Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Chinon Fortress, the Reluctant Bishop, and Another Wine Cave

Journal Excerpt, Monday, June 13, 2011, Hotel Mercure (continued), [After our tour of Fontevraud] [Mr. Pierre Romanet] drove me to Chinon. I was delighted to be able to get a look at that. Huge also. Not as big as Caen. High upon a promontory – great views of the city below. Steep ascent. White stone, wider stair, but original? Dogs had a tower but it seemed it was also used for baking. Drove the dogs nuts if so. Then [Pierre and I] had a bite to eat and went to a cave – a wine cellar where he gave me a tour. He knows a good bit about wine. Then we visited a town at the confluence of the Vienne and the Loire Rivers named Candes-St. Martin where there is an important Romanesque Church. It was built on the site of an earlier church, which had history with St. Martin, a reluctant bishop. I believe he was born there. In those days, it was called Canes, or something like that, which was renamed Candes-St. Martin in his honor. We toured that church, walking through the lovely town on the way to and from. Then we headed back. A day well spent.

Continued from the previous blog entry, "Abbey at Fontevraud, Eleanor's Final Resting Place".

The plaque that identifies the Chateau at Chinon as part of the Department of the Loire Valley, an historical landmark.

Chinon Chateau has some extraordinary history. This is the fortress where Joan of Arc was interviewed AND where the Knights Templar were held captive. I was continually astounded during this tour with Pierre! Here was a fortress so intact you could easily see it populated with soldiers and civilians and their servants. The walkways over the hillside connecting the towers were fun to hike across. I could look down from a tower to a lower level where other people were walking. And most of the existing structures were built by Henry II in the 12th century, which connects it all to Eleanor of Aquitaine. Of course!

Looking down at a lower level walkway from the top of Coudray Tower at the Chinon Chateau.

There is evidence that the rock promontory on which the chateau stands has been inhabitated since prehistoric times. The site is geographically strategic, not only because of its height atop a cliff face, but also because it sits on a major trade route near the intersection of the Loire and Vienne rivers. A Greco-Roman castrum, or fortified military camp, was constructed here around the 5th century. The first castle and fortress were built here in the 10th century by Theobald I, Count of Blois, but lost to Fulk III, Count of Anjou in 1037.

 The Chinon Chateau from a view looking east across the river. I think the equipment in the foreground might be for dredging the river.

From 1044 until the early 13th century, the castle belonged to the House of Anjou and came into the control of Henry Plantagenet. This is where Eleanor of Aquitaine comes into the story: Henry Plantagenet is also Henry II of England, Eleanor's second husband. There are so many connections back to Eleanor along the western edge of the Loire valley, which I confess I knew going in. I wanted to spend some time here.

A site drawing of the entire Chinon Chateau derived from original work by Agnès Dahan and used under the Copyleft Attitude Free Art License 1.3 (FAL 1.3).

Henry II's younger brother, who probably inherited Chinon Chateau at the death of their father Geoffrey, rebelled against Henry and took possession of Chinon. Henry besieged the fortress and took it back. He then installed a treasury and maintained an arsenal there. It was one of Henry's favorite residences, and it is where he died in 1189.

Tour de Chiens. [Photo by "No machine-readable author provided. LonganimE assumed (based on copyright claims)."] Usage rights granted by Creative Commons CC BY-SA 2.5, via Wikimedia Commons

I went through the Tour de Chiens or tower of the dogs, It was used as a bake house at street level and was not too dissimilar from the abbey kitchen except it had multiple levels. And for some reason, the lower level was where the dogs were housed, hence its name. It would have been torture for the dogs if it was a place where they roasted meat. The dogs probably did not care too much about the baking. Although it is possible that the tower was used for baking in a different century from when it was used to house dogs. There is a lot of history that has passed through this place!

The Tour du Coudray. [Photo by "No machine-readable author provided. LonganimE assumed (based on copyright claims)."] Usage rights granted by Creative Commons CC BY-SA 2.5, via Wikimedia Commons

The Tour du Coudray, built by Philip II in the early 13th century, was turned into a prison to house the Knights Templar in the early 14th century when they were accused of heretical practices by Philip IV. Historians believe the true reason for their imprisonment was that he thought they had accumulated too much land in France which meant they rivaled him in power in his own kingdom. (They had also previously rejected him as a Templar.)

 A view of the Tour de Boissay from the Tour de Courdray.

As soon as you enter the dungeon, An a/v presentation begins. One of the lieutenants of the templars at the time “narrates” his story and his experience as a captive. The real knight left graffiti on the walls, which you can still see. You can see several photos of the graffiti at the Templars web site.

Another resident of the Tour de Courdray was Joan of Arc in the 15th century.

The Tour de l'Horloge or clock tower straddles the entrance to the center portion of the chateau. Inside is a small museum dedicated to Joan of Arc. Joan came to visit the Dauphin, Charles VII of France who was living at Chinon in exile. According to travelfranceonline.com, when the audience was granted, the Dauphin hid in the crowd at the Great Hall and had one of his servants pretend to be him. Joan was not fooled and picked him out of the crowd. The Dauphin then sent Joan to Poitiers to be cross-examined for 3 weeks. Afterwards, he was convinced that she was telling the truth when she said she had a message from God, and sent her and her followers with supplies to join the rest of the French army. Joan helped rally the French troops and they eventually beat back the British and restored the French crown. Unfortunately, the English captured Joan and burned her at the stake at Rouen.

Me in front of the restored Royal Residence. Photo by Mr. Pierre Romanet.

As our last stop at the Chateau, we paused at the restored Royal Residence or Logis Royal, the apartments built by Henry II. In ruins for many centuries, they were restored around 2006. I did not go inside. I understand from reading that the two-story apartments were connected to the Great Hall, now mostly in ruins, by an outdoor gallery. There were four rooms on each floor. Some rooms still have Gothic fireplaces. I guess I'll have to catch that next trip!

A half-timbered building in Chinon housing a beautiful cafe at street level and probably apartments above.

Pierre suggested I walk around the town center, which looked like it hadn't changed since the 17th century. Many half-timbered houses faced the street. They were painted in bright red and green accents. Most of the structures had businesses on the street level, Their signs hanging over the cobblestones. What was unusual about Chinon was that it appeared to be placed on a grid, rather than having main avenues that came off a main square at acute angles to each other. I wondered if the town had been planned from the ground up--like some western towns in the U.S.--rather than being slowly built up over time starting with the crossing of cow paths like so many old towns.

A side chapel at the Church of St. Martin.

When I was satisfied with my survey of the town, Pierre asked if I wanted to see an important historical church dedicated to St. Martin of Tours, the Reluctant Bishop, and residing in the middle of an ancient town. He said there was a good place to stop for lunch there. I was hungry and Pierre seemed very happy to drive me all over the place (and I had paid for his guidance for the day) so I said, “Sure!” It was nice not to have to make all the decisions on my own.

Figurines carved into an archway in the nave of the Church of St. Martin.

Candes-St. Martin is a beautiful little town on the river. The cathedral is haunting. It has the requisite arches and ancient wooden benches and stone floors of so many other churches I had seen. But this church has a brightness to it and a very special history. It is dedicated to St. Martin who was a very important figure to the people of the Loire Valley. His shrine in France became a famous stopping-point for pilgrims on the road to Santiago de Compostela in Spain for many centuries. I wish I could tell you more about the church, but the afternoon became a blur. After absorbing the details of the Abbey at Fontevraud and the Chinon Fortress Chateau, I did not have any more attention for details. But I loved hanging out with Pierre who quietly led me to some of the most interesting and beautiful sights in that part of the Loire. I will, however, tell you a bit more about St. Martin, who I learned more about after I returned home.

St. Martin was born in the early 4th century in what is now Hungary, spent much of his childhood in Italy, and lived most of his adult life in France. He was an early European figure, having lived in so many regions, and was said to have helped bridge different early European cultures together. Born a Roman citizen, he converted to Christianity against the wishes of his parents. He was conscripted into the Roman army, but he found the duty incompatible with his Christian faith and became an early conscientious objector. One story tells of how he took his sword and cut his robe in half to give to a beggar.

Saint Martin and the Beggar by Unknown Master, Hungarian (active around 1490) (Web Gallery of Art:   Image) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

After he left the army and, refusing to take payment for his service, he went to Tours to become a disciple of Hilary of Poitiers. He then roamed Europe converting folk, including his own mother. The zeal with which he approached this conversion got him kicked out of the region, and he eventually returned to Tours and set up a Hermitage near St. Hilary's church. Benedictine Ligugé Abbey, the oldest monastery known in Europe, was soon established on the same spot.

In AD 371, St. Martin was pressed to become bishop of Tours, but he was hesitant, to say the least. Knowing his shyness and piety the parishioners got him to come to Tours by a ruse: he was sent for to minister to someone who was sick. Once there (as the stories say) he hid out in a barn surrounded by honking geese which gave away his hiding place. He eventually allowed himself to be consecrated as bishop. Martin quickly set to demolishing pagan temples and the large trees near them. According to this story, the pagans weren't upset about the destruction of the temples so much as the destruction of the trees. They said he could chop down the next tree so long as he stood in the path of its fall. So he did, and the tree missed him.

