Tomorrow we go to Paris. Marie-Louise will feed Sunshine, Tinkerbell, Tuppence, Diablo and Duchess plus the big guy who belongs to the neighbor who comes here to be fed.
We've learned each cat's personality and quirks. Sunshine does not move. If he's in the courtyard and you want to bring him in, you'd better get out of the car, pick him up and move him. He lives to sleep. But even though he's fourteen he's still able to wallop Tuppence if she goes too far with him. He's on our bed most of the time. Bernie calls him Earl Fisher (Bernie's dad's name) for reasons that escape me.
Tink is a crabby little old lady with a round belly, delicate face, thin legs and small feet. Though she has no Asian features, she reminds me of a Chinese Dowager Empress. She swats her kitten, Tuppence, who, though fully grown is, in my opinion, still her baby and should be treated as such.
Tuppence is full of personality, doesn't know to retract her claws when she plays with people, and is absolutely irresistible. I know each time I poke my finger between the door and jamb, she's going to be faster tan I am and I'm going to get scratched, but I can't stop because her little face looks up at me expectantly with those bright, alert eyes and her ears perked up.
She roars up the stairs, climbs on the old exposed beams, then gallops all around the landing sounding like a herd of cats.
And she's our defender. Joan has been feeding a neighbor's cat because he is not getting fed well at home. Now he wants to be a part of the household but he bullies the two younger cats and makes Tink a psych case (she pees and poops on the floor - aargh!)
So Tuppence guards the cat door in the morning while the other cats are eating, keeping the neighbor cat, who is twice her size, at bay. I just love this spirited little cat.
Diablo and Duchess are twins, a boy and a girl, pure white, and two of the most loving cats I've ever seen.
Trouble is, we never know which cat is which. It's a relief when both of them show up in the kitchen at the same time. Since they both love to stay out all night, and sometimes half the day, we like to know that nothing has happened to either of them. We don't know where they go, but we suspect they rule the big cornfield across the road, where no doubt mice also have field day.
And the neighbor's cat, even though he's a bully, even though I know he comes in at night and during the day when we're not here, and eats all the cat food, he's got me softened up. When I hang up clothes he rubs my legs. When I'm in the courtyard, he wants attention. He even pauses to be petted before he begins eating when I take his food dish across the road to keep him away from our cats.
I'm glad I'm not the one who has to decide what to do about him.
I'm going shopping this afternoon. I'd like to get a pair of pants since it looks as if the next few days might be cooler and I don't like the way my others fit. I swear for the 100th time never to buy anything that doesn't fit perfectly from the first try-on, no gaps in back, too-low rise, blah, blah, blah.
But my real reason for shopping is to buy the nice underwear I saw at the clothing store as gifts for my girls.
At the store I discover they also have very cute underwear for little girls, made smooth and flat for comfort. One great thing about giving underwear as a gift is that it takes up so little space in my maxed-out suitcase.
As for clothing for me, I buy leggings that are too big and a tunic that's too small, as I discover when I'm back at the house. I hope they are amenable to exchanges.
We're visiting Dominique tonight for a short while to take her flowers and to thank her for her kindness.
Flowers are very important in France; every town bigger than a small village has a florist. The arrangements are just a little different than at home, and very beautiful.
Dominique has taken on a lot of responsibility lately, and she is tired. We stay for only a short while, exchange e-mail addresses, and say goodnight. We want to get an early start for Paris in the morning.
We're on our way to the Loire Valley again, this time to Saumur, Chinon, and, we hope, to Chenonceau.
At Saumur's Tourist Information office, though, we learn that the chateau is undergoing renovation and is closed. There seem to be a lot of these projects underway at cathedrals and chateaus. The work is funded by the French government, and we wonder if this is part of a stimulus package.
Our stop here is not wasted, however. The young woman who helped us at the Tourist Information office is can't-stop-staring, put-Hollywood-to-shame beautiful. Natural jet black hair, big expressive eyes, perfect skin. Bernie counts this as a high point in his day.
We drive by the chateau for a glimpse anyway.
Now we're coming up on the Royal Abbey of Fontevraud. It's the largest in Europe. The Huguenots desecrated the Abbey in 1561 (the Catholic Church was very corrupt during that period and reform movements had begun all over Europe - Martin Luther posted his 95 theses on the church door in Wittenburg in1517). In 1804 Napoleon turned it into a prison, and it remained a prison until 1963. During World War II Germans tortured members of the French Resistance here and killed several.
Founded in 1101, the abbey had five buildings housing orders of priests and lay brothers, contemplative nuns, lepers, invalids, and lay sisters. The founder of the abbey ordained that the entire community should be directed by an Abbess, and that she should be chosen from among the widows.
The order quickly became the place for queens who'd been put on the shelf and the females of wealthy aristocratic families to take refuge. The order became wealthy due to generous gifts and endowments from those aristocrats. Many of the Abbesses over the years were from the royal family.
If I were going to a convent, I'd like this one, at least for the setting, among rolling hills planted with crops. One thing I wouldn't like - only the room in which monks copied manuscripts was heated.
Despite the corruption and laxity of religious orders of the time, we remind ourselves that it was places like this, and monks who laboriously copied manuscripts here, that kept Western civilization alive. The Dark Ages were times of illiteracy, ignorance, and a great step backward for Europe. What we think of as the wisdom of the ages, including, very importantly, the Bible, might easily have disappeared had it not been for them. (I know, I know - you got all this in Western Civ, but it seems so much more real here, more urgent.)
Libraries perform that same function today.
So do public schools. There were no public schools in the Middle Ages. Only the few, children of wealthy aristocrats, received any education.
Detractors of public schools would do well to keep in mind the reason that autocratic rulers do not want education for the masses: ignorant people are much easier to manipulate. Education's purpose is to expose students to a wide variety of points of view and to teach them to think for themselves so they can evaluate those points of view.
Education is a powerful thing. For those who hold power, it can often be a very dangerous thing. Thank God.
