June 16, 2014-The magic Monday dawned, cloudy and cool. I left Lille, with the knowledge that THIS time, I would not need to go back to Paris, in order to catch the train to my next destination. I boarded the train around 10:30, and headed unceremoniously across the Belgian border, at Tourncoing/Mouscron (Moeskron). For the next three days, all signs would be in French and in Flemish (Dutch). Today, I would visit two siblings, and rivals: Brugge (Brooj, or Bruhh; your choice, but the majority Flemish like the second, more guttural sound) and Ghent.
Belgium does not, however come across as schizoid as some have had it look. The French and Flemish make an effort to get along, at least in public. The best thing I saw to do as a visitor was to listen carefully to the Flemish, make an effort to use some words in their language, and let our mutual English do the rest. Since I was already doing this among the French-speakers, it was more of the same.
I found Brugge cool, temperature-wise, but quite cordial in terms of greeting. I was able to easily place my bags in a storage locker, and devote several hours to this seedbed of capitalism. Here is the main train station.
I crossed the Stationplatz, and found Kong Albert Park waiting to greet everyone with a pleasant green space. Greenery did not matter so much to the early masters of commerce, but it matters now, to their descendants.
The streets in this UNESCO World Heritage Site are narrow, but workable, and a system of canals goes everywhere.
Smedenpoort is one of the gates that kept Old Bruges on guard, at all times, as the city state grew.
Hanssenspark, a greenspace on the east side of town, lends an air of solace to Brugge, even as the city shows some modern honours to those who fought in the World Wars, for which Belgium suffered greatly.
Belgium is far enough north for some evergreens, which brought back memories of my New England boyhood.
I came upon Kerk Sint-Jacob, built by the people of West Flanders in honour of St. James the Elder. A series of panels in the church depicts his martyrdom.
The choir loft rises just before one sees the homage to St. James.
This series is similar to that found in El Prado, in Madrid.
The Deacon’s Mount is just south of the Main Altar.
As one leaves the church, there is a tympanum, with St. James watching over a lion.
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This is fortuitous for Brugge, which was faced, for several centuries, with taming its mercantile beast- maintaining prosperity, while at least somewhat minding the passions of its soul. In Part II, I will focus on the Centrum- the heart of Brugge.
June 15, 2014- This date was significant to me, in two respects. One, it was the first Father’s Day on which I could neither converse with my son nor listen to the homespun wisdom of my father-in-law. Two, it was my last day in the northwest of France, at least for a few years.
After the obligatory run-back to Paris from Amiens, given me at a discount rate because of the ongoing train strike, I boarded a train for Lille. At least I only used Gare du Nord this time. It was pleasant, actually, in that there was a string section in the station, playing for all the fathers who were passing through.
The ride to Lille, France’s resilient northern gateway, was quite brief, with only one stop, at Arras. We debarked at Gare Lille-Europe, the more modern of the city’s two train stations, seen above.
My hotel, Balladins, was close to the other station, Gare Lille-Flandres.
Hotel Balladins turned out to be another very welcoming hostelry, and with Le Morand and Hotel de France, one of my three favourites in the northwest of France. Perhaps it was that the diligent desk clerk seemed like one of my nieces, or that she went out of her way to find a Cyber Cafe- Laundry, but my settling in here was the smoothest thus far.
I spent a very pleasant evening, after doing laundry and getting messages at the launderette, dining sumptuously at a brasserie a block east of Balladins and then taking a walkabout around the clean and very proud centre of Lille.
The first stop was at the city’s modern marvel, Zenith-Grand Palais, the performance hall.
Between this magnificent center and Vieux Lille lies a lovely greenspace. Even the industrial towns pay a mind to their gardens, across France.
In the center of town, I came first to Noble Tour, the city’s memorial to the fallen of all wars, from the Franco-Prussian War, through World War II and the Algerian Conflict. It is a bedraggled sight, but all the more poignant a reminder of war’s toll, because of its rough condition.
Vieux Lille has several apartment complexes, with large immigrant populations. One of these housed the cyber launderette which I used. Another fronts Noble Tour. At no time during my stay in the west of France, however, was I accosted or made to feel intimidated. I went on, quietly, to Chapelle Reduit, with its fine gardens. The redoubt and its church were built by the great Vauban, in the 17th Century, to bolster French defenses against England- and Spain, which ruled most of Flanders at that time. The panel at the bottom of this triptych honours Vauban.