St. Martin established a large abbey at Tours, the Abbey of Marmoutier, where he could hide away from public life. St. Martin is known as a patron saint of beggars, wool-weavers and tailors, soldiers, geese, vintners and innkeepers, and the entire country of France. His life and sainthood are celebrated across Europe and the World. In Ireland they believe that Saint Patrick was Martin's nephew and was trained at his monastery. Many churches have been dedicated to St. Martin including St Martin-in-the-Fields in London..

Although his seat was in Tours, St. Martin was buried at Candes St Martin, but as his posthumous popularity grew and more pilgrims came to his grave, his predecessors moved his remains to a new basilica in Tours where more pilgrims could view his tomb, which was positioned behind the high altar.

Where the Vienne spills into the Loire at the little town of Candes-St. Martin.

Pierre and I grabbed lunch at a small cafe along the river whose name I cannot remember, then headed back to the van. I paused on the river bank and looked back up the valley where a second river converged with the Loire. Pierre informed me that it was the River Vienne. So much water, and so important to the lives and welfare of individuals and communities over the centuries! This thought reminded me of social studies and geography lessons from grammar school. Such a grand place, the meeting of two rivers. It meant the flow of currents and critters like fish as well as the flow of culture and ideas. The Loire Valley was rich in all of these things.

Walking with Pierre down the narrow alleys of Candes-St. Martin on our way back from lunch.

I thought perhaps Pierre would now bring me back to the hotel and that it would be the end of my tour. au contraire! After we got back to the van, he suggested we stop by a wine cave on the way to Saumur and do a wine tasting. He knew the owners. Again, I was pleased by the suggestion. He made a quick phone call, and we headed back up the valley. After about twenty minutes Pierre pulled over under a deep outcropping. We walked up to the entrance built into the rock, and Pierre introduced me to a woman who stood next to a desk. She was one of the owners. As I stepped inside, I saw that the walls of the cave were covered with racks of wine bottles. At the end of the cave were several wine barrels.

“Come,” Pierre said and handed me a brochure. He led me down a side tunnel that I hadn't seen. After a minute we came to a wider space where several casks of wine stood. Pierre then talked with me about the grapes that were used for the sparkling white and rose wine made by this little winery. He showed me several different rooms with different vintages of wine. We returned to the front room, and in the back was a bar and a man pouring tastes of wine. I sampled a flight of rosé wines and sparkling wines. They were all delicious. The trip to the cave made an excellent final stop on the day's tour. Again, I was overwhelmed with all the new sights that day, and I do not remember the name of this wine cave. I have misplaced that brochure. The cave was a small operation, and does not appear on the brochure for wineries in the region. Although I have tried to find it on the internets and failed utterly. Bummer.

Pierre drove me back to my hotel in Saumur and I spent a quiet evening sorting through my photographs from the day and posting them to Facebook.I rested well that night feeling that I had indeed made the best of my stay in Saumur. The next day, it was on to Angers. I was happy to be leaving!

References:
Wikipedia on Chinon Chateau
Travel France on Chinon
Medieval Combat Society on the Knights Templar (toward the bottom of the page)
Wikipedia on St. Martin

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Abbey at Fontevraud, Eleanor's Final Resting Place

Monday, June 13, 2011 

Journal Excerpt, Monday, June 13, 2011, Hotel Mercure, Saumur, France: Just back from my day tour of the Abbeye de Fontevraud with Pierre. However, it turned out to be much more – we went to the Abbey first and as he drove, Pierre talked about the area and the abbey. Then we spent a goodly amount of time there, two whole hours.

A view of the Abbey at Fontevraud from the gardens west of the complex.

I had been looking forward to my tour of the Fontevraud Abbey all weekend. I was up and ready for my 9am meet-up with Pierre, my tour guide and driver. I stood in the lobby in my long pants, hiking boots, long-sleeved sweater, and back pack, waiting. Soon a wiry man with silver hair and expressive eyes walked by me without a glance. He looked around the lobby, then walked back out the door. In a few minutes he came back in and hesitated. I walked up to him. “Are you Pierre?” I asked.

My tour guide for the Abbey at Fontevraud, Mr. Pierre Romanet, who then drove me to several other sights, including a wine cave for a wine tasting.

“Yes, Yes!” he said. “Are you Mrs. Wilkin?”

I was so relieved. I could get out of this hell hole of a hotel and spend a structured day with someone who spoke English! I wondered if Pierre didn't think I was his tourist because I didn't fit some image. Maybe I wasn't old enough or perhaps I was not dressed like the wealthy female solo tourist he assumed me to be. What does the fashionable middle-aged woman abroad wear? Is it not loose khakis that convert into shorts, a money belt hidden under two tops making you look 15 pounds heavier, and a back pack? No matter. We soon were on our way and talking about the Abbey and the surrounding area sites. During the drive, I told Pierre about my problems at the hotel. He shook his head sympathetically. "Some of these hotel staff are very young and inexperienced." I felt better. Finally, a personal connection with someone. Pierre was very neat and exact and professional. And he clearly enjoyed showing me around. It's like he took a personal interest in it. He was there for me.

Entrance to the abbey refectory.

One of the things that surprised me about Pierre was that he was focused on so much more than the Abbey. He knew of Eleanor of Aquitaine, of course, but had not heard of the Eleanor Vase, the artifact I went to the Louvre in Paris to see. I loved that I could tell him something he didn't know. But Pierre was very knowledgeable about everything else.

We drove to the Abbey first. The valley unfolded before us as we traveled south and east to Fontevraud and I began to relax and really enjoy being a proper tourist. Looking out the window as Pierre drove and pointed out interesting sites, I saw sandbars and the green of scrub growth across the river. The day was partly sunny, and this lent a bright intensity to the green banks and the sandbars, which left the river a dark smolder in contrast. On the other side of the road were squares of farm land with farmhouses scattered among them, and occasional villages.

The complex in front of the administration building. Pregnant black cat in center view.

When we arrived at Fontevraud-l'Abbaye, the confusing name for the town that grew up around the Fontevraud abbey, Pierre parked the van and we strolled up a narrow paved street toward impressive pale stone buildings. Fontevraud is incredible. It is the largest surviving monastic complex from the Middle Ages. Back in those days, it was one of the only double monasteries, housing both men and women in separate buildings. Even more unusual, it was ruled by an abbess. As we entered the main courtyard, Pierre pointed out the pregnant black cat, which was part of a larger club of cats that lived at the abbey. We entered the abbey courtyard. Our first stop would be the abbey church where Eleanor was entombed.

This quaint little cottage is actually an entryway to the abbey and part of the church building. Looks like it could have been the living quarters of a caretaker or, perhaps in earlier times, the home of the abbess or church reverend.

The abbey at Fontevraud was established in 1101 by Robert of Adrissel, the founder of a community of religious men and women that needed a new home. The abbey grew in prominence until it included four monasteries. Abbesses ruled over the monastery for 400 hundred years until Napoleon broke up the order. In the meantime, the abbey kept going if not actually thriving. It survived the Hundred Years War when the community lived in extreme poverty and, later, the War of Religion when one of the monasteries was destroyed.

View into the interior of the chapter house at Fontevraud Abbey.

Journal Excerpt, Monday, June 13, 2011, Hotel Mercure, Saumur, France (continued): The abbey was huge, white stone. Quiet, reflective, gardens of wistfulness – cold dormitories with glass-less windows. Contemplative. Lay as well as religious people. Huge kitchen. Silence except for in the chapter house. Where they could talk. Had meetings of the order and judged people. Perhaps where Colin [one of my novel's secondary characters] would be judged. Why the abbey, though? Penelope, the sidekick in my story, is supposed to be silent at the abbey, but she obviously can't be [because she has a horrible tic]– so maybe that's why she doesn't go to the abbey after all. Maybe Aihne is able to convince the duke not to send her?

A close-up of Eleanor of Aquitaine's effigy by ElanorGamgee (Fontevraud) [GFDL or CC BY 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The chapel houses the tomb of Eleanor of Aquitaine and her husband, Henry II. Their second son Richard the Lionheart lies near them as does the effigy of their youngest son John's wife, Isabelle. Very eerie. The carving of Eleanor on her tomb seems unlike her. Her hands hold a prayer book-- a very contemplative image for such a radical queen. However, Eleanor was a complex woman. She probably spent some time in prayer and reflection during the 12-plus years she was locked in a tower as her husband's prisoner. And just before she died at 80, Eleanor was living a contemplative life at the abbey. But that was at the end of a long and active life and was actually her second attempt to retire from public life. The first time she retired, she was 72 and ready to leave governance to Richard, but then Richard died. She then had to leave the abbey, get on a horse, and ride through the Pyrenees to negotiate alliances of marriage between her grandchildren and rulers of other European countries to ensure the stability of King John's rule. However, as Sue Morris points out in her blog about traveling with Sharon Kay Penman during her “In the Footsteps of Eleanor of Aquitaine” tour, Eleanor's effigy holds her book open rather than closed like so many devout-looking effigies do. This indicates to her that Eleanor was being honored for her understanding of the spiritual world as well as her wisdom regarding the material world. I accept that as an appropriate tribute to this wife of two kings and mother of two kings.

An empty hall at the abbey. The limestone is degrading. Repairs are constantly being made.

