Archive for September, 2004
September 29th, 2004
The Boulevard St Germaine in Montparnasse was at one time the intellectual hub of Europe. Sartre and Beauvoir gave birth to existentialism amidst a haze of Gitane smoke in the venerated cafés of Les Deaux Magot and Le Cafe Flore, whilst Hemingway amongst others penned some of his masterpieces here. Obviously it would be a great place to spy out would be philosophers, so I trudged off to do my Lonely Planet sightseeing duty.
It may once have been the centre of bohemian culture, but it would be hard to find a place further removed from the left wing or radical now. The boulevard is lined with such rebellious institutions as Versace, Tiffanys, and Dolce & Gabbana. The women sitting outside the hallowed walls of the cafés drank copious amounts of Bolly and looked about as radical as Ivana Trump. On my third walk past I finally braved the raised eyebrows of the tuxedoed waiter and went inside, where I stood for a few minutes waiting for someone to realise I was a customer rather than the dishwasher, and seat me. Finally I was summarily dismissed with a wave in the general direction of a wall seat. I crept over, trying to make myself as small and insignificant as possible (difficult when you are lugging a pack the size of Mt Vesuvious and wearing hiking boots) and went to pull out a seat. Which is when I came face to face with left over bohemian man – hereafter known as LOB.
LOB sat facing out into the café, in a seat which has obviously been his for the last ten years – or at least he would like to give that impression. He wore an extremely well cut white shirt which might even have been silk, with a paisley cravat (a cravat! For Chrissake) and wire rimmed glasses. Courdoray trousers, of course, and fine leather shoes. He had various papers in front of him – Le Monde, Figaro, and a couple of serious looking tomes peeking out of his carefully worn leather satchel. As I went to lower myself in my customary dainty fashion onto the seat next to him, he looked me carefully up and down before fixing me with a glare which told me in no uncertain terms that I was in the Wrong Part Of the Café, and should find a place more suited to my station. Like the dishwasher. I sat down anyway. Fuck ‘em.
It was then I realised that the place was full of them. It was as if these men had gotten dressed in 1965 and never taken the clothes off. Not only that, but by the looks of the papers and books spread around on the tables, these guys still actually think they are at the cutting edge of bohemian intellectualism, as if there could be nothing more radical, man, than hanging out in a café in the most expensive road in Paris reading a newspaper and talking to other LOBs about the time Sartre farted in their general direction. Even more sad, there were up and coming LOBs, young guys dressed in black and practising their sneering stares, drinking espresso and trying to read philosophy whilst they waited in panting expectation for the day when they, too, would qualify for a wall seat.
It made the posers in the Pere Lachaise Cemetiere look positively laid back.
I finished my drink (8 bloody euros) and got the hell out of there. What I know about existentialism, Sartre, Beauvoir, or indeed anything of the sort could fit into a teacup, but after that little excursion, I don’t figure I’m missing much.
Interestingly, the artists’ community in Montmartre seems to have retained much of what has been lost in the philosopher’s corner of Montparnasse. They are still broke, still painting, and still smiling. The cafés might be surrounded by seedy sex shops, but they are cheap, smoky, and friendly. I wander up there quite a bit (nothing to do with the sex shops, truly) and wonder if the funky atmosphere exists because the artists spend their time actually producing something tangible, rather than contemplating the sagging folds of their navels? Just a thought.
We are looking forward to moving on after the weekend. I should almost have got to the Louvre by then.
September 25th, 2004
So you thought I was joking when I said we were lazy? Huh! One week in Paris so far and no plans to move on just yet. In actual fact, we would love to be on our way but have had numerous business matters and other such boring practical things to deal with which can only be done in a big city, and we would rather get everything sorted out while we are here than deal with things from Morocco.
But there has been plenty of time for the good things, and so of course we have managed to fit them into our tight schedule.
I am an appalling tourist. Although I may have fine and lofty thoughts of great cultural excursions, every time I find myself in a major European city, I seem to undergo a temporary lobotomy and find myself strangely drawn to the most banal and superficial of attractions. This is the fourth time I have been in Paris, and on each previous visit I have managed to do little other than find fabulous places to eat and drink, and spend copious amounts of time indulging in both of those worthy activites. I have a tendency to apply the same theory to sightseeing as I did to my university education; that is to say, I like to believe that my mere presence is enough, and that any further engagement on my behalf should be avoided at all costs. I also am a firm advocate of the ’soaking up the atmosphere via one’s stomach’ school of thought. But on this occasion I arrived in Paris determined to DO THE RIGHT THING, goddammit, and traipse the labyrinth of the Louvre if it killed me.