Abbeys are not as grandly decorated as cathedrals, and only the church here has stained glass, but the architecture is just as impressive.
Henry II of England, his wife, Eleanor of Aquataine, and their son, Richard the Lionheart are buried here.
I can remember - again back to fifth grade - reading about Richard the Lionhearted going on Crusades to the Holy Land. Did I ever think I'd gaze on his tomb? Not a chance.
I know this is so corny but we both love being this close to history.
Driving to Chinon we see more troglodyte houses-they are endlessly fascinating.
The Tourist Information office in Chinon doesn't disappoint Bernie-there is a very cute blonde young woman here.
Before we tackle the castle, we need lunch. We always seem to arrive for lunch just as most of the restaurants have stopped serving it, and the in-between offerings are limited. In most towns, though, at least one place serves all day.
We park at the top of the hill above the entrance to the castle. There is a restaurant across the street. We take a seat and wait, and wait. Apparently we are not only not going to get lunch here, we're not even going to get a nod.
We go down the hill towards the center of town. It's a steep descent, but fortunately there is an elevator.
There are several cafes clustered around the Place de la Charles deGaulle. We find one that's still serving. At the next table is a couple from Dublin with their two girls. I'm always glad to see families traveling with children. We have a pleasant lunch, but we have decided we're going to have to start packing lunches - these leisurely cafe breaks eat up a lot of sightseeing time.
Francois Rabelais, writer satirist (whom I've not read) was born in Chinon in the 1400s. Chinon is best known for it's red wines, and after climbing up to the chateau we see the vineyards on the side of the hill.
All the castles we've visited on our trip have been fortresses rather than the luxury palaces and Chinon is no exception.
Joan of Arc pleaded with Charles VII to take the throne back from the English here, and he gave her permission to raise an army. He'd taken refuge at Chinon during the hundred Years War.
When the English captured Joan, Charles failed to come to her aid, and she was burned at the stake.
Other inhabitants of the castle at Chinon were Richard the Lionhearted, along with his mother and father, Henry II of England and his wife Eleanor of Aquatine, and Richard's brother, John, one of England's less popular kings.
Inside the fortess signs tell us that an English-language tour will begin soon so we hang out, looking over the ramparts. It's a long way down to the town and the river and the views are grand and sweeping.
Our guide arrives, says goodbye to her last group, and we have her all to ourselves. We're very interested in how the castle was built and about Joan of Arc's stay here and she is very knowledgeable about both.
Chinon is being renovated and workmen installing sewer pipes have found chicken bones inthe walls, indicating that another worker somewhere between 1000 and 1400 ate his lunch here and dropped the remains inside the wall.
We climb the tower, where there's a Joan of Arc museum, to the top. The walkway around the outside at the top is narrow, the view commanding and it's windy. I wouldn't have wanted this watch on a winter night.
Our guide tells us the land around the castle provided nearly all the castle's needs, so that the inhabitants couldn't be starved out in a siege. Food crops were grown on the castle grounds and deer and wild boar in the forests provided meat.
There are still wild boar as well as deer in the forests nearby. She says one of the big problems with traveling at dusk is the danger of hitting a wild boar! Surely enough, on the road as we drive home, we see a sign: "Wild Boar Crossing."
We want to take the interstate to get home before dark (incidentally, we're a little farther north than at home and when we first arrived it was light until after 10:00 p.m.).
The directions on the big highways are given in terms of where the highway ends rather than the next city. It's only once you've decided on a direction and are already on your way that you see a sign for the next town. If you know which direction the end city is, you're ok - it's like getting on I71 - you know it will eventually take you to Cleveland eventually, but you can also get to Columbus. If we gget on the road to Lyon, though, we don't know Frane's cities well enough to know which direction that is.
We've made a choice, however, and it's a few kilometers before we realize we're probably going the wrong way. So we find a rest stop and pull in.
In a few seconds we have maps out and are trying to figure it all out, but we're still not sure. We've pulled in beside a tractor-trailer. Bernie bets out , sees that the truck is right-hand drive and approaches the driver.
"Do you speak English?" Bernie asks.
"Quite well," comes the answer in a pleasant British accent.
The driver and Bernie talk for a couple of minutes, then come over to our car and spread a map across the hood.
I'm catching part of the conversation and it sounds as if they are lifelong friends.
We learn a lot about this very nice man in just a few minutes. He's driving this truck from Manchester to Gibralter. He's retired twice but due to the economy and lack of an adequate pension, he's had to go back to work. He's never received any money from the government. His son paid for his father's knee replacement. He's going to call his wife in just a little while.
He tells me to look out for Bernie and I promise to do that.
So many good, kind people in the world. So many lives and stories.
We try to keep the house neat here but some things pile up so today is our work day.
Monique is here. Monique cleans the house for Joan. I'm working hard to improve my French conversation by talking to Monique. She can't just give in and break out in English so we have to keep at it until we understand each other.
We have coffee and tea together. So far we've mostly talked about the weather, but today we talk about our families. She has two grown sons and one grandchild who is 18 months old. I tell her about our family and then remember I've brought pictures, so I get those to show her.
I believe she told me she was a little later than usual this morning because she was cleaning the school. I ask when school starts. It's next week.
She asks me how I like it here in the village. We love it and I tell her so. She lives in the campagne (country) and likes it because it's peaceful. Yes, it is. I don't think I have the capacity to convey what it's like to be here. Perhaps someone who grew up in rural American at least 50 years ago might have some inkling, but that's still not quite it. People here in the country have all modern conveniences, internet, phones, etc. Every village has a recycling center. So it's quite modern.
Yet they often live in houses that are hundreds of years old, and just as we have a wheat field beside the library and a cow pasture behind the house two doors down, the villages and countryside have the imprint of rural life of past centuries. Pigeon cotes and stone farm buildings abound, roadside shrines for travelers appear every ten kilometers. Nearly every village has an old church, one-lane farm roads lead from one tiny village to another.