As we moved on through the complex I noted the emptiness and lack of furnishings in the huge rooms, Some structures were destroyed, yet others lived. The original living quarters of the nuns and the monks were still in tact, yet you could see where furniture and decoration had been completely removed, perhaps to accommodate the prison housed here beginning in Napoleon's reign and lasting until the 1960s. 

Some of the abbesses appear in Renaissance paintings depicting Christ's life. Notice the dark figure with a white whimple in the lower right.

The abbesses were well-respected, retaining a lot of power at Fontevraud. Some, such as Gabrielle de Rochechouart (the sister of Madame de Montespan who was the most famous of Louis XIV mistresses), were honored during the 16th and 17th centuries when painters included their likenesses in depictions of Christ's life. Later abbesses felt that they, too, should be part of the paintings, so they had themselves painted in much after the fact. 

Beheaded statuary everywhere at the abbey. Relic of the Wars of Religion.

By the middle of the 12th century, the Order of Fontevraud had fallen on hard times. At that point to help save the order, the nuns were allowed to keep their inheritance in contradiction with normal monastic practice. The devastation of the Hundred Years War, which ended in the mid-15th century, caused further economic problems.  In the second half of the 16th century, the abbey and its surrounding buildings were vandalized as a result of the Wars of Religion. Many statues were beheaded. Some of these still reside at the abbey looking eerily like the statuary at the Cluny Museum in Paris.

An artist's "walkway" under construction over the cloister at the Abbey at Fontrevraud.

One bizarre aspect of my visit to the abbey was that French artist Vincent Lamouroux was creating an "experience" in the cloister -- a walkway that looks like a roller coaster where people can traverse the gardens from above and look down on the pathway where monks and nuns walked in silence centuries ago. In a way, I was I glad that I missed the opening of this "attraction." It didn't seem appealing to me. See what you think: Here is a link to a short YouTube video from alternatif-art that walks you through the installation a year and a half after it was completed.

The kitchens, called The Tour Evraud, at the Fontevraud Abbey. The "pine cone" roof adds a distinct character to these 12th-century buildings, which were renovated in the early 20th century.

The Romanesque kitchens at the abbey are cool. They are the only preserved Romanesque kitchens in France. The huge octagonal building is known as Tour Evraud. Its shape and steep "pine cone" roofs are distinctively 12th century, although the building underwent heavy renovation in the 20th century. 

The ovens, probably added much after the original 12th-century kitchen building.

When you go inside you see that walls contain several ovens in a circle. There are holes in the roof to let the smoke from each oven travel out. The ovens are huge. I wondered how much bread they could bake here in a day. Lots, I figured. But in researching the subject a bit more, I found one source that says the ovens were not added until 1904! I am so disappointed.

The chimney above one of the abbey ovens.

There is controversy over whether the kitchens were EVER used to cook or bake. More likely they were a smoke house. My husband Dave suggested this is logical because being able to preserve food by smoking it would be more useful to more people over time than cooking fresh food that had to be eaten within a day or so. Smoking allowed for storage of meat for months. This idea also supports the notion that the building had no ovens--not until the 20th century, anyway. It is strange that a kitchen could be so controversial. And I was unable to find a second source to confirm that the ovens were, indeed, 20th-century additions.

The ovens in the kitchen have ornate capitals on their columns like they were entrances to a great building.

 The alcoves that held the ovens were guarded by columns with ornate capitals at the top as if these were entrances to great rooms in the abbey itself. I was continually impressed by the ornate nature of everyday objects from the middle ages, from door ironwork to the entranceway to ovens!

The small church or chapel at the abbey.

We visited the Eglise Saint Michel, a small church in the town near the abbey. It was built by Henry II and Eleanor about 1170 for the townspeople. I like the smaller churches best. This church was beautifully decorated with fresh lilies and wildflowers. Someone was tending it very closely. The stain glass windows were brilliant, and the altar gleamed with the gold altar piece and tabernacle.

We were at the end of the tour, and I thanked Pierre and sadly turned back toward his white van to return to the hell that was my hotel in Saumur. He said, "Would you like to see Chinon Chateau?"

"Why yes," I said, trying not to shout with glee. "I would!"

To Be Continued!

References:
Fontevraud Abbey:
Trip Advisor
Travel France
Travel Gumbo
Wikipedia

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Unable to Speak at Le Mans; Grumpy Gus; Kindness, Rudeness, then Irony in Saumur

Friday, June 10 through Sunday, June 12, 2011, Bayeux to Le Mans to Saumur, France

Re-reading my travel journals not only reminds me of what I learned about my novel protagonist and about time travel, but returns me to that foreign place where I tried to speak another language and was not understood, then stumbled my way through the streets. The discomfort wraps its arms around me once more.

It was tricky for me to balance the need to interact with strangers on a daily basis with constant travel and changes of venue. No one was there to compare stories with at the end of the day. I often went to bed completely drained, yet I did not always sleep well. I would toss and turn on unfamiliar mattresses, rehashing the days activities. I needed people, yet when I tried to express myself to folks who did not understand my language nor me theirs, it was exhausting—just to ask for the check, let alone to have a normal conversation. There was no easy banter, few real personal connections. I had to actively study facial expressions and body language to understand if people were neutral, happy, or upset.

View from my balcony upon arriving mid-evening at the Hotel Mecure Bords de Loire Saumur.

The result of all this was that by the time I left Bayeux,  I was becoming a Grumpy Gus. But I was only halfway through my journey. There would be more challenges ahead. I had to protect myself. I had to create a more robust barrier between myself and others. But even as I hid behind emotional armor, I was able to learn from my interaction with one person and act on that knowledge with the next, sometimes later that same day. At times I could even drop the armor when I met people who took extra care to try to make me feel comfortable. And help me forget the jerks.

To help reinforce my armor for when I did need it, I had a regular routine in every town: I ate a lot, slept in, walked miles through and around old city centers, and talked with family and friends back home through the magic of the internet, . Friends' comments on pictures I posted on social media were priceless. Facebook allowed me to have conversations with my peeps thousands of miles away. And, of course, my phone chats with husband Dave were essential to my sanity. An occasional Australian met on the road was a real treat as well. Those I met were full of good, wry humor. I began to see the humor myself in this crazy "stranger in a strange land" situation I was in. But I also began to see the irony in it.

In the United States when I meet someone who does not speak English, I assume without thinking that she is uneducated and not on "my level." I am not proud of this. I mean, I like people! But I am, like most folks, lazy. It is too much effort and time to pay close attention to get the details about a new person we meet in passing. Our brains have been evolved to make quick judgements on matters that are not immediately critical. We decide whether this person is a threat or not, and if not, move on. The quick dismissal also protects us by moving on before a stranger can get too close.

In Europe. I was the ignorant "less than" person, the potential yet rejected threat. I got the message, whether it was sent intentionally or not.

My journey from Bayeux to Saumur was stressful for all the reasons I've mentioned. I first backtracked to Le Mans by train before I could make a connection to Saumur. It was a long day. I met several kind people, two rude people, and a person who helped me but wouldn't look me in the eye.

View from my balcony as darkness descends at Saumur, France.

Journal Excerpt, Saturday, June 11, 2011, Hotel Mecure Bords de Loire Saumur, France: In Saumur. Had great difficulty pronouncing the name of this city. It is something like "Sah-uh-muhr—but get your lips out and linger on the "uhs." I usually say "Sam-UR." The man at the train station in Le Mans could not understand me at all. A gentlemen in line understood, but he did not look at me, just at the SCNF train guy. "Sahuh-muhr," he told him. I felt like I was almost beneath his notice. But because I butchered the language, he had to do something.

I thought I would never make it to Saumur. It turned out not to be a train I connected to at Le Mans, but an "autobus." I could have taken a train to Angers and then another to Saumur, but as the SCNF man said, the bus left sooner and I could just relax for the nearly two-hour ride. So, I took the bus. It seemed obvious and it worked out well, too. I had planned to walk to the hotel, but when the bus pulled up at the end of the line and I got off, I was so tired and felt so alienated from lack of communication, I asked the bus driver, a huge truck driver of a man with animated features, "Je voudrais un taxi. Oo?" He motioned that one must call, but after a few phrases in heavy French in his booming bass voice, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Oo?" he asked me. "L'otel Mecure," I said. I heard him repeat this into the phone. He chatted for a moment and I heard him say, "Anglais." Yep. That's me. Then he patted me on the head—on top of my white sun hat—and said. "En la chapeau blanc." Okay, he was making fun of me a bit, but what a funny scene. I could never interact with the natives this way if I'd been traveling with someone else. He was awfully kind to me. I got my taxi and another 5.03 euros later I was at my hotel.

(Editor's note: It was only after I re-read my journal, that I realized the bus driver had mistaken me for an English woman. I'll take it!)

Earlier that morning, when I caught the train from Caen to Le Mans, I underwent trial by fire as I attempted to speak French. Now I realize that experience helped me have a pleasant interaction with the bus driver in the afternoon. When I got on the train I headed for an empty seat next to a young woman sitting at the window. I asked if I could sit next to her, and we took several moments to come to a conclusion that I could sit there. She asked me where I was getting off the train and I was so tired, I couldn't process her repeated, "Oo? Oo?" Finally she listed the names of the stops and I heard "Luh Mahng."