But obviously not right at the start. One has to ease one’s way into these things. So what was the first noteworthy expedition I managed? The Picasso museum? The Rodin collection? In fact any art collection or cultural landmark of significance, no matter how minor? Nothing so noble. No, my first venture out into the hard slog of sightseeing was a shamelessly sensationalist, completely pointless, visit to the final resting place of Jim Morrison. I have no idea why I went. In the midst of the rather incredibly ornate Cemetiere Pére Lachaise, where really important things happened, like the massacre and burial of 140 Communards after an all night gun battle, I found myself staring at a rather insignificant plaque on a dirty headstone with the name of James Douglas Morrison inscribed. It is surrounded by metal barricades and signs requesting visitors to not graffiti the headstone (and, presumably, although my French isn’t that good, to refrain from adorning the grave with spliff ends and empty bourbon bottles) and watched over by an armed security guard with a constantly squawking radio. I imagined him having a drink with his mates at the pub later that night – “yeah, a pretty quiet old day with Jimmy today, but you gotta watch those tourists man, lucky I got a gun or we really could have been in trouble there” – and marvelled at the irony of sending a man with a gun to guard a dead body.
These admittedly useless speculations aside, it was a great place to people watch. I hid myself somewhere between the Fleischberg and Heinmann family crypts and spied unashamedly.
As you would expect, there were a lot of scruffy looking young blokes smoking spliffs, all standing around and looking meaningfully at where the king of deep and meaningful drug screwed depression lay. Each of them had obviously waited some time for this moment, and all were reluctant to be outstayed by any of the others. A strange kind of one upmanship ensued where by varying degrees of big sighs, shaking heads, long streams of blue smoke streaming from nostrils, and scanning of various poetic gems from the great man himself they all tried to prove that they were the most profound of Doors fans. One by one they gradually sidled away, casting resentful glances at those left, who in turn affected complete ignorance of their presence and continued to be absorbed in being mournful. It was brilliant to watch. I reckon Jim must get an absolutely cracking laugh out of watching them all. The best was an old American couple, obviously far more of Edith Piaf orientation than Doors mania, who stood squabbling over who he actually was – “Oh, was he the leader of all those poor guys who got shot up there on the hill?” “No, no honey, I’m sure the book said he was an artist or something…”
Or something.
So, grave touring out of the way, we have managed to see the odd gallery and painting. I am still recovering from the incredible sight of whole rooms of Monet in the Museè D’Orsay, and the Marc Ribould collection in the musem of photography. As a complete philistine of the art world, no-one could have been more suprised than myself at how unbelievably beautiful I have found the galleries, and how much pleasure I have taken from looking at their amazing exhibits. Although I still can’t face the bloody Louvre.
We will be one more week in Paris, and then we intend to move very fast. Note I say intend. But I think we should make good time after this, as a lot of our stops until this point have been for the purpose of dealing with various things from the UK, and should all be tied up at the end of this week.
I will put up the photographs later in the week – and some of Gary’s should be up in a week also. Cheers and I am off to the Montparnasse Cemetiere – well, if Jim’s was a good laugh, can you imagine the pretentious sods hanging around Simone de Beauvoir and Sartre?
September 20th, 2004
Only about 3 weeks after we planned to get here, but we have made it at last. The first day after leaving Cécile’s knocked me around a bit, so we stopped in Beauvais for another two days until I could comfortably carry the pack again. We seem destined, however, not to do things by halves; so we then proceeded to cover over 70 kilometres in 2 days to arrive in Paris late last night. It was a fairly lousy walk here, straight down the motorway, but as usual, just as we were feeling low, we had a pleasant encounter.