I would love for everyone to experience this, but I fear it will be swept away before long. I hope not.
Now I'm making the blackberry pie I've been planning. It's a shame I can't share these berries.
For most Americans, Le Mans, France means the 24-hour endurance race that's been held here since 1923.
Our map study has revealed a connection here to those who live in the Dayton, Ohio area. There's a monument here to the Wright Brothers, and a street named Rue Wilbur Wright. We felt it was a little link to home.
For a few days the city is flooded with race fans and press from around the world. For the rest of the year Le Mans is a busy modern city going about its business.
Yet all the while, on a hill overlooking the center of the city, the ancient walled Cite Plantagenet looks down, its impenetrable walls containing stories it cannot tell, of lives lived here for centuries.
We've parked our car in a lot not far from the cathedral. A horse-drawn carriage is loading passengers for a ride around the ancient city. A little girl sits beside the driver while her family settles into the back.
Walking on the old cobblestone streets, I'm glad, for perhaps the hundredth time this trip, that I decided at the last minute to pack my old Ecco sandals. They're not pretty, but they've enabled me to walk all day long on any kind of surface with comfort. They're worth every penny I paid for them probably ten years ago.
Shoes were my biggest wardrobe consideration preparing for this trip After a few weeks I can honestly say that the best travel advice, right after packing light, is to wear comfortable, broken-in shoes.
Lots of steps here - we're on a hill, and the streets wind around the side of it. And this is no museum piece. The old city is fully inhabited. It's a lovely residential area. Residents' cars move past tourists. Lace curtains and window boxes filled with colorful, trailing flowers grace the windows of Renaissance half-timbered houses.
Parts of old city date to Roman times. Three towers, part of the original wall, are third-century Roman, there's a gate along the Quai Louis Blanc that's distinctively Roman, as well as the porch of the cathedral. (If you took Latin, you will remember the opening sentence to The Gallic Wars, "All Gaul is divided into three parts." Gaul was the area now known as France and Belgium.)
The Plantagenets (you remember them - English kings) lived in the palace here between the 9th and 15th centuries.
We descend the 3rd century steps of the Grand Postern and walk along the Rue St. Hilaire. At the corner there's a bride having her wedding pictures taken. Bernie and I sit on a bench and take our own photos of the bride and groom. We must have a thing about wedding photos - we have some of a wedding in London, one at Niagara Falls, and now these, which I think are the best.
We've saved the cathedral for last, and as we enter, we're so glad we're here at this time of day. The late afternoon sun shining through the stained-glass windows casts a pattern of green and lavender light on the walls - a strange play of light blends the red and blue to make light the color of chalcedony. I'll never see pale green and lavender together again without thinking of the cathedral at Le Mans.
We sit quietly. This is such a peaceful place. It's impossible to describe the vaulted ceilings and inspiring architecture and lovely stained glass without being repetitive, but each of the cathedrals we've seen has been awe-inspiring and amazing.
We keep trying to put the picture of life in the middle ages, when these cathedrals were built, up against the marvels of architecture and building of these edifices. The peasants who built them lived in one-room huts. Life was short and hard. But they built magnificent cathedrals.
There is a tour group with a guide here. I take photos but as I try to explain to the guide who's watching me, it's impossible to capture what this place is like.
We walk through the cathedral, peeking into the chapels, each decorated differently. Outside one are candles. I light one for Jacob.
Today is Josh's birthday. Happy Birthday, Josh! A handsome young (yes, still very young) man with beautiful babies and a gorgeous, smart wife.
The thing about living with indoor/outdoor cats is that you never know what you are going to find on the kitchen floor in the morning. Today it's a small dark creature with a pointed nose that I think is a vole. I've checked images on Google and I can't be certain, but I don't know what else it could be.
I know this was a special gift for me because it was carefully laid on the rug in front of the kitchen sink. I don't like to think of what could have happened if I'd come in the middle of the night for a drink of water.
I'm going to walk today! I've established a route. From here to Monce-en-Saosnois is 3 kilometers, so round trip I get 3.6 miles in.
Our home away from home is a busy place this morning, though. A neighbor just stopped by to ask about Joan and Bill. It's hard to explain how we get through these conversations, but we do, and although it's hardly a nuanced understanding, the two parties (us and them) seem to grasp the main ideas.
Bernie is very good with languages. He knows far less French than I do, yet he always seems to get the idea, and faster than I do. I'm wracking my brain for vocabulary and verb forms; he's putting it altogether with bits and pieces.
Now the Eisen man is here (think Schwann's). I'm still barefoot and wearing the hideous yoga pants I brought for walking which both Bernie and I now detest.
While the Eisen man is giving me his spiel the breadman arrives at the courtyard gate. Now, we do not want to miss the bread man. We've been gone two days and our last chunk could be used for a doorstop. A baguette a day is tresnecessaire (can you tell we're falling into step with French living?) I can say that the emphasis on fresh bread every day gives me a new understanding of "Give us this day our daily bread."
So, saying, "Une minute, s'ilvous plait," I take off to the gate. I have forgotten something important, however - I am still barefoot, and I know from stepping outside a few nights ago to look for meteors that our courtyard is paved with ground glass. I have never stepped on anything that hurt my feet so much.
As I step gingerly over the pavement, I know what's going through both these men's minds: Crazy American!
I arrive at the bread van before he leaves (he's been known to honk that European horn as he sails by the house without stopping), only to have him point out to me that I have no shoes. What a faux pas!
The Eisen man gives up on me when I return to the door clutching the baguette. He just hands me his monthly flier and I assure him I'll give it to Joan. Yeah, it looks a lot like the Market Day flyer from our grandkids' school, and probably much like the Schwann man's.
We're taking it easy today. Once I've walked, gotten cleaned up, picked stuff for salad from the garden, we spread our maps and brochures on our "planning table" aka Bill and Joan's coffee table. We're planning tomorrow's excursion to the old medieval city of Le Mans (who knew it was something other than a big ole racetrack?).
