Woad in the Somme

Our second last night in France we had an invitation to stay at a farm in a village in the Somme producing woad: another interesting night. Woad becomes the prettiest blue colour when prepared as a dye and is extracted from a plant that belongs to the cabbage family.  When it is young it looks a little like spinach but as it flowers it grows long stalks hung with leaves. Harvesting waits till this time and is simple, just twisting the leaves off once they are mature around the summer solstice, and soaking them and the plant stems until they are pulp. The pulp is then compressed into shells, sundried and utilised when needed, by crushing the shells into a powder and adding water and sometimes urine, to cause oxidation.

Before the trade routes allowed indigo to be introduced to regions like France and England, woad was widely used. It has been found in cave drawings, on ancient pottery and even one of the Lidisfarne Gospels is illustrated in blue pigment that is thought to be woad dye.

During its heydey a little village near Amiens had three steam-powered factories, employing over 500 workers, producing woad-coloured socks, stockings and sweaters. Today there is no trace of that. It is a quiet rural village now with hardly any movement at all apart from bird flight atop its high spired church. But a little woad is once again being cultivated in this quiet village so things may not remain quiet forever.

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Fishing nets are sometimes the colour of woad

Woad prepared as a dye

 Mericourt-en-Vimeu spire

Paris in June

Since we arrived back in France we have been doing a bit of an Art Crawl, focussing on one of our passions, the Impressionists. So, for her big birthday bash, we decided to treat Bec to a week in Paris. That ended up not at all being the best travel decision we have ever made.

Our first day, her birthday, was not so bad: we found a lovely restaurant in downtown San Michele and sat down to a long leisurely birthday lunch which we eventually walked off traipsing the length of the Left Bank from San Michele to the Eiffel Tower, grinning. So.Very.Good.To.Be.Back.In.Paris.

Our second day, we queued for 1 1/2 hours to buy tickets for the Musee D'Orsay to see the Impressionists. We were not so worried at that point as we often have to queue, but we were so hungry after standing so long in the queue we didn't immediately enter, instead found a place to have lunch. We waited a long time for lunch, the restaurant was crowded, with folk from the M'O queue who were falling down fainting from hunger we discovered. We then had to re-enter the museum: another long queue, even with pre-purchased tickets. Inside, we found again that we had to queue for the special Edouard Manet exhibition that we had come for, so by now my teeth were well gritted and thoroughly gnashing. Nearly another hour. Luckily, it ended up being special, or I might have been found curled up in one corner insensibly ranting. I have only so much patience.

We queued then, late in the day, to enter each separate room of the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist displays. Staff were on-hand nervously blocking different rooms with rope barriers at different times attempting helplessly to stem the massive flow. Van Gogh, in a separate area entirely, was practically non-negotiable given his popularity, but with persistence we managed to view his work over the heads of hundreds of tourists.

Not that the crowding in these exhibitions is much different from any of the other times we have been to the Musee D'Orsay, but we were still intent on seeing it though. Colour us determined. Well, colour Bec bemused. The accents in the queues were mostly Americans, and Australians. I didn't speak, I didn't want to be labelled as either. And I am sure everyone else in all the queues hated the mass of both of us.


Note to self: Do not ever return to the M'O in late June. And forget July. And definitely not August. No matter what. Note to M'O staff: Schedule specialist exhibitions, like Edouard Manet, in some other venue at this time of the year. That might reduce the insane traffic around the M'O at least by half.

Another day we took Bec to Giverny, as part of her birthday week celebrations. Oh woe! Where were our brains even then. In Claude Monet's house add about eight busloads of infant school children and you have queues of major proportions, compared even with the Musee D'Orsay. Or the Tuilleries Musee which we tried another day but, sensibly, quit before we started screaming like banshees. Add to that a temperature of around 37⁰C and you do not have a match made in heaven. Monet's house is rather cramped, and on this day was scorchingly hot.