A car stopped in a layby in front of us, and a man stepped out and waited for us to walk closer. We are so accustomed to honking horns, indecipherable yelled remarks, and gaping stares, that we both braced ourselves for what we thought might be coming. But in fact, he told us that he had driven past us on the road the last two days, and so had decided to stop when he saw us again. He was a lovely man and talked to us for quite a while, and at the time his encouragement really gave us a needed boost. Sometimes when it is getting late, and we still have 10 kms to go, and we are unsure whether or not there is a bed at the end of the day, it really does help to have someone give us a kind word or smile.
It has taken us 24 walking days to get here from London. Disgusting really, considering we have been away for 50! But we had always planned to have a holiday when we got to France – although perhaps not quite so many in quick succession. We are resolved that after this stop we shall get our skates on and move a lot faster. It should also be a little easier now that we are on the Compostela route, which takes us through regular stopping points. It would be fine if we could “wild camp”, but given that we are not usually in areas where this is possible, it has been a little difficult relying on campsites, as by now many of them are closed for the season. We are hoping our stops will be a little more reliable now.
It does feel good to reach this first major landmark. And we are looking forward to spending a few days wandering around and taking it all in.
I will update the diary with photos etc in a couple of days.
September 14th, 2004
We are finally ready to leave the haven of Cécile’s, and tomorrow is the day. I feel very lucky to have been able to rest somewhere so comfortable while I wasn’t feeling great. Gary has had a wonderful time clearing all of the nettles and undergrowth at the back of the garden. The resulting pile has been burning for the last 24 hours, aided by the odd dash of petrol. Talk about man in his element.
Meanwhile, I have been passing the time in my customary constructive fashion, by remaining in a foetal position on the chaise longue, reading “War and Peace”. I see it as a full time occupation, as the book is far too heavy to carry, necessitating my completion of it before we leave.
Last night Cécile cooked us a traditional Russian meal of small beef balls rolled into a dough similar to pasta – but, most emphatically, “NOT RAVIOLI” – which are served with dill, bouillon, cream, butter and vinegar. Watching her create the small parcels with precise, deft movements provided almost as much joy as eating them.
It seemed the perfect dish yesterday, as Autumn made an appearance with the first real chill in the air and a blustery rain storm. Our long break has put us well behind our original time plan,and I guess we will be nowhere near the Pyrenees before the cold of late November. It no longer seems to be so important, though, to rush, and we both know we will get there eventually; so we shall plod along in our steady way, and appreciate the world passing us by. We will both be glad to pack up again tomorrow, difficult as it is to leave such a special home as Cécile’s. It seems strange, after the utter peace of Montreuil-sur-Breche, that in a few days we will be in the mad rush of Paris. I look forward to it with a mixture of dread and anticipation, knowing I will hate being back amongst all of the traffic and hustle of a big city, but incredibly excited about exploring one of the most beautiful and fascinating cities in Europe. Either way, it will be good for us to get on the move again. It seems as though we have been on holiday here for weeks, although it is less than one.
Paris will probably be the next post, sometime next weekend.
September 11th, 2004
Well, I have finally managed to work out the iMac thingie, so I have put some photos up of Cécile and Picardie – two new albums. There are a few photographs of roses in there, because they are just so beautiful, and smell divine. It has been raining on and off today, which makes the flowers even more stunning. We will be staying until Tuesday morning – we have some things to collect on Monday – so that means I have nearly three full days to wallow in this haven of tranquility and good food.
I thought I should mention, after reading back over the last couple of posts, that Cécile is in fact a published writer who has lectured in literature and the art of writing for many years. She is also an exhibited painter and photographer, and has collaborated on many film projects. At some point in the near future she will have a website up, so you can read about her properly, rather than in my wholly inadequate words.
This break has been really valuable for us both. I think we have finally caught up on the sleep we’ve needed ever since we left, and also moved into a new phase of our walk. It does feel as though we have at last left London behind. Not to mention being endlessly captivated by, and immersed in, the life of Cécile!
This will be a short post, as I have spent ages getting the photographs up and am fed up with looking at the screen. But I did just want to say a big THANKYOU to Lisa, Jodie and Jo for your wonderful comments. I think of you all the time. And my darling sister, I miss you every day also. Perhaps we can raise a glass together in France someday? Please keep posting, you can have no idea how your thoughts and words keep us going.