On our way to Bayeux where we will spend the night, we pass Falaise. I look it up in the Michelin guide and discover it's the birthplace of William The Conqueror.
We're hungry and see a McDonald's. This is our first stop at a McDonald's in France though we've seen them. By the way, here McDonald's serves beer.
The food is good - good bread, good beef, everything tastes fresh. While we're eating I look at the register receipt. The address of this McDonald's is the William The Conqueror Roundabout. Now honestly I don't know why this strikes me as so funny, but something about the juxtaposition of those two makes me laugh every two or three minutes. I can picture William (who was born The Bastard, son of the king and a beautiful peasant girl) looking around, bewildered.
We pass through Caen, a busy port city and working man's town. There's a ferry here to England.
Driving northeast to the coast, we arrive at Arromanches, a touristy little town now that was the arrival point for British troops on D-Day. We go through a nice World War II museum.
It's not far to Bayeux, and because we know that our hotel is very near the cathedral, we just keep moving closer to the tall spires and find it easily.
This is fun. We drive through the gates in the wall that surround our home for the night into a beautiful garden. Our hostess greets us graciously and shows us to our room. Built in Napoleon's time, the house is furnished with antiques and there is a magnificent spiral staircase leading to the second floor. During WWII, the mayor of Bayeux had his office hereon the second floor after the Germans took over the municipal offices.
Our room is beautiful and we have a door that leads out to the garden where there's a patio with tables and chairs.
It's like having the keys to the chateau!
The building housing the Bayeux Tapestry is just 100 metres away, and after putting our things in the room, we walk around the corner to see it.
I first learned of the Bayeux Tapestry when I was in fifth grade. Pictures of it were in every world history book I had through high school and again in my text for the Study of Western Civilization in college.
I never dreamed I'd see it, but here I am walking alongside the 70 yards of embroidered linen that tells the story, in pictures stitched with wool thread, of the Battle of Hastings in 1066. I know I'm a geek, but this is thrilling. Mrs. Miller, Mrs. Miller, look at me! (She was my teacher in fifth grade.)
We decide on a small restaurant around the corner from our hotel for dinner - nice with white linen tablecloths and napkins. I choose an omelet and salad. Bernie orders one of the three-course plat dujours. My food is very good, but Bernie has an appetizer that is out of this world - andouille sausage wrapped in a crisp crepe on a bed of sauteed onions topped by Normandy sauce with Calvados. He gives me a bite - it's heavenly. He's more generous than I would have been - he gives me two more bites. His entree, bass with steamed vegetables is good, but it pales in comparison to the appetizer.
Dinner is a two-and-one-half hour affair. You are never rushed in a restaurant in France. And there is no annoying music, just the low murmur of conversation around us.
As we leave the restaurant, we stop to take photos of the cathedral. It's beautifully lit at night. We plan to see it tomorrow.
Back to our lovely manor house and a good night's sleep.
August 24, 2009
We slept well and awoke to a beautiful morning. Our room is on the ground floor with a door that opens into the garden. It's walled and takes up most of the block making our place in the middle of this busy city an elegant oasis.
Breakfast is in the formal dining room in our hotel. It's croissants, bread, butter, jam, ham, cheese and fruit. Two British couples who are friends, along with one couple's son, join us. They've just traveled to the Dordogne region of France and are going to see the Bayeux Tapestry.
After breakfast we walk 200 meters to the cathedral. Each time we enter a cathedral, after we've seen the big two - Notre Dame and Chartres - we expect to be a little disappointed, that they can't all be beautiful, that there will be maybe just one gorgeous stained-glass window, but we're awed by the beauty and majesty of each one. Music is playing as we enter, something lovely, but recorded. In a few minutes, though, the organ begins to play. Music is spine-tingling, completely thrilling here.
I light a candle for Jacob and spend some quiet moments.
In the few minutes it takes to drive from Bayeux to Omaha Beach we move forward nearly 1000 years.
A gray sky threatens rain as we stand on the beach at Saint-Laurent-sur-Mer, perhaps much like the sky on June 4, 1944. We've seen newsreels from that day and the sea is much calmer today than it was then, and unlikely to turn red with blood as it on D-Day.
Only a few tourists have ventured onto the beach this morning. "Les Braves" stands on the sand. A sculpture erected for the 60th anniversary of D-Day, given only a temporary permit t remain right on the beach, it has been allowed to stand due to many requests not to take it down.
Just a few feet to the east a German gun emplacement remains, a grim reminder of what the Allied forces faced that morning. We see others on the hills surrounding the beach, strategically placed for aiming guns at the beach. We can't imagine anyone brave enough to land here but thousands did, and many died.
Pieces of concrete pier remain, the remains of the Allied effort to create an artificial harbor so supplies could be brought in to keep the troops going once they began the push inland.
We climb a steep road past another gun emplacement to the top of the cliff. It's the first road the Allies built after the invasion. Today there's a campground at the top. The view of the sea is spectacular, of course.
After climbing back down, we drive along the beach road as far as we can. A monument marks the location of the first American cemetery at Omaha Beach. The remains of those buried there have been moved to the new American cemetery on top of the hill.
It's early afternoon when we arrive at the cemetery. We take the time to see the exhibits at the visitors' center and it's well worth it. As we pass through a hallway towards the exit that leads to the cemetery, the names of those known of the 9387 who are buried here are read over a loudspeaker. Four women and 307 unknown soldiers are among that number.
If you've seen the opening scenes of "Saving Private Ryan" you have an idea of what it looks like here today. The sun has come out now and the white marble crosses and Stars of David gleam in the sun. There's a perfect blue sky overhead, and the view of the sea from the cemetery is appropriately heartbreakingly beautiful. I think that this bit of beauty and peace is a small offering of gratitude to those who died here.