Across the street from Fort de Reduit is the immense Hotel de Ville, with its magnificent belfry.
This grand structure served as a customs centre for French Flanders, during the 19th Century, as well, thus requiring much more space than the average French city hall.
Between Hotel de Ville and the southern gate of Lille, La Porte de Paris, is a small flower bed.
La Porte de Paris (below) is one of two gates to Lille. The northern gate, which I did not visit, is La Porte de Roubaix.
I ran out of time on that Sunday night, before getting to see Cathedrale Notre Dame de Lille. I did, however, get a glimpse of it the next morning. For simplicity’s sake, I include it here.
This great church was under total renovation at the time of my visit, so going inside would have been problematic, regardless.
Lille was fairly quiet on that Sunday night, almost a counterpoint to raucous Amiens. Still, the people I met here seemed happy and relaxed, glad to be in the commercial hub of French Flanders.
So, my time in northwest France was drawing to a close. There was nowhere where I felt unwelcome, and nowhere I would refrain from visiting again. My French home is Rouen, and its good neighbours are Rennes, Mont St, Michel, Brest, Amiens, Lille-and Le Cite Lumiere, Paris. I am glad for each day, each place I had the pleasure of seeing and each person who graced my path.
June 14, 2014- Having framed Amiens’ natural boundaries, which are its lifeblood, and its spiritual symbol, the great cathedral, it’s a good time to take a circular visit to the nuts and bolts of the city.
From my hotel (on the left, below), I took a walk down to Tour Perret- an apartment complex that is given gravitas, by dint of its tower-like design.
Among the many lovely churches on my route was L’Eglise Sacre Coeur (Sacred Heart), a center for the near north side of town, behind the train and bus stations. This area is home to many immigrants and lower income French folks. It’s lively, and I did not feel either unwelcome or unsafe, during my walkabout.
After saying a few prayers in the courtyard, and greeting a couple of residents, including a child on a skateboard, I went past the train station, and took note of Hotel Carlton, a British import.
To the east of the train station, there is a different parish, even more needy than the area around Sacre Coeur. This is Le Parrois Sainte Famille.Here, there is an active Food Bank and Soup Kitchen, with a Catholic High School attached.
I was impressed that there were so many in school on a Saturday morning. Then, I remembered that this is routine in France.
Those African and Caribbean people of letters who have had an impact on the people around them are remembered in France, though they may not have felt so honoured during their lifetimes. I recall reading the works of Frantz Fanon, the conscience of Martinique, misunderstood during the De Gaulle era as a “Stalinist”. Aime Cesaire, also from Martinique, was an exemplary man of letters and served as a mentor to Fanon, as well as mayor of Fort-de-France. Although he was drawn to Marxism, Aime turned away from that philosophy after the Soviet crushing of the Hungarian revolt, in 1956.
A square in north Amiens honours him today.
After heading east from Square Aime Cesaire, I found the preserved house, and a square dedicated to, the masterful Jules Verne. Here, I had one of my less laudable moments. In a few minutes of intense concentration, I was approached by an enthusiastic young man, whom I mistook for a beggar. He was politely, but firmly, dismissed. In retrospect, I might have learned something about the place from him.
Here, though, is the preserved home of Monsieur Verne. He spent his last years here, and passed away in Amiens, in 1905.
Jules is shown with young people reading, in the memorial sculpture of the square.
A pleasant addition to the squares of Amiens is the gingko tree. This much was pointed out to me, by the aforementioned student.
Leaving Square Jules Verne, I came upon this roundabout, with figures of the Jacobin period standing vigilant watch on the traffic.
I crossed Boulevard Jules Verne, and headed for La Coupole. En route, this slice of Amiens’ northeast side invited a photo.
I also spotted L’Eglise St. Esprit.
The tympanum shows St. Martin of Tours.
Lunchtime was coming, though, so on to La Coupole it was.
Here is a gem: Restaurant Himalaya. Indian cuisine, served in the French style, is second to none. Madame Celine, the French wife of the establishment’s Indian chef, is a most energetic and gracious hostess. I thoroughly relished the Lamb Vindaloo, naan with various spreads, and separated milk dessert, in this lovely atmosphere. I would find out later, from an Indian couple who were headed home to Lucknow, via Paris of course, that there is a strong connection between France and India- and not just in Pondicherry and Mahe.