Train at the Le Mans train station January 2011. Photo by jean-louis Zimmermann through Creative Commons 2.0 License CC BY 2.0

"Oui! Le Man," I said. She sighed and slumped back in her seat. She pulled out a tablet of paper, pens, a ruler, and an exercise book and began rapidly writing in earnest, slouched over on my side so that I had to shift toward the aisle to keep her off of me.

Somewhere in my brain I knew she had meant, "Where?" as in "Where are you getting off?" but I could not process it. I was too intimidated by her bossy manner. She gave up completely on my ability to speak sensibly in French. This exchange was so exhausting for her that, when she needed to get off the train (in only three or four stops) all she manage to do was poke me in the arm and gesture for me to move. If she wasn't going to be on the train for long, why did she care where I got off? How did this information affect her life in any way? If she was getting off well after me, than nothing had to change because I would be the first one to get off. Because she was getting off before me, this information should have impelled her to change seats with me so that she wouldn't disturb me when she got off the train. But she changed nothing after gaining her hard-won information. She remained at the window so that I had to get up to let her off. My only conclusion was that she was not a nice person. Which is unfortunate. Later I realized that she was very young, and I let it go. Mostly. But not before awarding her the nick-name, "Rude Girl."

Journal Excerpt, Saturday, June 11, 2011, Hotel Mecure Bords de Loire Saumur, (continued): On the train to Le Mans, I introduced myself to the English-speaking gentleman who took a seat after Rude Girl got off. He was from Nairobi, lived in Atlanta, Georgia and had been in the states for 16 years. He was touring Europe for the first time, visiting relatives and friends who lived in France and Germany. Anthony. He pronounced it, "Ant-ehlt-oni," which is prettier than how I was saying it.

When we were nearing my stop, I got up with my pack and moved to the doorway. I met a gentleman standing by the door named Paul who is from New Mexico and who had been living in France for one year. He now hails from Angers—maybe I'll run into him while I'm there. He lived in Denver for a while and knew Boulder and Longmont. He looked very native American. He teaches indigenous culture courses. I don't know if he is associated with a school or not. Who woulda thunk?

Truly makes up for Rude Girl. It even makes up for the difficult communication I had with the Hotel Mecure night clerk twice—both on the phone before I arrived and in person when I walked into lobby after traveling over 5 1/2 hours (real glad I took the taxi at the end). I just had enough energy to give my name, hand over the hotel voucher from the travel agency, get the key, wonder for a minute at the French the woman rattled at me, give up understanding it because I couldn't get her attention again (she kept avoiding my eyes), and head to the elevator. I still don't know why she pointed at the number on the back of the card the key hangs on. It couldn't be my room number because that was on the front...

(Editor's Note: I determined afterward that the number on the back of the card was was the code for the front door, which was locked after hours. Good thing I never needed it.)

You can see the shadow of me taking this photo off my balcony as the sun was setting and after I finally got to my Saumur hotel.

It was true. When I got to my hotel in Saumur, my challenges were not over. It was 8:00pm by the time I was settled into my room, and I was starving. I had not eaten since a tiny lunch in Le Mans. So I went downstairs to order room service instead of attempting to communicate over the phone. I got the young woman's attention at the front desk and pointed to items on the menu to put in my order. The woman just shook her head and muttered something I didn't understand. I tried to clarify. I was proud that I was able to piece together the phrase in French, "Is it too late?" But she shook her head. "Por qua?" I asked. She did not answer. I lost my cool a bit, flung out my arms, and marched back to my room. Too tired to go out, I went to bed hungry. Before I pulled the curtain, I could see the glowing moon hanging above the chateau across the river. The sky was midnight blue and the water shimmered with waves of moonlight. It was almost enough to make me forget the nasty concierge.

(Editor's Note: More of this story can be found in the blog entry, "My Dinners with Julia.")

A view from the top of the hill overlooking the bridge and river, Saumur France.

The main reason I came to Saumur, was not its awesome position on a hill above the river on the western edge of the Loire River Valley, but to experience a traditional European market. It also put me close to the Abbey at Fontevraud, a must see for me because it was the place where Eleanor of Aquitaine lived her final days and where she was buried.

The Saturday Market at Place St Pierre, Saumur, France

Saturday was the day of the week when the biggest, most traditional market opened in Saumur. To make sure I landed there on Saturday, my travel agent manipulated my schedule. Even though Le Mans, the Plantagenet City, was on my way to Saumur from Bayeux, she had me by-pass it. I would have to come back to it later. And I had to stay in Saumur a day or two longer than needed to make it all work. Of course, I can imagine a much worse fate than having to spend leisure days in the Loire Valley. I made the most of it, exploring wine caves and vineyards, and walking the city from top to bottom.

Enjoying the flowers at the Saturday Market Saumur, France.

Saturday morning I slept in, exhausted after my long travels and communication difficulties. I ate a good breakfast and caught up on my journaling. By late morning, I was headed to the center of town. The old city was half a mile southwest and across the river from my hotel. I was looking forward to exploring the chateau, its vineyards, and other surrounds later that day. But first, I would take in as much of the market as I could.

A young father with a toddler on his back contemplates the cheese selection.

It was a gorgeous June day. I walked across the grand bridge and noodled around until I found Place St Pierre where they were setting up tables. I was early for the market, so I hiked up toward the chateau and got a lovely view of the river valley from the old town. When I came back, the market was in full flush. Tables covered in cheeses and grains and dried beans and herbs extended up the cobble streets. Across from that stood huge bundles of flowers: lilies, yarrow, campenella, and delphiniums. I stood aside and absorbed it all. A young man with a toddler in a carrier on his back approached a table and stared at the rounds of cheese, eventually picking out several varieties. I guessed they would be heading to the ice cream cart across the way soon.

The multitude of sacks of every kind of grain and dried herb or spice at the Saturday Market, Saumur, France.

Red, orange-and-white, and green canopies protected fresh vegetables from the sun: carrots, garlic and turnip bulbs, tomatoes, cucumbers, broccoli, cabbages, artichokes, radishes, onions, leeks, peppers, and fresh parsley. There were also melons and rhubarb. It was a bit early in the season for most other fruit. This market was similar to the farmer's markets in Boulder County. What was different was the incredible variety of cheeses, some unwrapped and inviting you to just taste, and row upon row of sacks opened to reveal the vivid colors and textures of their contents: cumin, sage, basil, tandoori, anise, green and black peppercorns, parsley, cinnamon sticks, and so much more. Another table displayed many styles of olives.

The Irish pub where I spent a couple of pleasant meals with a sandwich and a Guinness in Saumur, France.

After visiting the marketplace, I stopped at the Guinness pub at the bottom of the hill and ordered a sandwich and a Guinness, then sat looking out at the Loire. I could have been in Dresden Germany sitting next to the Elbe again. But this valley was flatter and more open. No towering cliffs and ancient fortresses atop them. From reading I knew that there were such edifices further east. I would not be seeing much of that, I thought. But I would be wrong.

The theater and rehearsal for what tonight will be a "luminary" or theatrical drama with lights and horses.

Journal Excerpt, Later that night, Saturday, June 11, 2011, Saumur, France: Saumur is known for the military equestrian academy. Jury is out on it IMHO. Looks like a bunch of horse tricks to me. Do the horses enjoy that?

After eating, I wandered up to the chateau and did the tour. The original castle was built in the 10th century to defend against the Normans, destroyed in the 11th by the Normans, then transferred in the 12th to the House of Plantagenet and rebuilt by Henry Plantagenet (Henry II of England, Eleanor of Aquitaine's husband). The vineyard was lovely and the views of the valley were lush from the summit. As I stood on the ramparts I saw a collection of men on horses with colorful caraprices moving in formations in a field below. I got closer and saw that they had set up bleachers around the grounds. Apparently it was a rehearsal for a "luminary" or theatrical drama with lights, which, in this case, also included horses. Turns out, Saumur has a long equestrian tradition and is the home to a famous military equestrian academy.

After watching the maneuvers for a while, I went back to my hotel for a nap to reclaim some energy before heading out for dinner.

The chateau at Saumur and its surrounding vineyards.

Journal Excerpt, Sunday, June 12, 2011 Saumur France: I feel I'm in that restaurant I was at in Chicago, part of a chain called Ed Debevic's. Their motto is, “Eat and Get Out!” Except it is the entire country of France. I am not to ask for anything. I am to follow a set of rules that are not expressly set out. The woman who is the night clerk at my hotel seems unwilling to make allowances for the fact that I need a little extra help. And the woman in the hotel bar at breakfast who “yelled” at me—I do not know how else to describe it—as I was finishing my breakfast after a couple of trips to the bar...?  It was closing time for the buffet, but I was not asking for more food, so all I could imagine was that she thought I was going to want more food because I did not know they were about to close? Or I took too much food? I am starting to not care so much after a better night's sleep and a good tasse de cafe or tasse aux cafe? I don't know.

An empty street in the rain, Saumur France.

It's funny. I see the humor in it now although no one else here seems to. Got to find some Australians to laugh with. I sat down at this cafe along the river. I needed to get out of a steady and breezy sprinkle. But apparently I sat at the wrong table. A woman yells at me. I don't understand exactly what she says except “cafe.” I say, “oui, un cafe, sils vous plais.” She gestures generally to the other side of the cafe and says something else I can't understand. She yells at me again. Oops. So, I head to the undressed tables at the side, realizing now that the dressed tables are set for the afternoon bar/brasserie traffic and I am just odering a coffee. I feel I should have gone to the Celtic pub straightaway—they were serving cafe there. I didn't even see this woman—she was sitting outside at the entrance to the bar eating her breakfast or lunch. I don't understand the rules here. I will try to be more polite and ask before I sit down in general. At a cafe, when I just want coffee, I mean.