The 44 acres here are American property, granted by the French government. Quiet and respect are requested for the truly brave men and women whose remains cover the top of this hill. It's hard not to cry, especially when you've passed several graves marked "Unknown."
We stop at the beautiful memorial and semicircular wall that lists the names of those who died but whose remains have never been found.
Bernie and I believe that everyone should visit Washington, D.C. Now we believe that it's just as important to visit Omaha Beach. Pause for awhile and ponder what freedom truly means, how close the world came to losing it, and that saving it isn't about slick slogans or safe-at-home stick-on flag and Support Our Troops decals.
These men were released to slog through seawater to the shore under German guns; they watched as men beside them died, and they kept on moving, perfect targets, until they at last fell. No surprises - they knew what they would face, and they kept on coming, and they died.
We are back at the car - it's after five. We'd thought we'd finish Omaha Beach and the American cemetery early in the day. But what we've experienced here shouldn't be rushed, and we're glad we had the time to linger.
We'll not see Honfleur or Dieppe today. Another day, perhaps, or another trip.
Today we are planning our trip to the D-day beaches and Bayeaux.
We're using Rick Steve's guide as well as an old Michelin guide. Rick gives lots of practical information and tips, such as where to find a grocery store, and Michelin gives great detail going back to prehistory for geologic details about a place. They make a good combination.
I've booked our hotel online. So much easier than the telephone, though I was able to call our Paris hotel and have a successful conversation.
Communicating with a bit of French when the other person knows about the same amount of English works pretty well, though.
We've heard that the French refuse to speak English. We don't find that's true. I think they are as reticent about using clumsy English as we are about using clumsy French. When you try, using what you know, most people open up and speak a few words of English proudly.
For detailed and precise communications, such as the conversation I'm about to have with Marie-Louise next door, the Google translator works well. I write out what I want to say in English and the translator gives me the French, which I then transcribe to a note for her. Doing this makes certain that my verbs are conjugated correctly and in the right tense. You can get in a lot of trouble with verbs.
As I walk up the drive next door I hear Marie-Louise laughing and talking with someone. It's her family who are in the car about to leave. She greets me and her grandson, whose name I believe is Allen, speaks very politely to me in English. He's a nice-looking blond boy with a shy expression.
She introduces me to the family. all of whom seem to speak English. Allen looks to be somewhere between 10 and 12 and his sister perhaps a year or two older. The son and daughter are a handsome couple.
Marie-Louise will feed our cats on Sunday night and Monday morning.
Bernie has maps and guidebooks all over the bed and he's busy making notes. I read the guidebooks. We want to see the D-Day beaches of course, and the Bayeaux tapestry, but we'd like to see Honfleurs, too, a port city for 1000 years. Champlain sailed from Honfleurs to discover the St. Lawrence River.
There's a movie on about Hitler's bunker. It keeps us up later than we should be, with a hundred commercials toward the end, as usual. But now we're even more eager to see the place where Hitler's evil began to unravel.
The train from Paris brought us to La Ferte Bernard, but we've not had a chance to explore the town. Today is the day. Nicknamed "the Venice of the West," the town is crisscrossed by canals. It's a short drive - 29 kilometers.
The town dates from the 12th century and was originally built on stilts in the middle of the marshes, growing up around the fortified castle.
In 1590 the town was under siege by Henri IVs troops and the food supply was dwindling. The commander of the fort, DragoComnenos, decided to rid himself of some hungry mouths, and expelled a number of women to fend for themselves. They fared badly at the hands of the besiegers. Then Comnenos disguised 200 of his men as women and sent them out of the fort. As the besieging force welcomed this fresh group of "women," the men removed their women's clothing and fought their attackers, who fled. It's a dark chapter in the town's long history.
Today, the sun shines brightly, the weather is perfect, and what we see driving in to town is very inviting. We've seen a number of very pretty towns in France, but we agree this may be the prettiest. Flowers pour out of wide hanging planters on the wrought iron railings of bridges above the canals, half-timbered two-story Renaissance houses line the streets, some with statues looking down on the pedestrians below.
We enter a courtyard by a walkway through a building that houses the library We are alone, surrounded by the soothing sound of water moving through the canals that border two sides of the garden. It's peaceful and beautiful.
Crossing through St. Julien's Gate where the drawbridge over the moat once allowed entry into the fort, we see shops all along the street. It's easy to imagine that we've stepped into the 16th century as the shadows cast by the walls of the fort dim our vision momentarily, and that these are shops selling linen and wool and other trade goods of the time.
Strolling through town past the old buildings, the chateau, the waterways is more than a walk through time. La Ferte Bernard is a busy modern town; though many of the streets look like a Disney movie, behind the walls of the ancient building are computer stores, travel agencies, drugstores and clothing stores. The Tourist Information office is housed in the old salt store. There's nothing contrived here - it's all real and somehow blends seamlessly.
The jewel of the town, and the highlight of our visit is the church, Notre-Dame-des-Marais (Our Lady of the Marshes), built over the period 1500-1596. Beautiful churches are often crowded with tourists in France. Here, though, we are alone for some time before just one other couple silently join us.
Again, I light a candle for Jacob. This time I am able to sit down and meditate in silence for a time.
This is a working church. Pictures of a scout troop and youth on a missions trip are thumbtacked to corkboards resting on easels. There's a sheet for new visitors to sign, brochures for various mission efforts, and, as in all the churches we've seen here, an appeal for more young men to join the priesthood.
The architecture is Flamboyant Gothic, intricate and elegant. Gorgeous stained glass windows tell stories from the Bible. One shows a beautiful Mary Magdalene at Jesus' feet at the meal at Bethany.
At Notre Dame and Chartres we experienced the great glory and grandeur of God; here we find God's peace and comfort.
We emerge into a perfect day - the sky is brilliant, the temperature just right.
Bernie, who's been searching for pizza, has spotted a place for lunch. The French take food seriously and allow time to enjoy it. The staff doesn't hustle you along to provide an empty table for the next diner. Order something and the table's yours for the afternoon.