It was nearing 2 PM, and time for the hard-working proprietors to rest, so I walked through Cirque Jules Verne, and squares dedicated to Annie Fratellini and Arlette Gruss. Mlle. Fratellini was one of France’s most famous circus clowns, and a talented singer and actress, as well. Mlle. Gruss was also a circus performer, who taught the performing arts for several years, across France. The circus in France, during their heyday, was more focused on the prowess of humans than the forcible humiliation of animals.
Across from the Cirque and La Coupole, is L’Eglise de la Paix. Here, a young girl was teasing her little brother, stopping when she saw me approaching. I was glad to be a source of relief to the poor child, and was also gratified by these sights.
Perhaps most gratifying of all was this plaque, memorializing Corine Seguin, who was murdered by Peru’s Shining Path guerrillas, in 1988.
I also passed a Polish church: L’Eglise Matki Boze Czestochowski, en route to the Grand Marche. This is hardly surprising. Immigrants from east central Europe have flocked to French mill towns for over a hundred years.
I knew the end of my afternoon walkabout was coming, upon reaching Hotel de Ville d’ Amiens (City Hall).
This is also the area of Grand Marche, which includes the Flea Market.
Amiens is filled with many great landmarks, but has not neglected the present, or the future. L’Universite de Picardie is a full-service, research-oriented institution.
So it went, and I found yet another eclectic and cosmopolitan community, taking the bull of life by the horns, and welcoming visitors with great gusto. I could easily come back to Amiens, for a slice of life at its finest.
The cathedrals of France, and of all Europe, present a grandeur, individual and collective. While offered ostensibly to pay homage to Christ, they were usually also intended to show the power and largesse of their patrons. Lost in time and space, frequently, are the stories of the founders.
St. Firmin taught Christianity to the Picards, and put up the first church in an area outside the walls of Amiens, in the early Fourth Century AD. For his pains, he was beheaded by the Romans. The Picards, though, brought his church and its implements into the city, and by 1269, the main cathedral that we see today was in place.
I began my visit, as usual, by circling around the exterior. The spires, tympanum and outer shell exude the magnificence that reflected Amiens’ exemplary position between Flanders and Paris, and its relative proximity to the English Channel. The city’s canals are also an outgrowth of the prosperity enjoyed by Picardy, during and after the Crusades of the 12th-14th Centuries and during the Renaissance of the North.
The cathedral is bounded by gardens, on the west side.
In this area, a young lady had a successful interview for an office position. That it happened in an outdoor setting says much of Amiens. That her poised and confident manner bore fruit says even more. I saw little, if any, objectification of people here, or anywhere else in Europe.
The tympanum, below, is dedicated to St. Honore, whose relics were shown around, as a fund raiser for the 1260 iteration of the Cathedral. His image is seen in the center of the front entrance.
The tympanum is also graced by several of the great prophets of Judeo-Christian tradition.
Dragons abound here, representing the challenges of the world.
Before we go inside, here is a glance at Mother Mary, bounded by the saints of both genders.
The women of faith are quite prominent here.
Now, on to the nave. The worshipers show the scale of this venerable hall.
The Chapel of St. John the Evangelist is found immediately to the left, upon entering the Cathedral from the south.
There is always a feeling of space, and of loftiness, in the hall.
Paint was used more extensively in cathedrals the north of France, perhaps reflecting the influence of the Flemish. The scenes below are a reliquary of John the Baptist.
The Blessed Virgin is given her own Chapel, thus certifying the cathedral as Notre Dame d’ Amiens.
The preserved Church of St. Firmin acts as a bolster, spiritually, to the greater cathedral.
Below, Mary and Jesus are honoured by a saint.
I came to the Chapel of the Virgin Mary, once past the Church of St. Firmin.
This is the Chapel of St. James the Elder
The Grand Altar, and its gold, stem from the time of Louis XIV.
A chapel devoted to St. Jeanne d’ Arc is found to the right of St. James’ chapel.
A trio of memorials to the fallen soldiers of World War I occupies the area to the right of the choir loft. The first honours the Canadian Dragoons.
The second is dedicated to the fallen from New Zealand.
There is a large memorial to the soldiers of Australia, at Villers Bretonneux, 16 km east of Amiens. Hopefully, I will pay my respects there in 2017, along with visiting sites associated with American forces of that conflict.
The Grand Altar, in its glory, was my final view of Notre Dame d’Amiens, St. Firimin’s House. It is another bit of magnificence. Yet, as another observer mentioned, no one cathedral can be compared with another.
