Transcript of Tape-recorded Diary
PART 2 of 7
On our last day in Paris, last Friday, we’d gone our separate ways, or at least I’d gone my separate way - Musee d’Orsay - and the others had all gone to the Bagatelle gardens in the Bois de Boulogne. The Bois de Boulogne (known as Le Bois) at 865 ha (2137 acres) is the largest park in Paris. It was designed and landscaped by Baron Haussmann (1809-1891) at the instigation of Napoleon III, and patterned on London’s Hyde Park. Much of it is forest rather than park. Within Le Bois are several self-contained parks, including the Bagetelle Gardens (Parc de Bagatelle). The Gardens are formal, and the floral displays reflect the changing seasons.
Our previous trips to Paris had been for two or three days, and not enough time to see everything. This time we were there for a week and, of course, still not enough time to see everything! And, as the last day approached the one thing that I particularly wanted to catch up with was the d’Orsay Museum, the gallery holding the largest collection of Impressionist paintings and, indeed, a gallery specifically devoted to the artworks of a fairly limited period, I think from about 1840 to 1940. I got my dates wrong. The d’Orsay doesn’t have 20th Century works. Here is some of what Britannica says about it: The Musee d’Orsay is housed in the former Orsay Railway Station (Gare d’Orsay), a large, ornate structure built in the Beaux Arts style and completed in 1900; it sits on the left bank of the Seine River opposite the Tuileries. The luxurious railway station was largely vacant by the 1970s owing to the decline in train travel. With government funds, the building was restored and remodelled in the early 1980s and opened in 1986 as a museum housing a comprehensive selection of mid- and late 19th-Century French painting, sculpture, photography, and decorative arts. The Orsay Museum holds the Impressionist paintings that were formerly at the Jeu de Paume Museum, the Post-Impressionist works that were formerly at the Palais de Tokyo, and selected paintings that were at the Louvre Museum.
Instead of taking the Metro I walked the distance from our apartment to the d’Orsay, I suppose five kilometres. On the way I passed by the Hotel de Ville (that’s the town hall of Paris) and the Pompidou Centre; and, also the market area, Les Halles. This place has become quite shabby, I think, and is in need of a makeover. The Les Halles area had been the site of the central wholesale marketplace of Paris since the 1100s. It was rebuilt under the direction of Baron Haussmann in 1883; and demolished in 1971 .... to be replaced with an underground shopping precinct, and an open-air forum area. It is this area that is now so tired. Way below is the Chatelet-les-Halles station, the busiest Metro in Paris.
The d’Orsay was wonderful. I spent about five hours, I think. Saw everything. Strange to say, but in a way the Impressionist paintings were the least exciting part of the collection. A bit of cultural indigestion, I think - there were so many. The things that impressed me most at the d’Orsay were the paintings by the Post-Impressionist artists, the art nouveau furniture, and the sculpture displayed as it is in the vast space of the d’Orsay itself. The d’Orsay was once a major railway station, built in the latter part of the nineteenth century with the great curved ceiling, metal and glass. Exhibition areas have been incorporated into this space. The sculpture is on the ground floor with the great ceiling high above, and the
setting is perfect.
The Impressionist paintings are way up on the second floor inside annexes but displayed in conventional rooms. There’s a huge bookshop, and I was able to buy books on my two favourite Post-Impressionists, Vuillard and Bonnard ..... and felt obliged also to buy a couple of others, on Cezanne and Monet!
Back to the apartment about four. Anne had already arrived home and had done most of the packing, and then we were out again about six to meet with the others near the Eiffel Tower. On the way a small digression to suss out the Gare de Lyon. This is another major railway station, departure point for the southern regions of France, and we wanted to arm ourselves with a bit of local knowledge for tomorrow morning’s departure. Rather than take our chances and getting a taxi to the station we’d decided to go by Metro, but this involved a couple of changes and quite a few steps up and down. Hence the dry run. The others were coming by taxi......... staying in hotels, much easier for them to organise a taxi and to organise one on time. Helen and Arthur were, in fact, staying in an apartment like ourselves - in the Marais district. We figured our way to the departure point and felt fairly cosy about being able to do so next morning; but the reconnoitre had taken longer than we thought and we were half an hour late meeting with the others.
All of us were then off to a restaurant fairly close to the Australian Embassy, one that Helen and Arthur had discovered a few nights earlier. A very fine meal. We weren’t through until nearly ten o’clock by which time nobody felt particularly inclined to go up the Eiffel Tower, and we went our respective ways, Anne and Gary crossing the Seine to the Trocadero area and catching the Metro from there.