It's been a long time since we had such a leisurely meal. We're outside, of course.
A family enters the pharmacy across the street - Dad, Mom, four little girls and a baby in a sling resting against Mom. One of the little girls puts the baby's hat on - it's a little bonnet and perches atop her head with the ties hanging around her face. She looks up at her mother for her reaction, smiling impishly. She reminds us a little of Elyse. I think of Elyse with Jacob and Juliet.
When we are finished with our meal and waiting for our bill, I go into the women's clothing store two doors up. I find a pair of capris and a top on sale. The pants have a bit of subtle bling, but it's tasteful. It's hard to get away from style in France. Preppy they're not, my friend Darla will be relieved to hear.
My other purchase for the day is an outfit for Juliet. I've been looking at the baby clothes since I've been here -they're all so cute that I've had a hard time choosing.
One of the great benefits of what we're doing is the having the time to really experience the places you visit, not just hit the high spots and rush on to the next famous sight.
Blackberries are ripe. And there are hundreds of thousands of them within a half mile in all directions.
We picked nearly a quart on the road to St. Remy just in one spot. They grow on the fences, and we can reach them from the road.
Juicy, sweet, purple blackberries. If my tongue turns purple when I eat them one time, will my entire insides turn purple if I eat them everyday? Because that's what I intend to do. And does it really matter?
We are leaving the Sarthe region, moving into Normandy, and noticing the subtle changes i farms and homes. Two story houses line the village streets. The stone is mortared, not covered with stucco. Roof tiles here are dark gray and smaller. Corn and wheat fields give way to pasture for cattle.
We're on our way to Mont St. Michel, a UNESCO World Heritage site and probably one of the most-photographed places on earth.
The villages along our route are just as pretty as those in the Sarthe and the Loire Valley, and if possible, even more flower-filled baskets hang from fences, gates and walls and line the sidewalks.
Driving through Pre-en-Pail we see an imposing gate and glimpse a magnificent home at the end of a long, perfectly straight drive.
At Domfront, where we encounter a detour because a crew is painting new lines on the the street, we discover we're in a medieval city. I notice the wall and an old tower. We'd love to stop but we haven't time. I finally find the town in a Michelin guide. It dates to the 11th century, and was under the protection of Henry Beauclerk, son of William the Conqueror, who, in 1100 became king of England. Domfront became an English possession. It was passed back and forth or another 500 years.
I'm the navigator on our trips, and I have maps spread all over my lap as we approach the end of D275. looking for the turn onto D976. "It's up here, not far ahead." I say, and then look up.
My jaw drops. "There it is!"
Sarah will know what I mean by this: It was a Stonehenge moment.
Beyond rows of corn and peacefully grazing cows, Mont St. Michel rises above the sea in splendor. Truly there is no other way to describe it. Thousands of photographs have been taken of this place from every angle and time of day and night.
We pull off the road in a few seconds to join the others lined up taking pictures. The sight is stunning!
We take a dozen or more pictures before we're in the parking lot with hundreds of others. A sign posted at the gate warns that this lot will be covered by the sea by 5:30 p.m. These are the highest tides in Europe - up to 40 feet - and at low tide 9 miles of mudflats are exposed. The tide comes in quickly - at the rate of a person walking at a brisk pace - and many people have drowned because the misjudged the speed.
This is the first truly crowded sight we have visited. We manage to climb about 2/3 of the way to the top, but decide against ascending to the abbey since the line is long, it's very hot, and stairs in that last flight are narrow.
Many people have brought their dogs; this is common in France.
I see a little girl reach for her her baby brother's or sister's leg (I can only see the baby's legs and feet) and begin kissing it's feet. I think of Elyse and Jacob, Elyse and Juliet.
At the overlooks we see some spectacular views, though because the tide is out now mudflats rather than sea surround us.
Our descent takes a long time. We're mashed together in a narrow medieval alley lined with souvenir shops, restaurants and hotels. We could complain of modern commercialism, but the truth is medieval pilgrims from the 11th century on have encountered fast-food joints and souvenir shops at the same spot.
The crush of people means that it takes us about 20 minutes to move the equivalent of one city block. We move so slowly that as we pass a snack stand Bernie orders a bottle of Pelligrino water and has only moved 3 steps by the time the clerk has gone all the way to the refrigerator in back and returned with the water.
It's good we're not claustrophobic.
The only thing I'm anxious about is the parking lot. It's nearly four o'clock and, though the sea has not moved in yet, I picture a panic of people trying to get the hundreds of cars and campers to safety.
Bernie suggests that we walk on the sand and I decline. As soon as we are out of the parking lot and onto the causeway, I regret my decision. It would have been the one place where we'd be away from the crowds and able to enjoy the view of this amazing structure built on a tiny island.
Mont St. Michel is behind us now, but we keep looking back for just one more glimpse. We have pictures, of course - who doesn't? - but they will never be able to capture this monument to the archangel Michael that rises magnificently from the sea.
We awoke to the sound of the cleaning lady opening the door followed by her exclamation, "Oiseau!"
One of the cats (I can guess which one - that gray rascal with the innocent face) brought a bird into the living room during the night.
By the time I pull some clothes on and get in there, she's removed the carcass. Gray feathers cover the floor.
"Le chat est mauvais," I tell her and she agrees. Now there's a sentence in French I'd never thought I'd need.
The words I do need and fail to grasp have to do with a green pepper. We're making spaghetti for dinner, using some of the tomatoes in our garden, but we need a few things from the supermarket. I want to go to the Super U because I saw some of the cutest underwear there. (By the way, ladies, we are being underserved in the choices of underwear styles available.)
We finish our shopping, which includes the aforementioned pepper, and proceed to the checkout. Except the pepper is missing something. The cashier tells us something and we look at each other, then at her. "Je ne comprends pas." I say. I should have said, Parlais- vous Anglais?" because she presses on in French. This conversation is going nowhere fast. She phones someone.