September 10th, 2004
We tried to leave, really we did, but she keeps on cooking, and you know what we are like with food…
But seriously, I have wound up with a bit of an infection which needed antibiotics, and Cécile with her boundless generosity has very graciously allowed us to stay until I am right to walk (no more than a day or two I’m sure).
So in the meantime, we have found ourselves slowly melting into a seductive kind of sybaritic existence. Cécile is an artist in the true sense of the word, forever creating something – whether she is designing an extension to her home using the stone from a ruined 14th century abbey; planning a trip down the Amazon in Venezuela; or simply digging the wonderful vegetables from her garden for her latest magnificent meal, this is a woman who has an incredible appetite and appreciation for beauty and life. She knows every flower in her garden, pointing out a slowly unfurling rose here, and inviting us to smell the rich scent of another. Each meal comes largely from her own garden, and the scent of bay leaves from the cooking lingers in the kitchen.
Every room in the house is lived in and has a character very much it’s own. My favourite place today is the courtyard, where a large wrought iron stand holds a mountain of onions, dug from the garden and waiting to be cooked.
We have joked that our site should be re-named “constantrest” given the amount of time we have stopped. But with every day that passes, I am so grateful for these opportunities to savour the people and experiences on our path. And every morning, I think: imagine if we had never done this! What we would have missed, the people we would not have met, the incredible experiences we could not have had…we are only 6 weeks into our trip, and I am grateful every day that we have begun it, and look forward every night to the next day, the next place.
Which reminds me.
I was going to wait until I could upload photos to write about the laughing ducks, but given that now I won’t be uploading until Beauvais in a few days, I will write now.
After we left Amiens we had a rather long walk to get to our next campsite, in Loeuilly. It is a tiny village next to a beautiful lake, and the campsite had a stream which burbled past about 4 metres from our tent. One look at the glassy lake had been enough to convince us to stay for a day – we need little convincing – and so it was the sound of the ducks in the stream which woke us the next morning. Except, they didn’t sound like ducks. To be honest, at first I thought I could hear a kookaburra – for those of you not Australian, a kookaburra is a bird which is notorious for it’s laughing call – but obviously kookaburras are on the rare side in rural France. The sound was like a mad, asthmatic old man calling a horse race at top speed, interspersed with frantic hysterical laughter. When we finally worked out that it was the ducks, Gary and I lay in the tent absolutely killing ourselves laughing, which drove them to even greater efforts, in turn increasing our hilarity, until – well, you can imagine. I don’t think the neighbours were very appreciative. For the duration of our stay one squawk from those creatures was enough to have me doubled over.
We had an excellent feast by the lake in Loeuilly, with fresh baguettes, wine, and cheese. The sun set behind the surrounding tall trees, and the water was as still as glass, reflecting the soft twilight in a clear mirror image. It was a lovely camp.
One last thing! We are media stars at last – the Courrier Picarde (regional newspaper) published Cécile’s article, and our photo. I shall scan it later so you can admire us, ha ha.
Tonight Cécile is creating a lamb dish. Gary is writing in his journal, and the sun is streaming through the trees on to the patio. Life is a wonderful place to be just now.
September 9th, 2004
Fate is a funny thing. Two days ago we stopped to eat lunch on a quiet corner just outside a small village. A car drew alongside us, and a woman leaned out and asked us who we were, and what we were doing. Although we are quite accustomed, by now, to curiosity, we did wonder what was going on when she parked the car and got out. But as I write this now, from Cecile’s beautiful cottage in Montreuil, I can only see it as the most wonderful of chance encounters.
Cecile is the French raised daughter of a Russian poet who fled his native country during the 1917 revolution. She is a most remarkable woman, more like an exotic character from fiction than someone I could ever have hoped to meet in real life. Amongst other things she works part time for the local newspaper, which was one of her reasons for stopping when she saw us sitting on the corner – the other reason is a brilliant story which I shall get to later.
During that first meeting, she took our picture, and some details for an article for the newspaper – “and you have not spoken to anyone else in France?” she crowed delightedly; “you mean I have an exclusive? But this is stupendous!” It turned out that she had been in the middle of an interview in a village not far away, but had an hour to kill before she could take the photo she needed, and had decided to take a drive into some of the other villages in the area. She just happened to drive by our corner as we ate lunch – a coincidence for which we are eternally grateful.
