A dying swan

Richelieu is not on the list of the most beautiful villages in France, and I am not sure why that is, as it has many of the typical characteristics of one: it has a fascinating history, elegant architectural bones and is, basically, a dying, if not completely dead, swan -- factors they all seem to have in common to me.

There has been a village in this place since well before 1342 when salt became a state monopoly and salt granaries like Richelieu were taxed for the state coffers. In this village in the 17th century lived a young boy who later grew up to be appointed Cardinal Richelieu. When he came to prominence as Cardinal, Richelieu had his old village given a complete facelift, using Jacques Lemercier, the architect who designed the Sorbonne and the Cardinal's Palais in Paris. Influence counts. And access to funds. 

The result was a village completely encircled by walls with wide grid streets and large smart squares, with townhouses and public buildings in elegant architectural style, distinctive monumental gates, surrounding pleasure and vista gardens somewhat like Versailles, and some fairly rigorous caveats as to who could build what inside its village walls.

It took some 2000 men all of 11 years to build and when it was complete it was touted as being one of 'most beautiful villages in the universe' and kings and nobles came from far and wide to see it. It is easy to see how it once was very beautiful. But little bits are chipping off and decay is setting in and it seems to be in dire need of another Richelieu to come along with another injection of funds, to give it life.  There may be an answer for some of these tired old villages of character in such places, a way to rejuvenate them, and that might be to turn them into specialist places, like a university along the lines of the Law School we saw a couple of years ago, in South Royalton in Vermont. Such a sensible solution. Why build complete new edifices and infrastructure when small towns like this are mostly all there, and just need repair. And would lend themselves so beautifully to ready-made lecture and tutorial halls, and student and staff accommodation. 

These tree flanked routes are all over France

The gardens are manicured, even  perfect

Southern gate in Richelieu is shabbily grand

Decay has set in 

Beautiful  features still 

Lovely architectural features that could be made good

Not just grapes

Sunflowers compete with grapes in our field of vision as we head north, but tonight we camp in yet another small vineyard and learn a little more about how hard it is to make ends meet growing grapes in France. 

Most of the wine extracted from this vineyard, seventy percent actually, is sold to large bulk purchasers at 30c a litre. It costs the owners about 25c a litre to produce. Not much of a profit in that. The remaining 30% is sold from the vineyard. Recently, to increase their profits the owners built a Cave, or, what we call, a Cellar Door. This is a smart long modern building that can be used as a warehouse and a wine tasting venue. The owners now need to encourage busloads of tourists to their Cellar Door, attempting to recoup the costs of their outlay.

Above the Cellar Door they have included a Gite: with 3 bedrooms. This they are attempting to rent for short term vacations, even overnight, if a busload of tasters is tempted to stay. To make ends meet, they also offer Camping Cars an Aire space on their domaine, charging them but a couple of Euros for water and electricity, if needed; otherwise there is no charge and no requirement to buy at the cellar door. They have purpose built separate alcoved hardstanding spaces for a handful of visiting motorhomes, with horadateurs wired for power and plumbed for water.

Diversifying, they have planted two medium sized fields bordering the Aire with Grapes du Table: as no other producers in this area grow these and they would like to corner that slice market -- if only in a small way. All of this is new and operational in the last four years. Attempting just to make ends meet. Diversification is the key they believe. They are hoping, within the next twenty years, to be able to recoup their expenditure: perhaps, even make a bit of profit.

Postscript: We have since spent much time chatting to some publicans in Essex on this topic. Typically, a publican, there, pays almost £60 for a 10 litre cask of French blended wine from his wholesaler, that he then serves to his customers. So, some middleman between these producers and these retailers is really making a killing!

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Fields of gold

We are the only ones parked here tonight

Venice Verte

We have discovered that there are magical places on this earth that no one tells you about. I have no idea why this is so but a small clutch of people seem to learn about these places and that is all. They are not made widely public. Not much is written, either. So when you accidently stumble across one of these special places, you, yourself, are conflicted, in two minds as to whether to say a word about it to anyone, potentially opening it up to too many visitors, or to stay silent about it, and just let it be. Let it be.