The irony here is that, although few people speak English and some people treat me as subhuman because I don't speak French, I hear American music everywhere. At breakfast this morning it was Scott Joplin, Gershwin, Bernstein. As I was walking through the city center, I heard Cyndi Lauper belting out “Girls just want to to have fun!” Mixed message?

Saumur Dolmen Bagneux 2007 by Manfred Heyde (Own work) [GFDL or CC BY-SA 3.0], via Wikimedia Commons

My strolls were lonely in Saumur. On Sunday, I was literally by myself on the streets, probably because of the constant drizzle. But I was not walking on a tourist track, either. After resting out of the rain at the cafe table for a while, I traveled around the city. I had time to kill. I discovered some hidden treasures, including the Dolmen de Bagneux. I had to walk a half mile or more out of town to the suburb of Bagneux to see it, but it was worth it. This stone is the only evidence left of the first settlement on the site of modern Saumur and is about 5,000 years old. It is considered a "megalith," which is defined in Merriam Websters as a very large usually rough stone used in prehistoric cultures as a monument or building block. Structures built of such stones use no mortar or concrete. The Dolmen de Bagneux is the second largest dolmen uncovered. No one knows for sure who built these dolmens throughout Britain and Europe, but they are likely remnants of burial chambers. Some of them might have been originally covered in earth and small pebbles.

Underground at the Louis de Greneville Cave (winery).

I also visited the Louis de Greneville Cave (winery) where they make great sparkling wine. The caves are underground tufa (limestone). Some of the bottles here are over 100 years old. Saumur is part of the Loire Valley wine country, and they are very proud of their wine. I entered the store front at Louis de Greneville and was greeted by a young woman who spoke English. She understood my situation and put me at the end of a tour that was just starting, telling me that, although the tour group was French, the tour guide would be happy to answer any questions in English when the formal tour was finished. She was and she did. I tasted several sparkling white wines and rose wines, and I loved them all. I enquired, and found that it was difficult to get these wines in the USA. This seems to be true of most small, local wineries in western Europe. So, I focused I enjoying them in place.

When I got back to my hotel, I crashed for a while, then grabbed a brief dinner. But soon I was back at my hotel and in bed. I wanted to be fresh for my tour of the Abbey at Fontevraud the next day with my guide, Pierre.

My experience in Saumur wasn't over, but the worst of my stress in that city was. I would encounter other difficulties in other cities before I made it back home, but my days were also peppered with pleasant and fun experiences, including meeting kind people like my bus driver. And I was touring incredibly beautiful countryside full of a rich and interesting heritage. I was still a grump at times, but I usually met challenges head on and gained much from the experience.

My feelings of alienation in this and in other cities throughout my journey has convinced me to work to change my automatic thinking about "foreigners" and non-English speakers in my own country, and to be more charitable toward them. I feel I gained only an inkling of what it might be like to be an immigrant. I hope that now, if I meet a traveler from another country or a U.S. Citizen who doesn't speak much English, I will remember my lessons from Europe and meet her with kindness instead of judgement. Even if I have to fight my usual impatience and rash conclusions.

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Reflections on Time Travel, Traveler Angst, and What One's Protagonist Might Do

Friday, June 10, 2011, Bayeux, France

Working from the journal I kept while traveling alone In Europe has reminded me how the journey shaped my writing and my views of my novel protagonist. I went to Europe to gather insight into what it might be like for my protagonist, Aihne Fontaine, to go to a foreign country and to travel 800 years into the past. Although I couldn't literally travel back in time, I would be walking through some very old parts of Europe, which I hoped would transform me back, even just in my head. And I was right: I found I shared not only Aihne's perspective as a traveler in a foreign land, but I felt I knew what it might be like to be a time traveler like her--sometimes while sitting in front of a 5000-year-old dolmen or standing inside a centuries-old church. Aihne is a Harvard student, time traveler, and lover of everything 12th-century France, Aihne is independent, intelligent and a serious academic. Like Aihne, I viewed my travel experience as academic at root (although, as you may know from previous blog entries, I strayed off my research path to see the wonders around me).

What surprised me during my own travel experience was the wide gap between the person I identified as me in the mirror and the person the culture I was visiting reflected back at me as I meandered into their train stations, hotels, or cafes. I knew at once Aihne must feel the same after landing in the indifferent city of Poitiers, France in 1136. But I must take my communication muddles and multiply them by ten to get close to how hard it must be to go back in time almost a millennium. Aihne and I both sought to be understood and to understand. I took the opportunity when I could to connect with Aihne and her experience, even in the middle of my own social discomfort. I tried to catch her perspective by walking cobbled streets or sitting on a bench in a cathedral. Then back in my tiny hotel room, I would write furiously in my notebook to reach further into her head and get it all down. At times the connection wasn't strong. Sometimes it was interrupted by my own angst, but eventually I got through.

Journal Excerpt, Friday morning, June 10, 2011, Breakfast Room, Hotel Churchill, Bayeux, France:
Not awake. Australian show off! He could answer our matron de in French and she was pleased. Oh, wait. He is not the Australian. He is the Brit from the first night who encouraged me to find the WiFi connection, and I eventually did. This coffee is old. Perhaps la matron de can bring me a fresh pot.... Yes. I asked. I hate to be a problem, but the coffee was so good yesterday. Ellen, this is not a 4-star restaurant, you know. But the coffee was bad and I know they make good coffee... Dave wouldn't have done it, but Dave isn't here! :) Okay. Got coffee. Thanked the woman for it. Now I have some time to write, so...

Aihne walking through the medieval hall—

The interior of the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Bayeux. More beautiful than the exterior to my cursory view from my last night there.

I got a chill. I wanted to run out of the Bayeux cathedral last night. I had seen so many stone walls. I felt I didn't belong here. Unlike the Mont Saint-Michel, which invites the tourist trade, this cathedral is still very private. No entry fee, but votive candles everywhere. I did not feel comfortable making an offering there—mine would not be a religious one, but spiritual, as in celebrating the seeking and finding. Outside, the church is so old and grim. The city is preserving it as an historical site. I wondered why.  Then I walked inside. The windows were gorgeous. Such starkness and beauty all in one place. Perpetual sorrows—

The grim, weathered outside of Bayeux Cathedral.

Churches wouldn't be Aihne's primary research, but she is quite interested in abbeys, particularly the Abbey at Fontevraud. So the images: the gloom, the high transepts and the hollow echoes that become glorious chant from the choir at other times. It all goes to the same thing: the cloistered life, religious or not. Living away from the large community in a smaller one where contemplation is not only encouraged but one of the few activities open to a woman of high birth who had been retired by society. But I get ahead of myself. That is the next chapter of my journey. At Saumur, I will see the Abbey de Fontevraud.

Paintings on a wall of the gallery at the Bayeux Cathedral.

Time traveling. I can understand how disjoint it must be. You don't speak the language exactly, at least in Aihne's case. She has studied linguistic remnants of the language and knows how it probably sounded based on modern romance and Germanic languages. She will refine it as she goes. Get by on her wits. I understand not knowing if your message is getting through. Are you going to get what you asked for—what you thought you asked for? Or something entirely different? Of course, unlike Aihne, I'm a tourist. There is a courtesy extended to strangers who come to visit a country. We are (mostly) forgiven our ignorance. Time travelers walk among the people incognito. I am looking at present-day ruins of medieval sites instead of living in them as new structures along with medieval contemporaries like Aihne is. And Aihne is going back to a time and place in which strangers posed much more likely threats than in western civilization today.

By Anonymous - "Eve spinning", folio 8r, detail from the Hunterian Psalter, Glasgow University Library MS Hunter 229 (U.3.2)  Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons.

Aihne must be thinking, "Will people regard me as other and run me out of town? Will they trust me or suspect me? So what if they suspect me? Will they act on the suspicion?" That would be problematic. You'd have to smooth things over, faking it. That would be the only way to do it. Constantly smiling when you are talking. Pretending to be helpless or very much like it. (In some ways Aihne and I are both helpless.) Play up the helplessness in some cases. In others, be tougher, stronger, even magical. With men, I suppose, always demur, but calculate carefully so that you do not play it too far. With women, show yourself to be more inept than they, but a hard worker and eager to learn. Puts them on a higher footing than you and they will trust more. Act in trust—prove your trustfulness by doing what you said or indicated you would.

So ends the journal entry from that Friday morning before I set off on my 5 1/2-hour journey from Bayeux to Saumur and encountered adventures that pushed me further into the unknown realms of space and time travel.

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Mont Saint-Michel, Tidal Flats, Monk Footprints, and Gloomy Crypts

Journal Excerpt: Thursday, June 9, 2011, Hotel Churchill:
Off to Saint Mont Michel this morning. Eating breakfast in the dining room of Churchill hotel. The maître d' was kind enough to ask if I wanted more coffee, so I said yes. And I decided to do a little writing while I wait. Talked with Dad last night. He was very pleased I called, but he sounded only OK. Still no appetite and still only sleeping OK.

