The Low Country

‘Le Plat Pays’ is one of my favourite Jacques Brel songs. Brel was Belgian, and he wrote this song in French. It was originally about western Flanders, the flat north-western part of Belgium. It was translated into Dutch by the Dutch poet Ernst van Altena (who translated most of Brel’s songs) as ‘Mijn Vlakke Land’. I have the feeling that van Altena was thinking more of the Netherlands when he made his translation. Brel recorded the song in both languages; both versions are very moving and worth a listen. ‘Mijn Vlakke Land’ has also been covered by countless Dutch singers, notably the late Liesbeth List.

A few years ago - I remember that it was during the time of the Covid19 lockdowns - I was granted Dutch citizenship (while still being allowed to retain my British citizenship). I was very happy about this, not least because it restored to me my EU citizenship of which Brexit (Don’t get me started about Brexit!) had recently deprived me, and in this burst of enthusiasm I wanted to create something to express my appreciation of and love for my adoptive country.

My written Dutch was and still is adequate but basic, not a language in which I could express myself creatively, so I settled on translating this song into English. I first searched the internet to see if I could find any existing English translations, but without success, so my translation isn’t influenced by any others. Later I did find one on YouTube, but it was very different from my own.

I’ve called my translation ‘The Low Country’. It draws on both ‘Le Plat Pays’ and ‘Mijn Vlakke Land’, but also contains some elements of my own that I see as being essentially Dutch, and in my mind it is about the Netherlands. The basic structure of the song is not to be messed with; it must contain four verses, one for each of the four winds, ending with the south wind that ushers in a new sense of warmth and positivity in the music as well as in the lyrics, but within this structure some poetic license is allowed, and translating song lyrics word for word is almost never possible anyway. So here it is:

The Low Country

When the North Sea pounds on the dunes and on the beaches,
And snowy flakes of foam are scattered on the breakers,
Or when the threatening flood breaks against dyke and dam,
And chilly ocean mists would bar our way back home,
And when the ebbing tide lays bare a desert sand,
And storms from out the west spit their venom at the land,
It fights for me, the low country.

And when the rain falls down out of a leaden sky
On streets and market squares and steeples towering high,
That in this endless plain are our only mountain peaks,
And the chiming of the bells is the only voice that speaks,
And the people scurry home along rain-wet hissing ways,
And cold winds from the east mark the passing of our days,
It weeps for me, the low country.

And when the mirrored clouds move on the water’s face,
And the never ending sky puts us humbly in our place,
And when the sky is grey like the herons and the gulls,
Or when the sky is white like the ancient bones and skulls,
And when the north wind sighs through the birches on the heath,
When the north wind howls, and it robs us of our breath,
It shelters me, the low country.

But when the delta sweats under a burning sun,
And storks and swallows wheel and dip over the corn,
And girls in summer clothes promenade along the quays,
Old men in caps and clogs sip their beer under the trees,
And a warm wind from the south ruffles the yellow grain,
A warm wind from the south revives our hearts again,
It sings to me, my low country.

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