Dear Visitors, 

Welcome to the garden of the Grand House. You have the honour and pleasure of making the acquaintance of me, Philipotte Dysembaert. I was the master of the court for a while here. Grand Lady, people say nowadays, but I've always found that patronising, all that schmoozing. Rather call me Mistress or Magistra, as my sisters did. I was a leader who held her own. 

I never liked peeping Toms much, during my reign here. The abbots of the abbeys of Ghent, parish priests of St Bavo's and other smarty-pants all wanted to have a finger in the pie here, and I liked nothing better than to point fingers and step on toes. I fervently defended the freedom we beguines had enjoyed since time immemorial.

That I wanted to renovate the Great House, my official residence, to make it more reflective of the noble character of myself and my sisters, they could tolerate. But when I unfolded my grand plans for a new church in our court, the fat was in the fire. Whereas in the old church, just about everything was so unhinged or dangling that I was afraid we were going to get the whole thing on our heads one day. Remodeling didn't help either, so why not build a spacious sanctuary filled with God's light?

Too pretentious, they thought. We had to keep it plain and be nice.

I shrugged my shoulders and did as I pleased. 

The fact that I paid a pretty penny myself for the construction helped things along and I also got the sovereign's blessing. He was in favour of independent spirits and we promised to pray for him. I chose the best stonemasons, the best masons, the best carpenters, also for my residential palace. My dwelling, unlike the church, I still got to see in its new splendour. The church was only half-built when I died in 1664. 

But still, still, every time I hear the hour reverberate in the bell tower, here in my garden, I gleam with pride.

It's all there after all, I think. Imagine for a moment this quarter of the city without me, Magistra Dysembaert, having been around.