We drove to Coulon because it was on our list as one of the Most Beautiful Villages in France, in the Poitou-Charentes, but we stayed, and we stayed some three days which for us, is all we can usually spare in terms of time, because we simply could not bring ourselves to leave.

It is not the town: the town is pleasant enough and when we were there alive and throbbing. There was a marathon, called Maraisthon -- cleverly -- given that we were in the Marshes, and Marais means Marsh. Hundreds of folk entered the marathon, runners, bikers, women, men, children and oldies, occupying every spare field in this hollyhock strewn town with their camping cars and their tents. As well, there was music at either end of the village: at one end beside hay bales there was a boot scootin' country and western group of the mountain mama variety. At the other there was a rock band, playing Jumpin' Jack Flash with a French twist and a funny Mick Jagger accent. This is where you found us. We long-lunched on eels, frogs legs and entrecote, the local Marsh delicacies, while listening to music for much of our Sunday.  So excellent.  

It wasn't the town. And it wasn't the music. It was probably the monks. Mmm, the monks. Yes, I think the magic likely started with the monks. Way back in the mists of time this land was actually a bay. Tidal water flowed in and out of the bay, in and out, day after day. But, over centuries the bay started silting up. Like Maroochydore. Sand stayed too long when it should have gone out to sea. Silting up so much that the tide, finally, could not make the big leap over the formulating sand bar.  

So, marsh grasses started to grow. Birds spread more seeds. Ash, willow and hazel trees sprouted. Soon the bay that once filled and emptied daily, was little more than a marsh. It was probably heading towards being a vast unhealthy fen, even a bog.  

Invaders came and went, ugly villiens, some of them: cutting passageways through the marsh, taking ownership of this swampy land, weeping with willow. Then, the land was given to the Benedictines, then the Circestian monks, who built abbeys on marshy banks and dryer islands, and spent long days cutting waterways to boat their agricultural goods to market.

The Dutch were called in for advice given their expertise in water containment. They quickly designed bigger and better channels and many more dykes to be built and extended. And so the monks and the villagers laboured.

Today, there are some 600 kilometres of navigable channels throughout the Marais. So many that it is a virtual maze of acquatic channels. It is called Venice Verte. Green Venice. And, as in Venice, you can get lost in any part of it and never be found again. As easy as turning left or right.

Yet it is magic, a place of myth and legend and is utterly special. Deep beneath the channels is a rich peaty earth oozing methane. You can stir the earth through the water with a paddle and it rises to the surface leaking bubbles that can be set alight in a flare of red flames.

Children learn that a big red hand, the colour of flame, will drag them deep into the marsh water if they dare to get too close. And forever they will be lost. Pigouille pole batai gently through the evergreen canals dripping with willows. The water surface floats with a green sheen of duckweed. Gnarled and twisted roots bind the earth and strengthen the walls of the channels.

Small fields are bordered with poplars and each poplar drinks 200 litres of water a day doing its bit to keep the water at bay. Closer to the sea, saline meadows, called mizottes, are often immersed by water at high tide. They are filled with marsh and migratory birds, and birders follow their calls. Many motorhomers are bird watchers.  All around are towns oozing with character, because, it is said, a fairy named Melusine, flew over this land, and so favoured it, that in just one night, with a mere dainty handful of pebbles and a single droplet of water, erected beautiful buildings, divine churches with exquisite stained glass windows, and villages to charm you at the heart. Sufficient to make your soul sing.  So, let it be.  

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Boatmen quietly pole the waters

Relic from the days of the monks

Oozing flammable methane

Waterlillies everywhere

Another monkish stained glass relic

Bread and games

We don't often get a chance to revisit places but Saintes was but a hop, step and jump away from where we were headed, and Robin, you will be pleased to hear that this time we spent much of a rainy afternoon investigating its Roman ruins, but particularly its Roman Amphitheatre, which had some features we found really interesting.

Tucked away in what today is a narrow side street, but in the first century AD when it was built was part of a great Roman road between Lyon and Bordeaux, the Amphitheatre was built with its seating carved into the ground following the lie of the land. 