I was bemused by the young children, wondering what interest any one of them might have had in Monet, his garden, or his art. Having said that we won't ever likely be back to check what they might have gained as we came away feeling that Monet's garden, which we have avoided until this birthday trip, was really just another well worn, and not even a very well cared for, tourist cliche.

There are two gardens: one near the house in straight rows, then a water garden which is a bit of a hike out the back. The row garden was fairly random: lightly planted, too lightly in truth, with cheap filler annuals that were falling down limp in the heat. Only two rows of the entire garden were opened, the others were blocked off, so viewing, and planting, was limited, and cleaning up at the end of the day after the tourist hoards was minimised. Not at all like the photographs rich with plantings of Monet in his garden in his time.

The water garden had one or two exotic specimen trees as part of its permanent display, but that is all. Most of the spaces were filled with dripping willow or masses of shady bamboo stands that gave it all just a tiny hint of Japanese. Nothing remotely exciting in terms of garden design. The most interesting thing about Giverny the day we were there was a flamboyant Japanese male tourist dressed up in traditional garb, allowing tourists to photograph him. Without his colourful presence the garden would have been a whole heap more boring I am afraid.

Days four, five and six were the same in Paris: more queues, more heat, taking all day to do just one thing. We left Paris in late June. Though we will definitely return. We always return. But, we'll come early in the Spring, mayhap, when the queues are not so extensive. Or later in the autumn when the air is cooler. Until then: Au revoir, Paris.

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View from under the Eiffel Tower

Miss Bec's birthday present

The Left Bank

Monet's house

A typical garden scene at Giverny

 Tourists loved this guy

Waterlilies were in bloom

Monet's pots, pretty enough to paint

Roses near Giverny

Chenonceau then, Chenonceau now

We bribed Bec with return visits to many of our favourite chateaux in the Loire Valley for the lead up to her big birthday. We hadn't bargained that in the last weeks of June we might fight just for air space by spending time there. We hadn't expected that one of our favourites, Chenonceau, where in past decades we have parked right up at the moat bridge (sat on it even!) would be blocked off, barred, and ticketed, kilometres back now, taking advantage of unprecedented mass of visitors at this time of the year.

When Diane de Poitiers, was granted this pretty chocolate box chateaux by her lover, Henry 11, she invited their friends to visit. A lovely place to welcome their favoured guests. Only later when Henry died, his wife, Catherine de Medici, so cripplingly jealous of Diane, finally had her expelled from Chenonceau and compensated with Chaumont-sur-Loire about five kilometres down the road. Catherine moved in and threw vast parties, shooting fireworks up from the long gallery she'd had built over Diana's bridge.

This day that we visited, four thousand others from all over the world, were there with us. Utter madness. Chenonceau is one of the most visited chateaus in the Loire. Dozens of tour buses disgorged ogling bodies who occupied every inch of available physical space indoors. Outdoors, the so-called Medici and du Poitiers gardens, fared little better. Wait till July and August, we were told by one of the officials at the gate, there are more than six thousand visitors a day here then. So, woe to Chenonceau. The future does not look good.

Almost impossible for either Diana or Catherine to have invited enough guests in their lifetime to do the damage to Chenonceau that we, in our bus and car loads, do now, in just a single day. The tragedy is we can see it happening before our very eyes: the old hand-painted tiles beneath our feet are wearing away to nothingness, swept by the staff as dust into the Loire at the end of a dreary working day. The soft chalky walls behind the roped and balustraded stairs are just as quickly disintegrating, mostly from accidentally brushing against them with knuckles as we all hold the rope leading up stairs. And so we reap damage and destruction. No wonder we pay through the nose at the gate.

Though, I read somewhere that this chateau is now privately owned. Still, someone is making so much money from these mass daily entrance fees that they must figure it is worth allowing any sort of damage daily. Pretty sad, Chenonceau.

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Chateau de Chenonceau

Diane de Poitiers, Henry's mistress

Catherine de Medici, Henry's wife

Fireworks were shot from the Long Gallery

From in looking out

We did a chateau crawl and Amboise was on the list. 

As was Azay le Rideau

And one of our favourites, Villandry 

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