By the end of the meeting, we had been invited to stay in her home the following night. “I have a bath, and I will buy the chicken, and make you a stupendous bed!” she exclaimed delightedly, in a way which made us feel so entirely welcomed that we barely managed to stutter our thanks. As she climbed back into her car and whizzed off in the same exuberant manner she had arrived, Gary and I were left, quite dazed, wondering whether we had imagined the entire thing.
We walked through the whole next day with visions of roast chicken and a bath pushing us onwards, hoping that Cecile was truly real and not just a figment of our often vivid imaginations, and still utterly amazed that someone was actually interested enough to want to write about us. Last night we arrived, hot and exhausted, at Cecile’s front door, and tentatively knocked, unsure of our reception.
But we need never have worried. From the moment she threw open the door and kissed us on both cheeks, her welcome has been one of unstinting generosity and warmth, not to mention absolutely unsurpassable company and conversation.
Cecile’s cottage is in a traditional French style, and utterly enchanting. We are sleeping in a loft which has old exposed oak beams, a sloping roof, shuttered windows and antiques littered throughout. There are original paintings on the walls, some by Cecile herself. Downstairs the shelves are lined with books in French, Russian and English. Partoufle the big white Labrador nuzzles for treats, and the walls are decorated with old French wallpaper. Outside, a true Secret Garden stretches back, with mature apple, pear, and quince trees beside winding stone paths. There are flower beds and a vegetable patch, a wicker chair and table under a shady tree where Cecile does her writing, and a tiny hidden room with an old bed.
Last night we sat out under the sweeping branches of a big old tree for dinner. True to her word, Cecile had roasted a guinea fowl – “it is like chicken, but much nicer” – and some sensational potatoes which she gets from a local farmer. It was one of the most memorable meals Gary and I have eaten, flavour exploding from perfectly cooked meat, and potatoes cooked with bay leaves inside their jackets, served with olive oil and sea salt. Combined with chilled wine and a dessert of homemade fruit compote, and an entire evening of absolutely fascinating conversation, we both felt as if we had fallen through the rabbit hole into paradise.
It was during dinner that Cecile told us the story which I mentioned earlier, and shall, with her permission, retell now.
Many years ago she was driving with a friend in the Pyrenees, when, at the side of the road, they saw a woman walking. Although obviously in her later years, the woman was tall, upright, and, in Cecile’s words, “tres distinguee”. Seeing that she walked without any luggage, they stopped to speak to her. In my words, this is an approximation of what she said:
“I am an old woman, now, and I did not want to be a burden on my children or family. So, two years ago, I decided that if I am to die, I would like to die under the stars; so I began walking. I have been walking ever since, with only what I wear.”
She spoke of the kindness of the strangers she had met, and the generosity of those on her way. She remained with Cecile for a few miles, and then continued on her solitary way.
The memory of that extraordinary woman has remained with Cecile for these last twenty years, and was another of the reasons she stopped to speak to us. It is an image I also shall carry now.
As I write this, Gary and Cecile have just returned from the Boucherie, Gary positively slathering at the luscious meats and pate hanging in the cold room. I think that means it is lunch time.
When I work out how to use the iMac, I will upload the pictures. I will also post again to tell you about the laughing ducks of Loeuilly…
September 4th, 2004
The road from Abbeville to Amiens follows the course of the Somme river through a picturesque valley of peaceful fields, and quaint old villages. It is difficult to believe that the bloody battles of the Somme wreaked such utter devastation during both the first and second world wars – difficult, that is, until one passes any of the countless lonely memorials, which stand folornly in every small village and beside many forgotten back roads. The first we saw was some time back, on the road to Etaplés – a small sign caught our eye which mentioned a cemetary commemorating the soldiers of the Commonwealth. The sign was so insignificant that we were wholly unprepared for the heartbreaking sight of hundreds upon thousands of small, white headstones, presented in stark military lines; the final resting place of so many soldiers from Australia and other commonwealth countries.