Its thick walls were made by packing rubble mixed with mortar and lime between two rows of neatly cut and mortar-laid stones. The vaults, too, were made using mortar and irregular stones after first laying a curved frame of wood, after which the vaults were layered with a veneer of dressed stone, which has now all fallen away.

The amphitheatre was a place of gladiatorial events and violent animal spectacles where participants regularly died. The emperors provided such entertainment free to the masses, along with adequate food supplies, as standard form, and as a subtle way of maintaining control of the masses. The opiate of the people in Roman times was panem et circenses - bread and games.

Luckily the emperors provided a Carcer, a waiting room for the gladiators, from which probably comes the word incarceration, I am thinking. And a Sacellum, a tiny chapel, one here dedicated to Nemesis near to the sand covered arena for when it was needed. Here any battle victims were kept until the spectacle was over.  For the masses, they provided what is aptly-named, a Vomitorium -- public access ways leading to the stairs. I wonder how many of the spectators left early?

Roman amphitheater at Saintes

Vomitorium

A model of the amphitheatre.  How it was once 

La Belle Bordeaux

When we realised that Bordeaux was on our top 100 Places to Visit List we drove halfway across southern France to tick that box. Enroute we stayed at our favourite Aire ever. An Aire in France (or a Stellplatz in Germany) is virtually a free overnight camping site, especially for camping cars, as motorhomes are called here, usually established by the local community in order to encourage expenditure in the local town.

This Aire was on a beautiful canal front at Caumont-sur-Garonne, at one time a powerful city inhabited by nobles supporting the French kings, but now a sleepy little commuter village on the Garonne, idyllic in its setting, with some gracious old homes with canal views just waiting to be snapped up and renovated. 

So sleepy in the early evening that everything, even the local bar, had closed up for the day, and probably gone fishing. We parked along with 8 or 9 other campers, set up our chairs, and watched the canal and bicycle path traffic drift slowly by.

Just on dusk a lone Irishman, overdue for his evening pint, rode up in thongs, unpacked his pup tent and lay it out on the lush grass at one end of the Aire; then with incredible luck, as he came ill-prepared and had no provisions at all, found a man selling chilled bottled beer along with, of all things, wood-fired pizzas out of the back of his wee van at the other end of the Aire. This was the Irishman's first day on the canal. I wonder if his Irish luck will hold every night of his planned 30, to cover the 400 odd kilometres of cycling paths along the Canal du Midi and its extension into the Garonne, from Bordeaux to Toulouse. We wished him well.

Bordeaux, our next stop, turned out to be one of the most beautiful cities, in the style of Vienna and Paris, that we have ever visited. Wealthy from wine production, supplemented by income gained distributing slaves and sugar from the West Indies, Bordeaux built a city of townhouses, expansive parks, fountains and boulevards, and majestic public buildings, none more beautiful than the mass of structures along the Place de la Bourse.

The city itself has been inscribed on UNESCOs World Heritage List as an "outstanding urban and architectural ensemble". So beautiful, that when Haussmann was transforming Paris he used Bordeaux as the structural model. And it feel so like Paris, right down to its distinctive little neighbourhoods: here in this little alley an alternative enclave, there under that arch a more elegant one. Added to which Bordeaux has cleverly added tram line arteries right through the heart of the city centre. Stylish trams slide along the wide boulevards meshing seamlessly with the thousands of elegant older buildings they service. Another exceptional city I could happily spend a month or a year in, if ever I find the time.

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One of our favourite camping spots, ever.  Caumont-sur-Garonne

 Bordeaux is stylish in architecture

Elegant in  ornamentation 

Triumphant with its monuments

It has captivating fountains

Exotic dining venues

Foie gras - a duck's life

Tonight we stayed at a foie gras farm. It was not time for the gavage, here, thank goodness, or we all might have been a little squeamish. Even in the name of 'foodie research'. We are, even now, very iffy about all things to do with the gavage, but, at the same time, we are trying to view all sides of this duck feeding story to find a balanced perspective.