This was one night we didn’t want to sleep late, so we slept with the curtains open - and of course woke very early. There was plenty of time for us to have our breakfast and clear away, and then walk the two hundred or so metres to the Metro at Philippe Auguste and then on to the Gare de Lyon, all exactly as planned the evening before. The others arrived much later - Helen and Arthur with no trouble, but Faye and David, despite our indication to them that the taxi would drop them right at the front entrance on the concourse, had been dropped off a considerable distance away and had a lot of walking to do through the station area.
It’s a huge station by Melbourne standards. There are platforms A to N for the fast electric train, the TGV, and then, in a different part altogether, platforms 1 to 23 for other country trains. Each train has a number according to destination, and the huge indicator board at any time shows the next two dozen trains due for departure. But while the train is indicated the departure platform is not shown until about twenty minutes prior to the departure time. This means that huge numbers of people are milling around the waiting area, doing just that.
The tickets were for numbered seats - on our train at least - and most of the trains seemed already to be waiting at the platforms, so we couldn’t see the reason for this unwillingness to
Tape 1, side 2
indicate the particular train. I guess it was because the platforms were open. There were no departure gates as such, and they didn’t want people on the train until cleaning had been done and the staff were in place.
There’s also the system of ticket validation. At the beginning of each platform, that is before you get to the train, there’s a machine into which you must place the ticket and have it punched. Notwithstanding the fact that you’ve got a numbered seat on a numbered train on a numbered day, this validation process is of paramount importance. Last time Faye and David were travelling on one of these trains they didn’t know about the system, didn’t validate their tickets, and got into a heck of a row with the conductor. Today was not going to be a repeat performance!
We had a major anxiety due to the fact that there were two trains shown as going to Avignon. Our tickets showed us on train 6003 and Helen and Arthur’s tickets showed them as being on train 6111. We’d made enquiries at the information desk and with a wave of a hand had been told that everything was okay. But it wasn’t until the departure platform flashed up on the indicator board that the same platform was shown beside both trains - so we knew that somehow the two trains were linked together. And thus it transpired. As we went down the platform there were two of these bullet-nosed trains actually linked together at the pointy end. The worst problem, bordering on chaos, was to do with finding your carriage. The seat numbers in each carriage were the same but the numbers of the carriages were shown, not on the outside, but on a lighted panel inside the door. And it took us some while to establish that the carriages were numbered downwards from the end where we entered the platform. Helen and Arthur were travelling in a first class carriage and it took them quite some time to figure that their carriage was towards the front of the train. There were seventeen carriages in all. We were in carriage fifteen I think, and got into the wrong carriage and selected seats with our numbers, then had to go to the right carriage - and went the wrong way. So, as I say, chaos, and all the time lugging our cases and in full marching gear.
The journey itself was totally effortless; very fast train indeed. We didn’t have a railway map and our road map didn’t show the rail line very clearly but it seemed, since we passed through a couple of stations only, that the TGV line may have been specially constructed. The train was bound for Marseilles, and Avignon - our destination point - was the first stop. TGV stands for Train a Grande Vitesse (“high speed train”). TGV, in fact, is not just the train, it’s the complete system - trains, tracks, signalling. The first TGV, from Paris to Lyon, was commissioned in September 1981. The TGV line through Avignon (to Marseilles on the Mediterranean) opened in June 2001. TGV trains typically travel at 300 kph. Some TGV trains traverse sections of the conventional rail system, and lower their maximum speed to around 220 kph. Additional dedicated track systems are being constructed.
We left Paris around ten-thirty. Avignon at about one o’clock. Not a big station in the sense of there being multiple trains and connecting services. But a long station because of the length of the TGV train. Many of those alighting were tourists like us and made their way to the hire car offices outside the station. Fortunately for us - travelling Hertz - most of the people seemed to be travelling Avis. So, it didn’t take us all that long to collect our two cars - Faye, David, Anne and Gary in one - an Opel - and Helen and Arthur in their smaller Fiat. We then travelled in convoy to our cottage near St.-Paulet-de-Caisson, stopping along the way to do some supermarket shopping at the nearest big town, Pont-St.-Esprit. The pont of the name is over the river Rhone and we followed the Rhone about the forty-five kilometres north from Avignon. The Rhone is about 500 miles long. It rises in Switzerland. It discharges into the Mediterranean, having split into two at Arles on either side of the Camargue wetlands. The river is navigable from Lyons to the sea. It has the largest flow of all French rivers. The bridge is very old, has a number of arches, has a few bends in it - apparently to withstand better the current of the river, just as we build dam walls with the curve facing the water - and has survived.