We take a guess rather than wait in the uncomfortable silence. Maybe it needs a sticker with the UPC code, or a price. I walk to the bin of peppers. Nope, no stickers. I memorize the price: 4.12 Euros per kilogram. I walk back and give this information to the cashier. Nothing doing. She's still pointing to the side of the pepper. By this time the line at the checkout is growing and the man behind us is tapping his finger impatiently.
Bernie's not going to stand here and be stared at, so he goes back to the pepper bin. It's growing increasingly difficult to maintain an assured, self-possessed outer appearance. Now the cashier is tapping her finger.
Bernie arrives, holding the pepper and shaking his head. The line of people stare at him. He tries to tell the cashier we don't want the pepper. No dice - we're going to have to see this thing through to the bitter end.
At last a nonchalant produce manager relieves Bernie of the pepper. Now he's off to the pepper bin. In a couple of minutes in which a lifetime passes, he returns with an impressive white sticker on the pepper.
THE DARN THING NEEDED TO BE WEIGHED! Neither of us had seen the scale.
Bernie, who always gets the money right, fumbles for bills and coins. I gaze steadily at the belt that is not moving groceries along now. We are way past the nervous smile and shrug stage.
I'm rummaging around in mental pockets, too, and can't find what I need. No one ever seemed to think I'd need to learn "Sorry for holding up the line."
We’ve always thought of chateaus as luxurious homes; it’s easy to forget they were castles, and castles are fortifications to defend against enemies.
We are reminded of that here at Chateau d’Amboise. The chateau is situated at the confluence of the Loire and Amasse Rivers, high above the town, and a great place to get a clear view of any attackers.
Medieval French kings weren’t the first to find this a good spot for defense. The Celtic Turones tribe built fortifications here and in 503 Clovis, King of the Franks, and Alaric, King of the Visigoths, met here. Much later, in 1470m the future King, Charles VIII, was born here. In 1516, Francois I, heir apparent to the throne of France and patron of the arts, asked Leonardo da Vinci to come to the chateau as Premier Painter and Engineer and Architect.
Leonardo spent the last three years of his life at a manor house, Clos Luce, near the chateau. He brought some of his favorite paintings with him across the Alps from Italy, including the Mona Lisa. He is buried at the chateau, in St. Hubert’s Chapel
At Clos Luce we walk through Leonardo’s bedroom, the room in which he died. As I read this in the brochure, I glance at the fireplace along the wall on the left side of his bed, and I’m glad his room was comfortable. From the bed he could see out the window across the room, where the sky and trees are visible now. I can almost see the priest beside him administering the last rites, before he is joined with “the Creator of so many wondrous things.”
Next door is his study, The great genius, who wrote and painted and invented, worked on his many ideas here. In this room, too, there is plenty of light and space.
The entire manor house was his, and there are rooms for entertaining important guests, as well as a chapel and a kitchen, but the most interesting part of the rest of the house, for me, is the basement, where models of Leonardo’s inventions are on display. There’s an armored tank, the parachute, bicycle, and a car.
By the time I have finished looking at the inventions, Bernie is on the terrace at the café, having a ham and cheese gilotte because his blood sugar has just plummeted . He buys me an ice cream cone.
On the way down the hill we get a better look at the troglodyte, or cave homes built into the rock at the back of the street. Most of these are still inhabited; many have bright curtains and flowers planted along the front, and chimneys that stick out of the tops of the rocks many feet above them. This is something we never knew existed.
I loved my walk on Wednesday so much - it felt so good to really get some exercise - that I want to do it again. So I’m off to St. Pierre again, and today I intend to get there!
Early morning was cool, but now it’s hot. That’s pretty much the pattern here. There is no air conditioning, but with thick stone walls we don’t need it.
I’ve put on Bill’s hat, and I’ve rolled up and pinned the yoga pants I brought to wear around the house. A baggy t-shirt completes my look. I can only hope some French driver doesn’t kill me, because I don’t want my picture in The Middletown Journal in this outfit even if I am lying on the road in a pool of blood in a foreign country, which would normally win me sympathy points.
One of the special delights of walking here is the butterflies - dozens of them dance and dart through the wildflowers along the road.
Suddenly there is a great flapping of wings as a pheasant rises into the air from the side of the road where I’m walking. Three more follow it. I briefly look for the nest but don’t see it
Today at the crossroads I look carefully at the sign pointing to St. Pierre. Instead of turning left, I need to continue another 1.5 kilometers straight ahead
I’m glad I’ve come. The village is even tinier than St. Vincent, but the houses are very pretty, one particularly so. Then I see the church.
This is a greeting-card church, with huge hydrangeas planted all along the side, and an enclosed churchyard. Ivy clings to the walls. It’s so pretty, and though I’ll never do it justice in a photograph, but I’m going to come back here later today with Bernie and take pictures.
Usually there is an information board by the door of these churches, and there is one here that includes a telephone number to call for the key. We’ll get a picture of that, too.
On the other side of the door is a historical information notice. There’s an 11th-12th century Roman door here. The church was added onto in the 16th century.
Am I just a silly romantic? Or is it good to be able to see and touch these things. All is impermanent, and will all be dust, but sometimes I can almost see behind the veil that separates us from those who have gone before.
Bernie’s wanted to see this cathedral for decades. If you’ve studied history, art history, architecture, or half a dozen other areas, you’ve been exposed to Chartres Cathedral.
If you read Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth or World Without End, you’ve been obliquely introduced to Chartres. And after reading either of those you could stand here and, amidst the 21st century crowds, see the stonemasons and builders, the townspeople and pilgrims, the hawkers and merchants of the 12th and 13th centuries.
All this is on my mind as we leave our car in a parking building just around the corner from the cathedral. “Be sure your wallet is secure here,” I say. “Thieves have been hanging around here for almost 1000 years.” On the square in front of the church I see the restaurants and souvenir shops and think again that people have been selling food and souvenirs here for nearly ten centuries.