The gavage is a form of force-feeding corn to male ducks and male or female geese in the last few weeks of their lives in order to fatten their livers by about 600% in order to make that rich buttery foie gras delicacy which is frequently eaten the world over as pate or mousse. The liver, too, is oftentimes eaten whole: entier. 

A form of torture, certain animal activists would call the gavage, and publish tragic photographs of birds bleeding from the neck and mouth claiming this to be the brutality of the feeding system. Others offer a different perspective: claiming the gavage simulates the autumnal overfeeding that is natural for such birds in their preparation for winter and the long migration, and that with humane techniques of gavage (using plastic tubes for instance; allowing the birds to range outdoors between feeds) claim bird to be fattened virtually queue for their mix of corn and water during these weeks of intensive feeding.

The farm we stayed in had no birds at this time of the year. We saw lots of ranging space where ducks and geese might roam freely between feeds, and indoor equipment of the pen type with a moving food drop applicator. It is what it is: a metal food dispenser that the birds face for two or three weeks of their lives, for two or three quick drops of food each day, before slaughter. After that their bits and bobs are packaged and prepared for sale in shop windows far and wide.

Postscript: We have since stayed at another foie gras ferme where gavage was taking place. The ducks not being fed were happily waddling around and paddling in the pond. Those to be fed were temporarily caged, quickly fed -- all of 30 seconds: then went happily back to their pond. Though, we are waiting for, and have yet to see, ducks queuing for their gavage feeding.

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Foie gras, pate and mousse

Wildflowers act as a distraction 

And are such pretty colours

Gavage in action 

A bridge of beauty

We came to Millau especially to see its amazing bridge. We had seen its construction on Megastructures and lived through the joys and woes of the build with its designers and engineers, step by step. We watched seven concrete pylons, that looked like giant Lilliputian chopsticks, built onsite, being driven into bedrock in a valley between two mountains aided by a stack of temporary pylons which looked as though they needed to have been made permanent. Too high. Too high, we thought.

We watched the deck surface, also built onsite, being slid out onto these pylons and rammed together out over the valley, centimeter by centimeter. Hanging there. They will fall. They will fall through space, we thought.

We watched the wind rip through the valley causing the bridge to sway back and forth, like a toy suspension bridge, at such an angle that cars and trucks driving over it at the time would have been tossed like Tonka toys into the depths below. We waited in awe for the designers and engineers to solve the problem and stabilize the deck surface with cables. Strung like thin white steel string from tall masts that were added to the bridge top that weighed down the seven fragile chopstick pylons. Too thin, we thought. Much too thin.

And we watched as they tentatively removed all the temporary pylons leaving the seven graceful chopsticks to support all that weight themselves. Too fragile, we thought. It will surely fail.

We were in Shanghai for the opening of the Nanpu Bridge over the Huangpu River. We were among the first to walk across it on Opening Day. We were amazed by it. It broke the record for so many 'firsts' in 1991. It had the most amazing spiral approach access we had ever seen, but on the day it was opened, it proved too steep for the existing buses to use, so special buses had to be bought just to run the access loop and the length of the bridge. All other buses stopped at the Interchange built at the bottom. Such are the pitfalls of bridge design. Even so, Nanpu was beautiful. Simple, elegant, strong: even sensational.

I think Millau is even more so. It is so delicate spanning that space between two mountains. It looks too fragile to hold a bantamweight bicycle. But thanks to an English architect, Norman Foster, a French Engineer, Michel Virlogeux, and their teams, Millau is quite possibly one of the most beautiful, and strongest bridges, on the planet. And if ever someone is ever tempted to select Seven Bridges of the Modern World Millau Viaduct surely would rank up there with them.

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Millau

Giant chopsticks across the valley

Nanpu Bridge, Shanghai 

From every angle it is beautiful

Tree pruning season 

Camp chairs set up to view the bridge

Millau the village, another reason to visit

Cezanne country

Aix-en-Provence is Cezanne country. Aix (pronounced 'ex') is 'water' in Latin, and on every roundabout there is a fountain. You might expect Cezanne to have painted the fountains, but he didn't; he found inspiration in the mountain behind his town: Sainte Victoire. We camped in the shade of the looming Sainte Victoire and breathed the air that Cezanne breathed.