The next day, that’s Sunday the 7th of September, we went to the street market at L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. An event we’d read about, but our atlas of France was not helpful because we weren’t alerted to the difference between this place, which is on an island in a stream, and the town called Sorgues. Different place entirely. But we got there, and had a good poke around before having lunch in the town in a delightful setting on the water’s edge. One thing we learnt was that these street markets seem to have a very definite closing time, and by 1.00 p.m. not only was everything being packed away but straggling stall-holders were unwilling to conduct any more business. Home to St.-Paulet-de-Caisson for a lazy afternoon, and our first rain. Quite heavy rain, and it rained again through the night.
On the Monday morning a walk around our little town, St.-Paulet. A small village, but no place seems too small to do without a baker, a hairdresser, a newsagent, a small bar, and a small food store. Then on to another street market, this time at nearby Bollene. Nowhere near as large or diverse or as impressive as the one we’d been to on the Sunday, and generally somewhat disappointing. The best feature was the group of three musicians. We think they’re South American Indians, certainly that’s the music they play; and there’d been a similar group performing at yesterday’s market at L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. They have a pre-recorded backing track, and then to that accompaniment they play their pan flutes - their recorder-type flutes - and sing, and interpolate a variety of percussion instruments and sounds. They’re happy to accept gratuities but the main objective seems to be the sale of their CDs and the sale of folk items, attended to by their lady friends.
On the way home we stopped to look at an old chapel, unfortunately closed, just off the road and in a bush setting. And shortly we were home in time for lunch. A drizzly afternoon; and then at night roast beef, and we lit the open fire. A very cosy evening.
The next day, the Tuesday, we spent all day at Orange. Orange is back in the direction of Avignon about half way, so not very far, and a moderately-sized town and famous for the remains of the Roman occupation. Population 30000. We didn’t have a town map and, being a little unsure of our ability to park in the centre of town, we parked in the first available spot which, as it happens, was right beside the Triumphal Arch, a huge archway built in Roman times.
It has survived, but most of the carved figures and bas reliefs are badly worn, but who wouldn’t be after two thousand years? The traffic no longer passes through the arch, which is now located in the centre of a large roundabout.
We walked on and found the tourist office - and found something quite unique. In the parkland, just behind the tourist office, there was a circular palisade made of pickets with one opening and a small stump in the centre, like a bollard; and a sign outside the entrance indicated that this is the place for dogs to do their business. And, indeed, they do. So, this is an innovation, a further advance on the personalised plastic bag; and the dog owners obviously encourage their dogs to use the facility. The ground was covered in turds, and the mind reels at the description that the municipal authorities attach to the person whose job it is to do the daily clean up - “Monsieur le chien turd pickerupper”, who knows?
The star feature of Orange is the Roman Theatre. Designated a UNESCO world heritage site. We’ve seen plenty of pictures of curved Roman amphitheatres, generally built against the side of a hill. But the one in Orange is the best preserved in all of Europe - and it shows that in front of the seats there was not just a stage, but a huge edifice containing changing rooms, rooms for the props, and a huge decorative façade presiding over which was a statute of the Emperor. At Orange this part of the theatre is largely intact. The seating is intact too, but the guide books tell us that only the first three rows are original and that all the rest was restored at a much later date.
For the price of admission we were provided with headsets, and the commentary was extensive and informative. The Romans built these theatres wherever the empire extended, and the performances were much loved by the populace. The actors performed wearing masks and their faces were therefore not known to the public at large, although many of them became famous in their own right and wealthy on account of the patronage they received. The Roman theatre was substantially based on the Greek theatre of several hundred years earlier and involved a large number of stock characters. And these characters were identified by the masks; and when a certain mask appeared on stage the audience knew that this was going to be a buffoon, or a serious person, or a lover, or whatever. The players moved in companies from town to town and were presided over by a manager, who not only organised the performances and the transport but also commissioned plays from accompanying writers.
There was a strict hierarchy within the audience, with the leading town officials, the governor, military people, sitting in the front rows, and the hoi polloi sitting further back. Not a good choice of noun. The hoi polloi were the Greek crowd not the Roman. And right at the very back in the highest rows were permitted the prostitutes and those who weren’t Roman citizens. Thus, while there was this strict demarcation there was nevertheless an acceptance that the Roman theatre was for all.
The centre of Orange is delightful, picturesque, and the shops are very fashionable. We had a lovely lunch, notable for the fact that I ordered a coffee noir large - “grande” - and very hot. But instead of saying hot (chaud), I said cold (foir). I won’t get these words wrong again.