Thursday morning I managed to get myself up, showered, and down to breakfast well before the appointed time to leave for Mont Saint-Michel. I had enough time for eggs and toast and fruit, and drank two cups of coffee. I was energized for the long trip in the shuttle.

Morris giving our little tour group our instructions before we explored Mont Saint-Michel.

There were several people taking the shuttle with me. They all spoke English, but talked among themselves. I sat up front with the driver, a French-Canadian expat named Morris. He was friendly and I felt very well-taken care of on the hour and a half journey. During the drive, Morris told us some of the history and trivia behind the monastery and the little town that surrounds it on its tiny mound of land, population 50. The island has been considered holy since the Celts believed the souls of the dead resided there. A Roman-Gaul culture established a church there by the 6th century.  The abbey was established on the site of the older church around 966. The town surrounding the abbey was burned and the townspeople massacred by two Breton dukes who were allied with the French king during the hundred years war. The king was so appalled that he paid for the abbey's restoration and that of some of the surrounding buildings. The site then survived the French Revolution, the indignity of being made into a prison, and the ravages of WWII.

Steep stairs near the monks dormitory level where the original chapel was. This way up to the abbey!

Journal Excerpt: Later that same day, Hotel Churchill:
Back from Mont St.Michel—Remote. Cold wind whipping narrow streets. Hard stone crumbling in places. The smell of stale wine in the abbey chancel (near altar) the smell of another tourist's spearmint gum. Both narrow stairs and broad stairs. Arches upon arches. Naked stone and mortar where there used to be more décor back in the day of the Romanesque period—the early Normans before the Benedictines took over. Stark light and shadows on the landscape. The flats are patched in odd shapes of shadow from overhead clouds. They pattern the meadows along one river as well as the tides and sand flats.

The one street on the island of Mont Saint-Michel going up.

Everything is up. The walls go up and the rails and towers are up. You crane your neck up. Shadows fall there. The sun careens through the greenery and ironwork of an inner garden courtyard. Grids with interlocking patterns over windows. The glass is still in the windows after all these centuries. Lots of empty space underground and even on top, but the ascent is narrow and windy/winding with shops crammed in on either side and restaurants and hotels. Claustrophobia might descend if I had to linger. Then yet, at the top, open space -- a terrace. A great room with vaulted ceilings, underground crypts – what are they? Didn't understand all the lingo used by the audio guide.

Looking down about midway up the Mont at maintenance going on at the base of the island. The workers drove their vehicles into the sand flats. Hope the tide is not coming in!

Everything was indeed, “up.” Morris left us at the entrance to the “town” of Mon Saint Michel: a cluster of houses, which hug the causeway that is the only link between Mon Saint-Michel and the mainland, and an old wooden gate that opens onto a steep cobbled street with more houses and businesses nestled along it. This is the only street in the town. It's really more of an allley. We had 2 ½ hours to explore, but we needed to be back at the shuttle van at 12:45pm.

Some of the 50-odd residents of the island live in houses clustered at the foot of Mont Saint-Michel.

I started up, camera at the ready. Was I in a town or within the walls of an ancient fortress? The shops and the pointed slate roofs and red chimneys signified town, but the walls and the ancient stone edifices argued for fortress. I had thought the whole of the island was the abbey, but so many other things went on here. What did all of those 50 people get up to? I climbed passed the shops and the more touristy area at the base of the fortress. As the street curved around, I glimpsed green foam and sand. The sea was right there. Another switch back and I was engulfed in the deep shadow of a wall a hundred-feet high.

This was a bustling area at the base of the Mont. Turns out: restrooms. And a gift shop. And originally where priests greeted pilgrims.

The narrow street opened into a plaza. One wall to my right shot straight up. A ridge ran down it's length at an acute angle. I found out later that this was part of the mechanism used to haul supplies up to the prisoners above when the abbey was used as a prison in the 19th century. I'll get back to this later.

The "elevator" that officials used to haul up supplies for prisoners during the 18th century. A large wheel in the room at the top was used to pull the items up by a pulley system .

I hiked to the abbey entrance. I was high up. What incredible views these monks and nuns have! Can you imagine living and working on such a small piece of land and being stranded there when the tide came in? Editor's note: A bridge linking Mont Saint-Michel to the mainland was built in 2014. Now, even at high tide, there is a way off the island by car or foot. However, in 2015 the bridge was completely submerged by sea levels higher than any experience over the least 18 years.

Holy crow! We are up in the air!

Finally I entered the abbey itself. I was in a beautiful chapel. Turns out this was the Gothic Choir or crypt beside the main abbey church nave. It is one of three crypts added when the 9th-century church was rebuilt in the 12th century. The resident monks and nuns often worship here. It is more colorful and more human-sized than the church nave.

The Gothic Choir east of the main abbey church's nave.

I really didn't know where I was and where I was going. The audio guide used terms I was unfamiliar with. I never got lost, but it usually took me until I was done exploring a space, or after I could compare/contrast it with another space, that I realized what it was. I have since learned that a crypt is a chapel built underground beneath a church. The other definition, which I was more familiar with, is "burial place."

Next I managed to stumble upon the cloister outside the monks' quarters. This covered walkway, with a wall on one side and open pillars on the other, was where the monks would walk to get from building to building. In 1966, a beautiful medieval garden was rebuilt in the center of the cloister by brother Bruno de Senneville. Boxwood shrubs form a square in the center with rose bushes placed outside at intervals. Another hedge lines the edge of the green, separating the garden from the cloister walkway. 

The cloister near the monks' quarters with the garden at center.

I continued on this level and stumbled upon the monks' dining hall. As I stood in the corner of the room I could imagine the scrape of the tables and benches against the floor as the monks sat down and pulled their bowls of gruel or stew towards them. It was a starkly beautiful room with the brick-colored tile and the worn but polished wooden tables. There was a large group of tourists in the center of the room, so I focused my camera at a close angle to capture the bench and tables against the tile floor.

The beauty of worn wood, reddish tiles and stone walls in the monks' dining hall.

I strolled, marveling at the beautiful tiled floors over which I imagined dozens of monkish robes had trailed and rugged sandals had passed.

The flooring was exquisite in places.

Sometimes the exit from one room would be awkwardly juxtapositioned with the entrance to the next room, and at nowhere near the same level. A talented carpenter fashioned steps out of wood that solved the problem nicely.

Good thing there were carpenters about to connect the rooms that weren't quite at the same level.

I spied some old windows looking out over the flats. The glass clear as if new-made. A brace of metalwork holding it in place. There was another smaller island out there. This is Tombelaine, which lies a few kilometers north of Mont Saint-Michel. Breathtaking and otherworldly.

Another, smaller island, Tombelaine, spied through old glass near the main hall.

I wandered more, out through doors and into little gardens, then in through doors and over once-beautiful mosaic floors.

An ancient mosaic on the floor of an entranceway, worn from the treading of thousands upon thousands of feet.

Following another group of tourists, I came upon the top of the elevator used to haul supplies when the abbey was used as a prison. A wheel was anchored at the top of the slope. It was big enough for a couple of men to walk inside it and provide the force to pull the goods up the ramp (pictured earlier).

The wheel used to haul goods to the top of the Mont when there was a prison there.

As I continued to meander and try to find the sites identified in the audio guide, I spied steep stone stairs and people headed up. I realized there was a whole bunch of abbey below my feet. So I descended to what appeared to be the basement level. This level is where the first Christian church was built on the site of even older Roman-Gallic buildings.

The stair where everyone was headed up from a basement I had not explored yet.

Called the Notre-Dame Sous-Terre or "Our Mother Underground," this first church was “lost” centuries after the foundations for newer abbey structures were built over it. It was converted to a dormitory for monks beginning around 1060. The chamber was rediscovered in the late 19th century, but not unearthed until 1959. I climbed down into it. It was cold and clammy, but there were small windows high up in the walls that prevented it from feeling like a tomb. There were tiles on the floor here and there, and walls that turned in odd direction suddenly. You could see the layers of new laid on old.

The Carolingian style architecture of the original church underneath the current abbey. This served as the monks quarters once the new abbey was built.

In researching the background of the abbey for this blog post, I got confused. According to my sources on Wikipedia, the basic architecture of the original church is called Carolingian in honor of the early Franks who ruled the area before the 9th century. This style is influenced by Roman architecture, but pre-dates Romanesque. The columns I saw holding up the crypt look like the Romanesque architecture I had seen in Paris and other cities in France. And some of the photos of the original church on various web pages look different from my photos. I began to wonder if I had ever truly made it down to "Our Mother Underground." But what I just realized is that the outer walls of the crypt are part of the original "Mother" church foundations. The stone is irregular and the masonry rough. The columns are smoother and more elegant. They were probably added later to support the newer abbey-church foundation. Phew! Now it makes sense!

It was time to head down. I had only 15 minutes to make it back to the shuttle, which Morris said would be waiting on the causeway near to where he had parked earlier that morning. But down was faster than up. I felt a reluctance to descend quickly through the levels. I lingered over the stone walls and towers, and the surprise gardens and flowering shrubs that clung to life in the tiniest corners of the abbey fortress.

Starting my descent from the top of Mont Saint-Michel back to the parking lot where Morris would be waiting with the shuttle van.