June 14, 2014- In planning my trip to France, I was drawn to Amiens by two factors: The Somme, and its role in World War I, the Centenary of which we begin to observe this year; and the fact that some of my online friends have a friend living in the capital of Picardie.
When I arrived in Amiens, it was a Friday night, with the bars and restaurants quite alive- at 11 PM. I found the Picard spirit of friendliness, coquetry among the young ladies and a “Where’ve ya been, Bud?” atmosphere pervading the Grand Canal and the district called St. Leu. My huge hotel was a tomb, by comparison- despite the gracious welcome by desk clerk Therese and the raucous group of Turks next door to my room.
I headed along the canal, and the edge of the Cathedral District. I will present Amiens in three parts: The water, both river and canal; the cathedral, interior and exterior; and the city centre, both medieval and modern. Friday night and all day Saturday were one very full ride. Never mind that I was walking- you get my drift!
Here are the canals and the towpaths in their midst. It was a fabulously hoppin’ Nuit du Vendredi.
Even though it looks quiet below, there was no silence for miles around.
As in much of Europe, the sidewalks don’t get rolled up much before 1 AM, if then.
The canals look deep.
GOTCHA!
Picard humour is evident everywhere, and I was drawn in a few times, as I will recount. A local insisted I must be of Picard extraction, as my nose is prominent, like his and those of his family members. I wouldn’t be surprised. Picards would have naturally been carried along with the Normans, when they swept down out of the North Sea lanes, through Holland and Flanders.
Amens, like many French towns, adopted the row house to billet workers, at the dawn of the Industrial Revolution. This row is close to St. Leu.
The linchpin of the Somme and its canals is Parc Saint Pierre.
The true radiance of the water, this far north, and at this time of day, comes from its interplay with light.
A bit “sideways” and to the north, a tad, is the crown jewel of this part of the Somme: L’Hortillonage. Let’s have a look. Down the stairs we go.
There is more cat and mouse, between light and shadow. This is where the natural flora of the Somme is preserved.
A cat is feigning stealth.
The Somme emerges from its canals and small locks.
Here, the farmer and the naturalist have made a peace.
I met a farmer, walking his dog, near here. He reminded me of the friend of my Xanga friends, a man I have seen only in his profile picture when he responds to aforementioned mutual Cyberpals. Amiens has kept its natural profile quite well.
June 13, 2014, Rouen- It was a bright and sunny morning in Rouen. I declined breakfast at the hotel, but headed down to Square Verdril, to check on my swan friends. The cygnets had grown a bit, over the past week.
They were a bit more amenable to eating the bread I had carried, this time.
That done, I headed to L’Eglise Saint-Maclou, where I chanced upon a couple from Florida. The husband advised me as to a good, durable money belt, which I picked up at a store, a bit later.
Here is Maclou, from the outside. The interior was closed.
On the sidewalk, as I left the church, was an affirmation. Those who are my faithful readers will not be surprised.
I drifted down the road a bit, and had a look at the banks of the Seine- as vital to Rouen as it is to Paris.
Looking back, I realized my time here was getting short.
So, I went and checked the time- at Le Gros Horloge, the clock tower.
It was time for one last homage to Jeanne d’Arc.
I entered Le Donjon, actually a castle built in 1204, for Philippe- Auguste, the first monarch to style himself, King of France. It became a place of confinement for St. Joan, upon her capture by the forces of English King Henry VI. It was also where his henchmen forcibly changed her garments into those of a man, which in essence broke her agreement with the monarch. This gave him the pretext to order her immolation, and the French clergy in his employe carried out the immolation at Vieux Marche, as we have seen.
After mounting these steps,
I stood alone, in front of this mosaic, and felt St. Joan’s presence, offering a connection across the centuries.
I have felt bonds with the long deceased before- last year, with unnamed soldiers at Gettysburg, two years ago, with long-dead Comanche people in Palo Duro Canyon, and years ago, with Cochise, in the Stronghold that bears his name. These are a bit beyond the links I feel with departed family and friends, but are very similar. A recent visitor to Prescott said that, in eternity, one has relationships with those closest to self, then with all those one knows in this life, then with all those who lived during one’s lifetime- and lastly, with all those who have ever lived. These feelings fall within that last category, even as I am very much in the flesh.
Contemplating her suffering, and her love for God, brought me to tears in that spot.
She has had many feel the same way, through the centuries.