After lunch a tour through the museum, the admission price having been included in the price of our ticket to the Roman Theatre. A small collection but quite diverse, ranging from Roman artefacts through to a large semi-restored mosaic floor from Roman times. Bits and pieces of furniture and wall hangings, and a couple of rooms of paintings by local artists from the late 1800s, early 1900s. Very affable works, and I had the sense that - as Somerset Maugham described himself - the artists may well have been in the first rank of the second rank.
From the museum to the Orange cathedral, a mixture of styles and ornamentation, the best part of which was the frescoes - each of the side chapels with a different decorative motif, and lovely colours. Terrible deterioration though, and you wonder how a piece of paintwork twenty feet in the air could become worn. I suppose that even Berger paints that keep on keeping on don’t keep on for one hundred, two hundred or three hundred years.
Home late in the day, and then after dinner a few hands of Rickety Kate.
Next day, the Wednesday, Helen and Arthur stayed home at St.-Paulet. Arthur had some drawing work to do and wanted to get this finished and faxed home. And they wanted to do some local walking.
Before breakfast I’d been for a long walk into town and then out in the other direction to the chapel of St. Agnes, a pretty 12th Century edifice, standing all alone with no sign that there ever had been a village around it. I noted, sadly, that next Saturday there was to be a choral recital in the church, entry free. Sad, because by Saturday evening we would be gone.
The four musketeers to another market, this time to St.-Remy-de-Provence. There are about two dozen St.-Remys in France and it was important to get the right one. And we were glad we did because the street market was of the highest quality, the highest quality of fabrics and clothing and such like.
The guide book indicates that at the same location there’s also an antique market but we didn’t get that far before it was closure time at around one o’clock.
We stopped for a time to listen to some jazz musicians - double bass, electric guitar, and a saxophonist who also did vocal - a negro who sang everything in English. A very laid back character who after each song invited people to buy the CD, but he offered no hard sell in French - even though he spoke it - and didn’t achieve the number of sales that the excellence of the performance warranted. And there were South American Indians again, a third group this time.
A baguette lunch, which has become the standard for us; and then touring around, calling at Les Baux-de-Provence - a hillside town with a large fortress above, very touristy. Every house seems to be a shop or at least to have a shopfront. A classy place very much on the tourist route, with a number of busses parked, and lots of cars. The roadside parking extends way down the mountain, and there is a “take a ticket” parking fee. On the day there were far fewer cars than the available parking space and we’re starting to think that tourism throughout France is having a lean time. We appreciate that the high season ends at the end of August, and here we are into the second week of September, but we just have a feeling that the tourists are staying away. This feeling is amplified by the absence of Americans. They’re just not here. On very few occasions have we heard the American accent and seen American tourists. The American absence was explainable by the adverse effect on outbound tourism of the 11 September 2002 destruction of the World Trade Centre, followed by the 2003 war in Iraq.
After Les Baux the next stopping point on our circular route was to visit the Pont du Gard.
There were major floods in 2002 and considerable scouring of the bank near the bridge. No suggestion, though, that the bridge suffered at all; but the Council of Europe has allocated a couple of million euros to restoration work of the river bank - I guess to ensure that a recurrence of such flooding will not endanger the bridge.
Our last stop for the day was some supermarket shopping at Pont-St.-Esprit, and then a short detour to show to the others the chapel of St. Agnes that I’d walked to in the morning; and then home and a late meal.
Helen and Arthur again stayed home the next day, and the other four took off for an all-day tour along the Ardesh River and its gorges.
Very picturesque, some marvellous views, some interesting driving, and culminating at Pont d’Arch - a spot where the river has cut through and there is a natural arch. Beneath it some gravelly beaches, and canoe hiring businesses. Lots of happy holiday-makers, and canoeists; and Anne had a refreshing dip in the river.
On the Friday morning Anne and Gary walked to the nearby monastery – a de-commissioned monastery, really. It’s called the Chartreuse de Valbonne. At one stage the monks were turned out, the place was secularised, it became a leper hospital; and after the Second World War it was acquired by an American protestant pastor and has been used, and is still used, as a refuge for the less fortunate. It earns some money from the tourists. Its main source of income appears to be from the making of its own wine. We saw the grape-pickers returning from the fields for their lunch, walked past the open doors of the winery, and caught the unmistakable smell of crushed grapes. The place is extremely tired and run down, and we speculated about the likelihood of it ever being restored. There would, in a sense, be no point. There’s a main chapel and a number of side chapels and meeting rooms, all of which are decrepit, and there’d be little use for them even if they were in immaculate condition. According to its website the place is also a conference centre, so rather more “commercial” than we’d imagined.