Before I hiked all the way back to the causeway where on the shuttle waited, I took one last look at the Mont at a distance from the "land side." One more chance to understand the outer structure of the abbey and everything that holds it up.

The "land side" of the island and abbey. A strong foundation of native rock and human engineering.

The drive back was uneventful. Morris chatted about a crêperie in Bayeux that he liked. I wrote down the name, and promised to check it out. After returning to the Hotel Churchill and taking a nap, I stopped by the restaurant for dinner. It was housed in an 18th-century building with a small dining room up front, a bar in the back, and a loft with seating that overlooked the cobbled street below. Dinner was delicious. I had a savory crepe, followed by a sweet crepe for dessert. I loved what the French could do with dough! I was the only customer in the restaurant, but the family that owned the place seemed happy I was there. I tended to eat earlier than most French people. The owners spoke little English, but I had no trouble communicating what I wanted, nor completing the transaction.

A statue of the Virgin Mary in a garden on my way to see the Bayeux Cathedral.

I returned to Hotel Churchill by way of the Bayeux Cathedral, La Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Bayeux ("Cathedral of Our Lady of Bayeux"), built on the site of Roman buildings. It was a lovely setting and I enjoyed walking through the old streets.

The interior of the Bayeux Cathedral.

Even though I was tired and had seen a lot of church already, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see this beautiful and historic Romanesque and Gothic church. It was here that Duke William of Normandy made Harold Godwinson of England take an oath, the breaking of which led to the Norman Conquest. (See previous blog about my experience viewing the Bayeux tapestry.)

Harold touching two altars as he swore an oath to Duke William of Normandy in what appears to be Bayeux Cathedral. From the Bayeux Tapestry. By Myrabella - Own work, Public Domain. Wikimedia commons.

The Bayeux cathedral was originally built by Odo, Duke William's brother, in the 11th century. The Bayeux Tapestry adorned the interior when the cathedral was consecrated in 1077. The cathedral had to be rebuilt in the Gothic style in the 12th century after a fire severely damaged it. The interior was certainly beautiful, but I moved swiftly through it to get to the tombs.

The crypt below the Bayeux Cathedral.

I was interested in the crypt underneath the cathedral which was one of the few parts of the structure that were still Romanesque.  I guess I hadn't had enough of rooms buried in foundational rock yet. I was not disappointed. These catacombs were just as otherworldly as the Mont, and perhaps more so. The light playing off the features of the columns, the sharp relief of the designs casting shadows. Brown, bright blue, and white. It was gorgeous. Some of the pillars and walls still showed paintings from the 15th century. And this crypt does indeed contain tombs, including that of a bishop from the 15th century.

15th century painting on a pillar in the crypt underneath Bayeux Cathedral.

When I returned to Hotel Churchill that night, I knew I would be sad to leave Bayeux that next morning, Friday. But I was also excited to move on to Saumur where, on Saturday, I would participate in the largest open-air market in France. But I was also nervous because I had to navigate mass transit from Bayeux back to Caen, then from Caen to Le Mans (a place I would later come back to), and finally from Le Mans to Saumur. The last leg of the journey would have to be by bus, for which I had no reservation. I needed to get on the right bus to get to my hotel in a timely fashion Friday evening. I would be at the mercy of the employees at the train and bus station. Again. C'est la vie!

Other References:
Wikipedia entries on Mont Saint-Michel
and the Abbey
The Epic Adventures web site, In the Steps of William the Conqueror: Bayeux Cathedral

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Roundabouts and Ring Roads, 800 Years Too Early, and the Bayeux Tapestry

Wednesday June 8, 2011, Bayeux in Calvados, Normandy, France.

One of the ironies of my visit to Calvados, Normandy was that I was there during the 67th anniversary of D-Day, and I hadn't even thought about touring sites related to WWII. I was focused 800 years before that on the 12th century. For a moment I was sad that I had no time to learn more about that day in our history in the place where it happened. But I had a mission to focus on those sites that were much older. I did enjoy being able to talk to so many Americans and Canadians (and some ex-pat Brits) in Bayeux and Caen who were there visiting or working because of the D-Day tourist attractions.

Wednesday, June 8th, I took the mid-afternoon train from Caen to Bayeux without incident.  It was a 30-minute trip. Because it was one of the cheapest train tickets I would buy, my travel agent had suggested I not use my EuRail Pass and, instead, purchase the ticket directly. So I followed her advice. My, how much easier it was not having to deal with the EuRail Pass!

View of the southbound (towards Caen) platform at Gare de Bayeux, 29 October 2011, by Nick-D (Own work) CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

During this tour of Europe, whenever I arrived at a new destination and before I departed the train, I would ask myself, am I really at the right place? I had a moment like that at Bayeux. Earlier that day, I had called the Hotel Churchill for directions from the train station to the hotel. A lovely gentlemen gave me detailed instructions in an impeccable British accent, and I wrote them out on my travel itinerary. But I was disheartened when I looked out the window as the train arrived. The Bayeux train station appeared to be in the middle of an industrial area. Nothing hotel-like or town-like around. I stared at the paper that spelled out the directions, hoping it would all make sense once I started walking. (Looking back on this incident, I can't help thinking that travel would have been so much easier a couple years later, after I had upgraded to a smartphone with GPS built-in. But it would have changed the nature of the adventure. And I would not wish for that now.)

My scribbled directions to Hotel Churchill from the Bayeyx train station.

Directions Scribbled on The Travel Society Itinerary for Hotel Churchill in Bayeux, France:
Come out of Train Station. Cross street (the junction with bypass) St Rue de Cremil.
Go straight. At light go straight: On Rue aux Coqu.
In 300m on left street going down. Turn (right before parking lot) Before street curves right: This is Place de Tribunal. Court Building.
Place de Quebec. Parking. Hotel is there.

A view from one of the bridges over the Aure River, which flows through the old city center of Bayeux. Planters of flowers were everywhere.

The scribbles didn't make complete sense, But I knew I would figure it out. I was three weeks into my travels and nothing horrible had happened. Even the horsefly bite hadn't set me back.  Upon exiting Bayeux le Gare, I took the opposite direction of most other people getting off the train, crossing the street as instructed. Then I hesitated. I wasn't in a great hurry and I still didn't see what looked like a quaint French village, so I glanced again at the map in my guide book. No, I was right. I was heading in the right direction.

The front desk at the Hotel Churchill Bayeux. The hotel has since become part of a larger hotel system with the addition of the new Villa Lara Hotel.

After crossing the street I came to a roundabout, which was not mentioned in the directions at all. It passed under a highway bypass, which was. There were no street signs in front of the station so I couldn't confirm which street I was on. Where was St. Rue de Cremil? I traveled around the roundabout clockwise heading north-northwest. Ah! There it was! Rue de Cremil!  I followed it northwest and, to my relief, traveled away from industrial modern Bayeux. The town center was actually quite small and quaint. Aha! Rue de Cremil BECOMES Rue aux Coqs! That's right! Now I was cooking. I found my left turn and went down along the Place de Quebec, skirting the parking lot, and winding my way by the court building and there it was, as the street bent right. I walked into the lobby and I had entered a Hotel in the middle of Old London.

Editor's note: I later found out that the roundabout I traveled through was part of a larger “ring road,” which was the first of it's kind in Europe, having been built by British military engineers right after D-Day.

A close-up of the key cabinet on the wall across from the front desk at the Hotel Churchill.

Journal Excerpt, Wednesday June 8, 2011, Hotel Churchill:
Feeling so welcomed at Hotel Churchill. One clerk says I have brought the sun. The other clerk reminds me of a Dickens' character: Small, robust, a bit round-shouldered, balding, white hair, spectacles. He wore a brown tweed jacket over a white dress shirt and dress slacks and shoes. My guy wore a black suit—formal yet friendly.

The view from the walkway over the inner courtyard of the old Hotel Churchill that led to my quarters.

The Hotel Churchill did seem like it was lifted from an 18th-century British novel. I wouldn't have been surprised if the older clerk had a pocket watch anchored to the button hole of his waistcoat. English was everywhere!  My room was on the first floor (second floor for us US types). To get to it I had to go up a stair and cross a walkway into an adjacent building. The room was small and comfortable with lots of light. There was a lovely view on my way to and from the lobby and dining room through the elevated walkway, which looked down on a courtyard with of urns filled with flowers and small trees. There were also flowers everywhere along throughout the old city center.

My room at the Hotel Churchill with my handy-dandy HP mini running Linux, which allowed my to process and post photos as I traveled.

I would have a short stay in Bayeux--only two nights-- and I was leaving by the 2:30 train that last afternoon, Friday, the 10th. I had planned to see Mont Saint Michel, a rocky hill of an island in the middle of a tidal flat along the coast between Bayeux and St. Malo. At its peak was an 8th-century monastery. Sometimes the island was connected to the mainland, sometimes it was surrounded on all sides by water. It was an ancient site that had survived the hundred years war and the Nazi's. I was not going to miss it! Mont Saint Michel was about an hour-and-a-half journey by shuttle. Unfortunately, Thursday's shuttle had been completely full when my travel agent called to make arrangements for me, and she was forced to book me on the tour for Friday. That meant I was at great risk of missing my train if I went. So, one of the first things I did upon arriving at the Churchill was to ask to change my reservation on the shuttle to Thursday. I was in luck! They now had room, and my reservation was changed to the next morning. I had to be ready to leave at 8:20a.m., so no lounging in bed!