I wondered, when entering the last room of her confinement, what went through her mind. The answer came back- peace, and surety.
I went outside again, after about twenty minutes, and looked again, at this tower, built to establish the national identity of France, yet used so mockingly by those who sought to bring the country to heel.
Fittingly, the French have turned the tables, and today this tower is also a memorial to those who were persecuted during World War II.
Now, as then, a small cat observes all that transpires.
My time in this ancient place of origin was done. I checked out of Hotel Le Morand, waited for about two hours at the train station, and after several minutes of spirited discussion between SNCF officials in Rouen and a union big wig in Paris, it was decided I would proceed to Gare St. Lazare, then go to Gare du Nord, and catch a train to Amiens. That whole process took three hours, one of which was spent in a Metro car at St. Lazare, while other union bosses pondered whether they would even ALLOW the car to go to Gare du Nord. My French and African fellow travelers did enough fussing and fuming for all of us, and we were PERMITTED to go, after a full hour. I got to Amiens in less time than I spent in Paris waiting for the Chef de Travaille to get off his high horse.
Fortunately, the stationmaster’s assistant in Rouen had called my hotel in Amiens, on my behalf, and the dear clerk at Appart’city Amiens stayed at her desk for two extra hours, until four of us arrived from Paris. As you can see, this hotel is fairly new, still a work in progress, and was the largest hotel in which I stayed on this trip.
Exhausted, but gratified, I bid adieu to Friday the 13th.
June 12, 2014, Laval- I woke very early on that Thursday morning, in mid-June, got myself and my bags together, speed-walked to the Train Station, and was still admonished, “Vitement! Le tren est departant!!” So, I jumped aboard, found a seat, and headed east, once again. Brest would be the furthest west I would get, this trip. Actually, it’s almost as far west as one can get on the European mainland.
We headed past St. Brieuc, and stopped briefly in St. Malo. It was the only stop before Rennes.
I was somewhat surprised to find that, in St. Malo, there were nearly 100 people lined up to get their tickets transferred to this train. I got a seat as far as Rennes. There, I inquired about using my France Pass on a train to Rouen. “Of course, monsieur, you may use the pass on any train in France. To get to Rouen, simply take this train- to Paris Montparnasse, and transfer to the Rouen train, at St. Lazare” .
Using the existing rail line between Rennes and Rouen was simply not possible, as the railworkers’ union was on strike- primarily to cause problems for the President of France during the D-Day observances, of all things. The strike was “scheduled” to stop the following Wednesday. That would be two days after I planned to leave France, for Belgium and Luxembourg.
What I faced, however, was nothing compared to what French commuters to Rouen, Amiens, Reims and Le Mans were facing, every day during the duration of the work stoppage. 200 more people got on the train at Rennes, 40 more in Laval and 15 more in Le Mans.
I was appreciative of these scenes from the train window, in Laval, Mayenne, west of Le Mans.
This introduction to the region known as La Maine was fleeting, and was accomplished as I moved from one seat to another, twice, to accommodate people whose seats bore the number where I was sitting. The third time, I did the same, for a gentleman who not only had a ticket with the seat number of that wherein I sat, but who had two hours to finish preparing for a scholarly talk at a yeshiva in Paris.
So, I found myself in standage, with twelve other people: A married couple with two small boys, a married couple with no children, an Italian tourist who had also been rousted from his seat, a social worker, a couple of college students and a high school girl who was thoroughly disgusted at having to share standing room with any of us. The school girl left our standage at Le Mans. The rest of us shifted around, shared the fold-out seats, two to a seat, and all were kindred spirits, in a stifling hot area, in between cars. The mother of the two boys was surprised at two foreigners standing with the rest, for two hours, twenty minutes. To me, though, it was a First-World problem.
I was once in Mexico, going back to Arizona, on Easter night. The standage was 110% full. I was guided by a Mexican soldier to an open car, with no seats. This was the Third Class car, also 110 % full. I took a seat on the floor, with everyone else, sweated along with them, waited with them, for two hours, while the car sat still on the tracks. I drank from the same water jug, and got thoroughly sick the next day. It wasn’t hepatitis, but giardia, so I count myself lucky.
In France, though, everyone drank their own water, and went their own ways at Gare Montparnasse. I got across town to St. Lazare, on the Metro, and was in Rouen, for one more day, by 3 PM.
