast kept everything even. No shadows. Just a muted, total brightness that seemed to come from the walls themselves.

I sat on a step near the chapel door and stayed there for close to an hour.

White-painted begijnhof facades lining the courtyard, the lime tree near the gate visible at the left edge, chapel door in the middle distance

No one came to ask anything of me. The woman finished her watering and went inside. A bird moved in the lime tree by the gate and stopped. The air smelled of damp plaster and cut grass and something faintly resinous I couldn't place. The stone of the step was cold through the linen, which I noticed and then stopped noticing.

A shallow bowl of waterzooi — thick pale broth, fat still pooling at the surface, chunk of vegetable just visible at the rim, thick-cut bread resting on the counter beside it

I changed after lunch — a counter place near Sint-Pietersplein, one stool left, a plate of waterzooi that arrived thick and pale with the fat still moving on the surface, bread on the side that no one had asked for. I ate slowly. The cook worked behind a low partition and I could see his hands but not his face.

$in the former Prinsenhof courtyard — packed gravel going to weed at the margins, pale Tournai sandstone walls with square iron tie-plates set at intervals along their length, a heritage board mounted at chest height, the walls ending at open sky with no roof above them — the courtyard a room that forgot it was a palace — stopped mid-perimeter walk, turned fractionally back toward an iron tie-plate as if registering it for the first time, not touching it — reading the wall through looking$

in the former Prinsenhof courtyard — packed gravel going to weed at the margins, pale Tournai sandstone walls with square iron tie-plates set at intervals along their length, a heritage board mounted at chest height, the walls ending at open sky with no roof above them — the courtyard a room that forgot it was a palace — stopped mid-perimeter walk, turned fractionally back toward an iron tie-plate as if registering it for the first time, not touching it — reading the wall through looking

The ivory skirt felt right for the afternoon, for walking somewhere that used to be a palace and is now mostly walls. Prinsenhof gave me a courtyard surfaced in packed gravel gone to weed at the edges, pale sandstone walls with iron tie-plates set at intervals, a heritage board mounted at chest height explaining in three languages what had stood here and no longer did. The gaps in the masonry had been repointed at different times — you could see the generations of it, each repair a slightly different grey. I walked the perimeter once and left.

By eight the temperature had dropped enough to matter. I pulled the sweater on outside a brown café near Brabantdam. Through the window: two men at a small table with a sticky laminate top, a round tin ashtray between them, two glasses of dark beer barely touched, a hand of cards each held loosely. They were not speaking. One turned a card over. The other looked at it for a moment and said nothing.

I stood there longer than I needed to before walking on.

on the pavement outside a brown café near Brabantdam — the window to her left showing its interior as a warm amber rectangle in the darkening street, the laminate table and the two men just legible through condensation-blurred glass, the street itself in blue-hour grey, the temperature drop making the air slightly denser — one beat after pulling the sweater on — arms just settled, not yet adjusted, looking through the café window at the card that has just been turned

What she wore

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I wore the linen dress because it makes no noise when you sit down on stone.

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Changed the skirt after lunch — the ivory one felt right for walking somewhere that used to be a palace and now is just walls.

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The sweater was the right call — by eight o'clock the city had cooled down and I was glad to have something that felt like it was actually holding its shape.