Seneffe. H. is beaming as we walk into the courtyard. It is girdled by a horseshoe of former 18th century stables, now turned into guest rooms. In front of us, beyond the railings, are the tall trees belonging to the domaine. He points beyond the fountain, in the centre of the courtyard. “That’s the room where I stayed in ’96. It was the first year they had the Collège des Traducteurs here. They pulled out all the stops – we were driven here from Brussels, waiters in white jackets serving dinner, the Directrice getting all the translators to tell a joke at the table, to break the ice.”
H. has been on a translator’s retreat in Seneffe half a dozen times. There are photos of him in that first-year album. Darker hair. Slimmer build. The same dreaming expression hidden by the glasses.
The château of Seneffe has been turned into…
View original post 397 more words