Back at Hotel Le Morand, I quickly showered, and headed to Cathedral Notre Dame de Rouen. Along with Abbatiale St. Ouen, Palais de Justice and L’Eglise Saint- Maclou, the cathedral is what gives Rouen considerable gravitas, in the architecture department.
Here are several shots I took, of the exterior and interior of this magnificent edifice. I also include a file photo of Claude Monet’s painting of the cathedral. The first thing I notice about a cathedral is its spire. The second thing is the sculptures and engravings above its doors.
The sheer height of these structures is awe-inspiring, to say the least, considered within the time of the Gothic Era.
St. Peter is honoured here as well.
There are not many gargoyles here, per se, but there are several mythical characters, in side panels.
Moving inside, I focused on what I like best about churches- Stained glass, chapel monuments and vaulted ceilings.
The tomb of Rollo, first Duke of Normandy, is in the cathedral.
Approaching the altar, one sees the only sizable amount of gold, in this cathedral.
The Twelve Apostles are lined along the east wall of the Main Church.
Angels are in perpetual worship, at this altar.
This mock-up of a Viking funerary vessel was placed here, in honour of the Normans.
This debris is kept in a corner, to remind the visitor and parishioner alike, of the pounding that Rouen, and the cathedral, took in the days after D-Day.
I capped the day with a fine dinner at Restaurant Rive Droite, owned by the parents of the proprietor of Hotel Le Morand, and managed by another lovely and hard-working woman, who MAY have stopped moving about the establishment for, say, twenty seconds or so. At one point, I helped her regain her balance, as she tried to tend to three matters, simultaneously. It could have been worse, though. When I first sat down, a gust of wind knocked down a shade umbrella, at an establishment across Le Vieux Marche, nearly hitting a waitress and two seated patrons. If you are ever in Vieux Marche de Rouen, I do highly recommend Le Rive Droite, for the food and for the service. Turn right at Rue du Pie.
I had come home, alright, to one of the springboards of my ancestors. Funny thing about this word, “home”. I find myself feeling that way about a growing number of places- not just where I was born and raised, or where I live now. It is where I feel loved.
June 11, 2014- I left Vannes fairly late in the morning, on that Wednesday. One last run down to Daily Gourmand, and I was set, nutrition-wise. Arriving at the train station, I learned that there was no train to Brest, the port in western Brittany which was my destination for the day. There was a bus, but I “probably missed it”. I went over to Gare Routiere, anyway, and lo and behold, the bus was still there.
We passed through some lovely places, en route to Finisterre (“Land’s End”, in French). The first was Landevert.
I was able to catch a few glimpses of Lorient, which happens to be the site of an International Celtic Festival, the very week that I am writing this.
A few kilometers later, came the lovely channel port of Hennebont.
Quimperle should certainly not be confused with its larger cousin,
Quimper.
The latter is the home of a large museum of Breton culture, and is one of the more traditional centers of all things Bretagne, being the administrative center of Finisterre.
After more meanders through this exquisite region, I came to Le Rade, and Brest.
I was lucky in my choice of hotels. Bellevue is run by a very sweet family, who prepared breakfast for me, emportee, as I had to leave for the train to Rennes at 5 AM.
They close the doors at 9 PM, though, so I made a relatively brief visit to Jardin de Port and to the Chateau de Brest. The head of the Brest peninsular area, the mouth of Riviere Penfield, hosts a large French naval base, and the National Maritime Museum, in the same complex. Nearby, there is also Tour Americain- built to commemorate the U.S. effort in World War I, for which Brest was of high significance.
Here are views of Le Jardin de Port and of the port itself.
As I came to the ramparts of the chateau, I spotted Tour Americain.
The steps nearby take the visitor down to the bottom terrace of Jardin de Port.
The Breton composer, Jean Cras, was born, and lived most of his life, in Brest. His naval heritage, as well as his culture, framed the intensity of his music. His memorial is here, at the west end of Jardin de Port
.
Now, for a few views of Chateau de Brest.
Parts of this structure were built by the Romans. The last section was the work of the great military strategist, Sebastian de Vauban, who tore down the Roman castellum and built a more solid tower, in 1690.
The French have put up a cenotaph, in commemoration of the survival of the people of Brest, in two World Wars.
I would focus more fully on the Chateau, if I ever get back to Brest. I would also get over to Distrite Saint Marc- an isolated, but distinctive preserved neighbourhood. This is as close as I got to St. Marc,on the late evening of June 11.
The next day would be all Real World- courtesy of the still roiling French rail strike. Brest, though, would carry on like clock work.