All that dry description in books of the amazing heights the builders achieved with everything pointing toward heaven to remind the peasants of God’s glory fail to prepare you for the real thing.
Our eyes are drawn upward to the vaulted ceilings. I think it would be impossible not to be inspired, looking up in this vast hushed space in which our steps echo even though hundreds of people walk silently around us.
Many people are barefoot, walking the labyrinth in prayer, as did pilgrims in the Middle Ages, symbolizing Jesus’ pilgrimage to Jerusalem.
The stained-glass windows seem more accessible here than at Notre Dame. I am ashamed to confess that I have often not been able to grasp the artistry, craftsmanship, inventiveness and intellect of these people of previous centuries, as if they were not as bright or capable as we of the modern world are. Looking at these exquisite creations I am aware of how far off the mark my thinking has been. I can hardly take my eyes off beautiful “Chartres blue” glass, made by master stained glass makers in the twelfth century. The colors are so rich, so clear and bright - but those words are inadequate.
After we’ve walked around the perimeter, stood in the transept, and peeked in the beautiful side chapels, including the one that holds Mary’s veil, Bernie and I seek out walls and columns that have not been restored, like this column with a small chunk out of the base. We touch the surface, here worn to a silky texture by the thousands of hands that have traced along the circle of marble.
We feel we’re connected to those men and women. They lived out their lives as peasants or kings, believers or power-seekers, eager to do God’s will or to bend God to their purposes, but they all came to Chartres, and now we have come.
Keith and Cheri told us we should see Bagnoles de L’orne, a town built in the 1930’s around thermal springs where people came to “take the waters.”
It’s not far, so it’s a good first outing of any distance on French roads.
Our route takes us through a national forest, a nice change since we’re living in slightly rolling farmland with trees here and there but no forest.
As it turns out it’s a very pretty town, filled with even more flowers than usual, many shops with pretty things on offer, lots of hotels, and a medical center.
But what we love best is the chateau, which now houses the city government offices. It’s on a hill, looking out over this town that Disney might have used as a model. There are two flights of steps up to the main entrance, so the view is even higher. Flowers grow from planter boxes hung from windows. Visitors can come inside the main hall and see the wood paneling and carved ceilings.
The grounds however, are like an enchanted forest. The chateau sits in the middle of a large park. Hedges, plants, shrubbery - everything is on a large scale, and Bernie says it reminds him of Hansel and Gretel. Several of the trees are six or more feet in diameter at the base, with fir branches hanging to the ground. Bernie says he can see them coming to life, just like in old folk tales, and I can see it, too.
Better watch out for the Seven Dwarfs and the Beanstalk.
I walk and find a direction we haven’t taken yet. The village of St. Pierre is 3.7 kilometers away, and I want to see it.
One thing that surprised us was the amount of corn grown here (hello? Is this Ohio?) . We are truly in farmland. Huge farm equipment travels past our house. The narrow road and the big trucks means that the if I reached out my kitchen window when they pass I might be in danger of losing my arm.
I pass corn fields and wheat fields, now harvested and the straw baled and stacked sometimes twenty feet or more high. A woman walks out to the end of her drive holding a naked baby.
Cars pass, but not often. When they do, I move as far off the road as possible without getting in the ditch. Ditches are deep here, very deep. Some drivers move to avoid me, others see how close they can come without hitting me. I like most everything about France, but French drivers baffle me.
After more than two kilometers, just as I’m about to cross the main road, I see another sign for St. Pierre. I head in that direction (I think) but after awhile I realize I’m coming up on St. Remy. By the time I get back to St. Vincent I will have traveled in a circle. How did I go wrong? Well, I’ll have to save that walk for another day.
We decide we need some time to let yesterday sink in, so today will be a low-key day. We’ve been asked to come to a quiz tonight and we don’t want to be worn out.
We need to shop for groceries, though, so we drive to Mamers and the supermarche. Before shopping, we decide do have lunch at the store’s café. I order a chocolate grande, thinking I will get a large cup, and a pastry. Mistake - the grande meant I was getting pastries with my hot chocolate, so now I am surrounded by pastries.
Bernie tries to order water. After his request, the waitress returns to our table asking questions. The two of them cannot communicate, so she motions for him to come with her. I look up and see that she is wielding an ice cream scoop and pointing to the tubs of ice cream. I walk over and explain “une verre de l’eau.”
Bernie says they had just about worked it out between the two of them, but that he is grateful I saved the day.
The quiz tonight is at the home of another British couple. It’s a beautiful place with expansive, well-landscaped grounds. They also have a gite, or rental property, behind the main house. Again, Ivy and her husband have moved here for health care. Her husband has Parkinson’s disease; he’s doing very well. Ivy is a very pretty, soft-spoken woman whom we immediately like.
There are four teams tonight, and four rounds of 20 questions with a break after two rounds for snacks. We are teamed with a young British couple, Michael and Tracey. Michael’s just finished recording an album in Nashville that will be released in Europe this fall. He has a degree in classical music. Tracey is bright, interesting and fun.
Our team is The Yanks. We are well-matched. There are some questions that refer to British TV and other current cultural items that we could not know (how old was a certain snooker player when he won his first championship? Who on East Enders set fire to another character’s car?). Oddly enough, Bernie and I did better on many of the British history questions than the Brits. Tracey and I pondered the Madonna name question for awhile, then it came to both of us at the same time - her name really is Madonna.
Keith is a great quizmaster. And I’m amazed at the way we fall right in with the camaraderie, whooping and yelling and trading mock insults. One of the men at another table yells out to us, “Well, here you are, oversexed, overpaid, and over here.” I surprise myself with a quick rejoinder, “Well, at least you got the first part right.”
And we won! Tracey and Michael tell us they’ve never won before. Michael gives us their home number and his cell. It really is a great evening.
The night has grown chilly. As the party breaks up, Bernie checks his watch -it’s 12:30.