We hunted down where he was born, grew up, went to school to study law, where he lived with his parents when, for a brief period, he became a bank clerk as his father was not inclined to think painting the ideal career choice for his son, and, finally, the house where he died, and even the church in which he was buried. We followed in his footsteps. 

As compulsive a painter as Van Gogh, Cezanne worked at his art like a man obsessed. So much so, that in his last days he spent too long out in the rain, caught a chill, and died a few short days later, from pleurisy. The town he loved, and could not leave for long, is one of the most beautiful in all of Provence. Its quarters remind me so much of Paris. If I had a month to spare I would happily spend it whiling away time in this delightful corner of the world.

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Fountain in Aix-en-Provence, where Cezanne walked 

Saint Victoire by Cezanne 

Saint Victoire as it was today

Where Cezanne was married 

So much like Paris 

Delicious patisserie

Simple stylish restaurants everywhere

Poires

Des fraises

Quartiers de pasteque

Beautifully decorated shops

Street artist painting the Deux Garcons,
Cezanne's father's favourite hangout

We drove past wet rice fields in the Camargue marshlands

The Camargue was heavy with fat cattle and even fatter flamingoes 

Enroute lavender fields were in bloom 

Ancient port across the sea

We hunted down a ferry that would take us to Genoa so we could explore this city that had so much influence over Sardinia and Corsica. After a 10 hour crossing, and very near dark, we discovered that Genoa is built on steep hills that fall quickly to the water.

We eventually tracked down a campsite on one of these hills after a near collision with a three metre high railway bridge that demanded we not go under it as we exceeded its height limit. But, with help from a passerby who indicated we had room to manoeuvre Pete eventually drove under with barely a hairs breath to spare.

Genoa is the home of Christopher Columbus, and even today, at its heart, it is still a massive seaport. Which unfortunately keeps its waterfront busy, filled with ugly vessels and heavy container carrying equipment. All around its edges its suburbs are similarly bereft and depressing. It is not a pretty city. 

And if Cagliara is in need of soap and water Genoa needs every resident, in lieu of a siesta, to take up a gerni and clean. With bleach. If they start one Monday by Friday they might rid much of the exterior of their own buildings of centuries of encrusted grime, pollution and dirt. The following week they might begin spraying down their parks, footpaths and streets. Cities do not need to be falling down and filthy to be interesting. 

Luckily, the centre storico, while small, is not only full of character but is full of characters. Albeit very grubby. In the old section around Porto Soprano you could imagine how long ago traders would bring their imports from their galleons to sell direct to buyers from all over the continent: the best cork, wines and grains would have come from Corsica and Sardinia. You could almost smell them here.

And old families, like the Grimaldis, who go way back to the Crusades, would have been able to fill their purses heavily and steadily given the powerful positions they held in this ancient port city. Today many of the family palazzos along Via Garibaldi have been inscribed as UNESCO sites and offer great photo ops.

We left Genoa and headed west along the narrow coast road to Saint Tropez a route which is a virtual parking lot. It took us six hours to go less than 140 kms. On two separate days. Driving was tedious. Some walkers and the mad mass of Vespa vipers and Harley hoons moved much faster than we did.

The towns that line the route are ports of call for the beautiful people: San Remo, Monte Carlo, Monaco, Antibes and Cannes. This year they are not so beautiful. All getting a little pouchy around the gills, sadly; and their facelifts, like their beaches, need a bit of a touch up. And their sad yappy little pooches, zipped into their handbags like compulsory accessories, must surely be dying of galloping lung consumption after such constant exposure to never-ending exhaust fume pollution.  

Yet between these beaches crowded with pink tiled apartment blocks that stretch nearly as high as the mountains we are negotiating are lonely rugged headlands topped with remnants of old towers, steeples and ruined chateaux: likely the homes and the places of worship of some of those old families who once sent those beautiful old galleons sailing gracefully across these waters.

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Old timber galleons once sailed these waters

Moby is the galleon of today  

Artistic  menu 

Characters abound

City gates with turrets

Intricate palazzo decor

Built up coast full of traffic