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.

NEXT: A Circular Tour Around Amiens

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.

NEXT: The Ins and Outs of Amiens Cathedral

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.

Now, for Monsieur Monet. These are from http://pgoh13.com/rouen.php.

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

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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-  My use of an essential oils-based daily supplement has its definite benefits. This was never more in evidence than on this day when, faced with a three-part schedule, my day started at 6 AM.  The energy burst implied by the title of this post came around 1 PM, but I digress.

The morning took me down to the waterfront of old Morbihan.

Vannes’ port is at the head of a long channel, well-dredged and ever bustling. There are shops aplenty here, and not the least of these is Daily Gourmand, whose lovely and energetic proprietress and her congenial husband made me feel more at home than just about any other restaurateurs, up to this point. They make palatable crepes, salads and wraps. I chose a wrap, as it was 10 AM when I stopped in.

I swung back inland, headed for Vieux Marche and some palace gardens. The market is reached through La Porte Saint-Vincent.

One never knows whom one might meet, in places like this.

In the midst of the Old Market, I spotted yet another passage. This is La Porte Calmont, which leads to the gardens.

As one might guess, this was the palace of an early Duke of Brittany, Jean IV. It is known as Chateau l’Hermine, and was built by the duke as he favoured the central position of Vannes, in the Duchy.

After those breathtaking sights, I found a bit of aesthetic relief, in Vieux Marche.  This edifice is definitely blessed.  In fact, all Vannes was blessed during World Wars I and II.  The German presence here was relatively benign, and the Allies elected not to bomb the area.

En route to a quixotic mission to a FNAC electronics store, in hopes of getting a battery for my laptop, I passed Place Charles de Gaulle, which recognizes just who it was that kept Vannes from harm. The building is the Prefectural Hall, for Morbihan.

I rode a series of buses to and from Place Kerlann, a large, modern shopping mall, where the FNAC is located.  Needless to say, laptop and I came up empty, so I solaced myself with one of two American-style meals on this trip:  A Philly Cheese Steak at the Carrefour Truck Stop, just west of Place Kerlann.  On the bus ride back to Hotel de France, we were joined by about twenty school kids and their teachers.  As I was seated in a two-seat section, I offered my seat so a couple of girls could sit together, but the teacher would not hear of it.  Soon, though, an insolent little boy was placed in the empty seat next to me, and Madame was upbraiding him for his behaviour, as I looked out the window.

Back at the hotel, I rested just a bit, stowed poor Lenovo for another day, and readied myself for the bus to Carnac.  With that in mind, I leave you with a few flashback photos of my previous evening’s walk back from the ramparts.

Here is the chancery of the Archbishop of Vannes.

L’Etang du Duc is a serene, slightly off the tourist path refuge for local residents, both humans and ducks.

Cemetiere de Boismoreau is Vannes military cemetery. It is closed and locked after 6 PM.

As I neared my hotel, it was pleasing to note L’Ecole Nationale des Musiques.

L’Auditorium des Carmes is, no doubt, a charming place, when performances are in process.

Breton culture is rich, multivariate and evolving. Before I take you visually to Carnac, the next post will introduce some of the artists whose work is highlighted at the Folkloric Museum, part of Vannes Tourism Center, at the head of the Port.

June 9- 10, 2014-  There is no place on Earth more stimulating, energizing and thought-provoking than the peninsula that juts forcefully out into the Atlantic, from the rest of France.  Brittany has many, among its residents, who would as soon it pointed hard enough so as to separate from the mainland, and move northwestward, joining their kindred in the west and north of the British Isles.

The departments that make up Brittany are the most fully bilingual of all the north French regions. They are every bit as aesthetic as the rest of France, but have that edge- the separate culture, that requires attention and respect, in addition to that which one shows to France-at-large.

I began this day with a lovely walk past Place Motte, to Jardin et Palais St.- Georges.  The public gardens of Rennes are impeccably tended.  Jardin St.Georges  fronts the former Benedictine abbey called Palais St. Georges.  It is one of Rennes’ most popular city parks.  The Palais is now Rennes’ Fire Headquarters, yet is maintained as an historical monument.

My one regret was not getting back to Cathedrale Saint-Pierre, but it was time to board the train to Vannes.  I packed my dormant computer, and other accompaniments, and headed across Place de la Gare.  Once I found my gate, we waited a bit while an elderly lady, who had fallen and hurt herself rather severely, was treated by EMT’s and taken by wheelchair to an ambulance.  These matters are handled well in France, and in the other countries I visited as well.

Our route took us through Dol-de-Bretagne,

and Redon, a crossroads which has the same Latin root to its name as Rennes.

We arrived in Vannes, on a body of water whose Breton name is straight out of Tolkien: Morbihan. The Gulf of Morbihan sweeps the southwest corner of Brittany, and laps at some true gems- Quiberon, Belle Isle, and Carnac, of which I will say much in the next day or so. Vannes, however, is a gem in itself, and required every bit of the time which I allotted it. The scene below is just west of the train station.

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My hotel, Hotel de France, is not far from there, on Avenue Victor Hugo. I will recommend this establishment, without hesitation. The Business Center was at my disposal, day and night, and the manager, who lived on the premises, was supremely helpful, as were his wife and the assistant manager. Then again, all Vannes seemed to be bending over backwards for the visitor.

I took enough photos to fill several Flickr books, but will confine myself to a dozen of the highlights of the inland areas of this amazing city. In the next post, I will focus on the waterfront. Here is Avenue Victor Hugo, headed towards Centre de Ville (City Center).

The Bell Tower features prominently in all major European cities.

Here’s a bit of colour, for a pleasant morning.

One enters Centre de Ville through La Porte de Prison, which was exactly what it implies, in the days of the Duke of Brittany.

Today, however, it was quite festive, as there were celebrations of D-Day, still being marked.

I walked around Cathedrale St. Pierre, closed for renovation.

Here is St. Emilion, the patron saint of vintners, and of Vannes.

The ramparts of medieval Vannes were more than glad to accommodate, and captivate. These walls were a major defense for the town, from the Third Century AD, onward. Pirates, Vikings and various raiders from Spain and elsewhere were ever a concern, along this strategic southern coast of Bretagne. The ramparts are extensive and still formidable.

Looking down at a garden exhibition, I half-expected the Red Queen to come out shouting, “Off with his head!”

There were more ramparts, a long viaduct, and hints of just how formidable this tough old port really was.

I walked past the moat, and up another hill, to Vannes’ memorial to the heroes of World Wars I and II.

On a bright day, in 1944, Vannes, too, was liberated from Nazi rule.

I was close to the shore, but that was a matter for the morrow, and so is the next post.