Being priviledged to have grown up in a country which has never fought a war on it’s own soil, the realisation that I was actually walking across the very ground on which those historic battles were fought, through the villages which before were only names from books, has been a strange and disturbing experience. In so many of these tiny villages lone monuments stand, always dedicated to the “guerres” who “mort pour France” – the soldiers who died for France. And very often either next to these monuments, or on the same stone, is a testament to the Australian and other commonwealth forces who fought and died beside them. We have come across some of the more out of the way monuments, seemingly forgotten, and read that an entire regiment of Australians died in that same peaceful looking field, or been moved by the simple pride in the words “liberated by the the allied forces” and a date. War memorials have always had the ability to move me to tears. But in walking through the quiet backroads of the Somme, I have felt as if I were walking back in time. It has also made us both more anti-war than we ever were before. Gary has said on more than one occasion that if that imbecile John Howard stood in front of some of those memorials, perhaps he would think twice before sending even more Australian troops to fight other people’s wars.
All of these monuments led the way to the greatest of all – the magnificent Gothic cathedral at Amiens, the biggest in Western Europe. Quite apart from being utterly beautiful, inside was the most moving tribute to soldiers that we have seen. Carved into one wall was a lifesize sculpture commemorating the French soldiers who died. Close by, hidden away in one of the naves, was the Australian flag carried by the troops who fought in the battle which liberated Amiens in 1918, hanging dirty and torn from the wall, alongside those of America, Britain, New Zealand and New Foundland. On the walls opposite are stone plaques donated by each government, in memory of those who died. Neither Gary nor I are Catholic – but we lit a candle at that memorial.
The 13th century Cathedral itself is dramatic. Over the last few years research has been done to discover the colours which the sculptures at the entrance were originally painted. The results have led to an incredible laser light show, which lights up the facade of the Cathedral every night for an hour, enabling watchers to to see the beautiful colours and detail of the sculpture as they must have been during Medieval times. I had been a bit sceptical – somehow “laser light show” and ancient cathedral didn’t seem a good combination – but it was absolutely wonderful, and we were both transfixed throughout.
On our way to Amiens we passed through the town of Flixecourt. It had been a lovely day’s walking, through stunning countryside, but we had done over 13 miles and were definitely ready to stop. Unfortunately the campground was signed about 4 miles on. Hot, tired, and not remotely interested in walking another 4 miles, we decided instead to enquire of the owners at a farm on the corner as to whether we could camp in their field. And here comes the human kindness part of this entry!
We were greeted by the most friendly woman imaginable – Monique, who, with her husband Alain and brother Christophe, runs the farm. She welcomed us immediately and showed us where to put our tent, would not accept a cent for her trouble, and then came out of the house with -oh joy – big bottles of cold water. By the end of the day we had met the entire family and been so well looked after we didn’t want to leave. We spent a lovely night in their front garden, had wonderful coffee and cake the following morning, and were sent on our way in amazement at how incredibly kind they were.
To Monique, Alain, Christophe, Isobel, and all the family, thankyou so much for welcoming us, and we hope very much to see you again.
I know we have said it before, but every day we are absolutely bowled over by how much the French people we have met happily go out of their way to help or be kind. We have met nothing but welcome, hospitality, and goodwill from all we have come across, and have felt truly grateful on many occasions for the kindness and patience shown us.
From Amiens we are turning South, to Paris via Beauvais. We have switched into slow mode a bit at the moment – there is so much to see! – so we may not get to Paris for a couple of weeks. The sun has finally come out, so we can’t rush in such dreamy weather. Lets face it – we just can’t rush! We seem to be stopping as much as we are walking at the moment. But then, we shall only pass this way once, as the saying goes, and we want to savour it all.
Feray and Sadia, it was brilliant to get your comments – but come on now, Fez, I could never compete with Nadia, Scott and Michelle (can’t believe I can actually remember the names of the losers from Big Brother). And Sards, not suprise you can still feel me in that room babe, I left it in the most appalling mess ever created. Should imagine my presence will be making itself felt for some time to come! I hope you are both coping ok with the new school year. I miss everyone from school loads and think of you all the time, Gary thinks I am going to get RSI from txting. It is really lovely to hear from you and please, please stay in touch!
To our darling nieces Kate and Em thankyou so much for your lovely posts, we are carrying photos of you both (although they are a bit old now) and think of you every day. Emmy-lou I hope your neck is not so sore now, and that you are back doing acrobatics soon.
I have put some new photos up – some of the delicious FOOD I am addicted to – so you can all see how much weight I am not losing. Cheers for now.