There are two interesting cloisters. The smaller cloister was for the head of the order to do his contemplating and - the brochure said - to have discussions with the other brothers should that be warranted. The grand cloister goes right around a very large rectangular garden, and off that cloister are the monks’ rooms - should I say cells - mostly no longer in use. In the courtyard are some very large trees and one magnificent highly scented pink rose. We broke off a piece and with a bit of luck and the blessing of the ghosts of Valbonne we may be able to strike it when we get home. No such good fortune. We tried to keep the cutting damp in a plastic wrap, but it rotted within a couple of weeks.
Faye and David had separately made their way to the Chartreuse by car so we had a lift back home, stopping on the way for a walk around Pont-St.-Esprit. It was a very windy afternoon but this didn’t stop us from reading in the sun.
That morning we’d farewelled Helen and Arthur. They were driving back to Avignon, spending the night there, and then catching the train on the Saturday morning for Milan and later Florence before flying home.
Before bed on Friday night we’d done most of our packing and the general tidying preparatory for our departure the next morning. Anne had plotted our route across country generally in the westerly direction from the Rhone to the Lot, and we’d calculated about four-hundred-and-fifty kilometres. Not far by Australian standards but a long way given the winding roads and given the fact that there were no major freeways running in an east-west direction; so it was all going to be roads of lesser significance or - more importantly - roads of lesser directness. We were expected at our new lodgings at around five o’clock, although this was flexible, and we’d calculated that it would be smart to be away by ten. In the event we were awake pretty early. There was time to do two washes - one of the linen, and one of the towels - and we were away by nine o’clock.
It was a long day’s drive, but very picturesque. We had a very short stop for lunch, and we bought some supplies near our destination - and we did have a detour to visit a bastide for half-an-hour or so - but it took us nine hours and we didn’t roll into our new accommodation until around six o’clock. We’d rung ahead to say we were running late and the owner, who lives on the site, said take our time, we’re at home, have a drink, and we’ll see you when we see you.
Again from Britannica:
A bastide is a type of village or town built largely in the 13th and 14th centuries in England and Gascony and laid out according to a definite geometric plan. Bastides were built for defensive, economic, and colonizing purposes. The lord of the manor with a successful bastide on it could expect an increase of revenue from the rents, fair and market tolls, justice profits, and trade tariffs. With allowances made for local terrain, bastides were laid out according to a rectangular grid derived from ancient Roman town plans. The bastide was often built on a hilltop, with the streets dividing the town into rectilinear insulae ("islands" or "blocks"), which, in turn, were divided into placae, or house and garden lots. In order to facilitate rent collecting, the blocks were numbered in military fashion from right to left, top to bottom. The streets, as far as possible, met at right angles. A marketplace was always planned, and included arcaded shops (comieres) and sometimes a market hall.
The establishment at Duravel is a revelation. It’s a restored 13th century mill. A total ruin when acquired fifteen years ago by a Dutchman, and patiently put back together. Not as a mill, but as a beautiful home and a complex of accommodation apartments. There’s a fair piece of land, possibly ten hectares. The main building (two storeys), two freestanding single-storey wings, so enclosing a courtyard on three sides; and then quite some distance off two more accommodation units. There’s a long swimming pool fed by a spring, totally unlike any Australian pool - long and narrow, and on one side a high stone wall, on the other side a low stone wall, the water overflowing into a sort of moat and running away. Parkland setting. A long drive of trees that could well have been planted by the present owner, fifteen years ago say. They’re about twenty feet high; but there are also some huge cedar trees which must have been here for perhaps a hundred-and-fifty years. And the whole thing right on the banks of the River Lot. We’re occupying two apartments on the first floor of the main building, huge rooms, with the two apartments connected by a long balcony, and all overlooking the river.
Modern kitchen and bathroom fittings, but the basic buildings both inside and out have been built out of stone and in such a way that they already look hundreds of years old. We gather that in summer, in the high season through to the end of August, the place is full of people and children and I suppose very noisy. There seems to be a spot where there’s provision for camping. But at the moment there’s the four of us, three elderly Dutch people in one of the side wings, and a young couple in the freestanding unit about a hundred metres away. And the owner and his wife - who seem to lead an idyllic existence, working all the time at some piece of renovation or other, but totally relaxed and enjoying their way of life.
Faye had seen pictures of the spectacular Boneguil Castle - so it was off to see the sights on the Sunday.
Certainly an imposing ruin, but having climbed up the long path we found that the gatekeeper had just closed up and gone off for lunch. We weren’t inclined to stay around for an hour-and-a-half – so a pleasant drive home for a relaxing afternoon. Anne had a swim; we sunbaked; and Faye and David went for a drive around the local neighbourhood.
To be continued........
Gary Andrews
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