June 10, 2014- Depending on who is digging where, the megaliths of Carnac were first erected in 4500 BC, 3300 BC, or somewhere in between. There is an equal diversity of opinion as to the WHY of these magnificent fields of stone. Some say they are astronomical indicators. There are others whose take is that they are strictly for religious ceremonies. Another group postulates that Merlin turned the Roman legions here into stone. These are, of course, the same people who say that a Nineteen-Foot Tall Giant is going to land in Antarctica, next week, and take us all to Planet Pneumonococcus.
I had a nice bus ride from Vannes to Carnac-Plage, on that afternoon. The town drunk of Carnac was on board, and while he had been yelling about the bus to Paris being late, prior to this bus’s arrival, he promptly fell asleep, once we got rolling. We went through nice little towns along the way. One of these was Auray, which has the Cathedral of St. Goustan.
I would return to Auray later that night, but more about that later.
When we arrived at Carnac-Plage, the resort end of town, I learned that most of my fellow riders were more interested in the beach, than in the rows of rocks. The town imbiber, of course, still wanted to go to Paris, but figured he’d make do with his own flat for the time being. I took a quick look at the shore.
The modern gem of Carnac, though, is Jardin Cesarine. The town park has an imaginative rope course.
The garden itself held my attention, happily, for twenty minutes, or so.
It was the Parc des Megaliths, which stayed in my head, and drew me in short order. There are three large sections of the park: Menec, Kemerio (House of the Dead) and Kerlescan, and a smaller area, Petit-Menec.
Here are some scenes of Menec, the western, and largest, segment of alignments, with a few single menehir (Stones that are partly buried), in between.
At this fence, and road, I left Menec and came to Kemerio- the House of the Dead. To be sure, parts of this area looked like a cemetery, and it is here that the Merlin Theory got started. There was a busload of Italian senior citizens with me, for part of the time. Their chatter was constant, but it was actually quite refreshing. Looking at rows of stones for two hours does get a bit lonesome- unless one believes they are actually Roman soldiers.
The farm house in the background is occupied, and there is a herd of Brittany sheep doing landscaping duty. These sheep are a Heritage Food Source, so are prized by Slow Food France and other people concerned with the diversity of our diet. I am a member of Slow Food USA, so the sheep captured my interest.
There were lonely menihir in this section, as in Menec.
This horizontal piece looked like a beached whale.
This piece reminded me of the donkey at Block Island Petting Zoo, last year, who came up to the fence and couldn’t get enough food
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The Kerlescan section is smaller than the other two main sections, and rounds out the park, at the east end.
Kerlescan was also more of interest to local farmers, as a source of stone and water. This abandoned cistern bears witness to their efforts.
One enterprising pair of sisters is making a go of serving up fine food and beverages: Chez Celine, where I enjoyed one very filling crepe- the only meal I would have on that evening. Since it was chocolate, with orange marmalade, who’s to complain?
I was the only American who had been there in quite some time, so the ladies took to giggling to themselves, amusing me and a German gentleman who was enjoying a glass of wine.
Across the road from Chez Celine is Petit- Menec, the baby brother of the Big Three.
Crucino Dolmen was once a tomb, but acid in Brittany’s soil has worn away the bones.
To the east of the Dolmen, I entered Bois Saint-Michel, a hiking trail which a honeymooning couple had taken, an hour or so earlier. It would lead me back to Carnac-Plage.
There are two landmarks associated with St. Michael (the man, not the Archangel), on this path. First, I came upon his fountain.
The tomb of this French patron saint is at the northern edge of Carnac-Ville.
I saw a similarity between the tumulus, and Mont St. Michel.
The “cone” turned out to be Chapel St. Yves.
It was late, but still light, so I was fooled a bit. My arrival back in town left only one mode of transport available. A kind boulangere called the first taxi, which got me to Auray. After I used the ATM, a gentleman on business in Auray called the second one, which brought me to Place Verlanne, from which I was able to use my legs to get to the hotel. All’s fair in love, war and an extended evening at a remote place of interest. Carnac shows that we indeed come from highly intelligent, imaginative stock.
One of the hours best spent on my journey, last month, was examining the Hall of Fame in the Breton Cultural Center, part of Vannes Tourism Office, on the waterfront.
I am going to list those of whom I took particular note, along with their specialty, and a link to their website, if they have one. Breton culture is a fine blend of Celtic and French heritage.