Picture of Bayeux tapestry behind glass at the museum in Bayeux, France. Photo by Dave of Travelin' Tigers, 2002.

There was plenty of time left before dinner, so after changing my reservation with the clerk, I headed for the Tapestry museum.  The Tapestry museum houses the famous Bayeux Tapestry which depicts the Battle of Hastings in 1066. During the battle, Duke William of Normandy, formerly Bill the Bastard, defeated King Harold of England and took the crown from him, becoming William I of England. There are many myths surrounding this tapestry, and some questions remain unanswered. But scholars believe that the tapestry was commissioned by Bishop Odo, William's half brother, and made in England by seamstresses or monks. It is not technically a tapestry because the design is not part of the woven fabric. The design was embroidered onto a woven piece of off-white linen. Some art historians now refer to it as the Bayeux Embroderie. The Bayeux tapestry is 230 feet long and 20 inches tall. It is the largest medieval tapestry of its kind to survive (panels of a Scandinavian embroidery using the same basic technique have been found dating from the 9th century and were likely the precursor of Anglo Saxon and Norman embroidery). The Bayeux Tapestry survived the Huguenot invasion of the 16th century, the French Revolution of the 18th century, and both the Nazi occupation and the Normandy Landing in the 1940s. It depicts, among other things, Haley's Comet, which helps date it to after 1066.

Detail in the Bayeux Tapestry showing the Battle of Hastings, England, 1066. By Unknown Weaver, English (active c. 1080) (Web Gallery of Art:   ImageInfo about artwork) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

The museum is housed in a beautiful 19th-century building, which was a former seminary, complete with a replica of a Norman ship out front. There were three Japanese flags standing beside the longboat. I have no idea why. Inside, after paying my fee, I received an audio guide in English that described each panel of the tapestry. In the viewing room, the tapestry is laid out in full under glass and in the dark. The tapestry is back lit so the images in each panel glow. It takes a while for your eyes to adjust to the low light. Flash photography is not allowed, so I did not attempt to take a picture with my little Canon Powershot. I was amazed at the brightness of the colors in this 950-year-old work. The border was full of little figures, some naked, some dismembered (in battle, one would presume) and some farming the fields and going about their business. Controversies surround some of the panels. In the one in which King Harold gets shot in the eye by an arrow, there is a clear label above his head that says, Harold Rex. However in the next panel, a different figure who experts believe is Harold, is killed with a sword. Above this figure's head, it says interfectus est, or "he is slain." Evidence shows that the arrow was added in the 19th century, so the original meaning of the panel is still under debate.

The tapestry was so astounding to me with so many figures and scenes depicted, I went back the next day to see it again after I returned from Mont Saint Michel.

Water wheel along the Aure River in the center of Bayeux, France.

I found dinner at a local cafe, and when I returned to my room, I called my 82-year-old father back home in the States. My sister had mentioned in an email that he was worried about me traveling by myself. He hadn't heard from me since I left, other than through the post cards I had sent him and the other members of my family, as well as my friends. I knew my dad would want to hear my voice. I imagined he was thinking the worst: me being kidnapped or caught up in a terrorist bombing. He was relieved to talk with me and glad to hear that nothing bad had happened. He was doing okay, but only okay. He was having a lot of trouble adjusting to living alone since my mother died almost a year before. He was still living in the house I grew up in, in the country.  He was worried about me; I was a bit worried about him. So, we were even. But my mother's death had also affected me. I think it is one of the reasons I had to take this eight-week trip alone. Mom was a writer, teacher, and traveler. She had visited New Zealand by herself and had traveled to Europe with walking tours without my father, who didn't like to travel. I had traveled with her to Ireland twice, and in some ways, we were traveling together on this trip.

That night I slept soundly because, in the morning, I was off early to tour Mont Saint Michel. It should be something.

TO BE CONTINUED!

References:
European Traveler, "See the Bayeux Tapestry and Museum in Normandy"
Wikipedia entry on the Bayeux Tapestry
 

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Standing with Lions, Stumbling on an Archaeological Dig, and Shooing a Fly

Tuesday Afternoon June 7, 2011

After my taxi, Anne Brard, got me safely back to the Hotel Mercure Caen from Falaise, I had a quick lunch, then toured the Chateau at Caen. The chateau is where Bill the Bastard and Matilda spent some of their time. It was built by Bill around 1060, before he went on to conquer England and become King William I. His son, Henry I added a church and a keep in 1123, then a large ducal hall sometime later. Another interesting factoid specifially for Eleanor of Aquitaine fans like me is that this castle was the site of the Christmas court in 1182 during which Henry II, William I's great grandson and Eleanor's husband, was reunited with his sons Richard the Lionheart and John Lackland, as well as the Young King, Prince Henry (who was to die of a battle wound the very next year).  More than a thousand knights were in attendance, but was Eleanor? No. The record does not say explicitly, but she was likely still locked in her tower in Winchester, England.

The foundation of the Caen fortress in ruins. It covers about 14 acres.

The ruins of Caen castle lie northeast of the modern town center. The fortification was massive. It is the largest one of its kind in Europe, covering almost 14 acres. The fortress used to sit on an isolated hill, but now is surrounded by the city of Caen. As I approached, a red flag with the two golden lions representing William I, who was known as the lion, rippled in the breeze over the curtain walls. Why two lions, though? One lion represents the Kingdom of England. The other, the Duchy of Normandy, which William still ruled in addition to all of England. A third lion was added to the dynasty's banner most likely during Eleanor's son Richard the Lionheart's reign to represent the lands of Aquitaine.

The flag of William I, the lion, in Caen, France.

The castle and fortifications are in bad shape, but not just because of the travails of the middle ages. In 1204, the French, led by Philip II, captured the castle and reinforced it's walls. The castle then made it through the Hundred Years War, but the keep was pulled down during the French Revolution. In 1944, the castle, then being used as a barracks, was bombed. In 1946 a local architect named Michel de Boüard started excavating the area and established the Musée des Beaux-Arts on site. The fortress also now houses the Musée de Normandie.

Love the colors in the stone "streets" of the fortress at Caen.

I did not visit either museum, but I did walk around inside the fort along the cobbled streets. The French really know how to make their ruins pop. The beauty of the old stone is set off by the crimson door at the entrance to the castle, as well as the pink, gray, and orange shades of the cobbles.

The Échiquier de Normandie inside the walls of the fortress at Caen.

One of the places that intrigued me was the Échiquier de Normandie or the Exchequer of Normandy. It has served as a temporary hall of exhibitions, but used to be the seat of the Court of Normandy. In fact, the Christmas court of 1182 was probably held exactly here. At one side of the building was a stair down to the lower level barred by a chain. The door at the bottom of the stair was just an iron grate, and it too was locked with a chain. The whole thing was surrounded by vertical metal bars. All I could think of was a sheriff's jail.

Did the the Exchequer of Normandy house a jail in the basement?

I walked the ramparts and enjoyed a panoramic view of the city. I was sad that the keep had been leveled, but I could still see the foundations of the buildings which existed no longer. And I had the sense of the immensity of the fortifications.

A view of downtown Caen from the ramparts of the fortress.

Before I returned to my hotel room to get ready for dinner, I decided to check out the archaeological dig Anne Brard had told me about. Some new construction had unveiled a crypt or the foundation of an old building in the modernized downtown.

An archeologist/professor lecturing the crowd at a just-discovered Roman site in the center of Caen, June 2011.

I hiked to the center of Caen. A huge area in the center of a traffic circle, which had been parking lot, was roped off. Roman ruins had been discovered underneath it just before I arrived. I couldn't get access to the dig, and no one nearby spoke English. An archaeologist, perhaps a professor from the local university, was standing behind the rope giving an ad hoc lecture to the crowd, in French. She stood next to a big rectangular hole in the ground. It looked like it might have been a Roman bath.  I have been unable to find any details about this specific site. The Romans conquered the area that is now Normandy around 98 AD and the region was integrated into the province of Gallia Lugdunensis by Augustus. During construction of a highway around the mid 2000s, ruins of Roman villas were found. These villas each had their own heating system called a hypocaust, which was built under the main floor of the house. Maybe this ruin in downtown Caen was a hypocaust as well.

Hypocaust under the floor in a Roman villa in Vieux-la-Romaine, near Caen, France in January 2006 by Valdavia - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0

During my stay at the hotel in Caen, I was accosted by a flying insect. While I was sleeping, I was bit on and near my left eye on two successive nights. It is funny how I made no note of it in my journal or my posts from that time. It was my fault. The afternoon I arrived at the hotel, I opened the window in my room because of the lovely breeze off the port. Unfortunately, there was no screen and a black fly of some sort—probably a horse fly--got into my room and hid itself. When I returned to my room after dinner, the air had cooled so I closed the window. Then I did the usual writing and reviewing plans for the next day. Finally I went to bed and fell asleep. Some time in the early morning hours, that fly came out from hiding and bit me on the eyelid and the side of my face near my eye. I was annoyed but not concerned. When I woke again the next morning, my eye was red, but I went about my business. After a long day of touring I went to bed without a thought of the fly from the night before. Again unfortunately, the fly was not done. He came back and bit me again in the lower lid of the same eye! The next morning my eye was even redder and now quite swollen. And itchy. I tried really hard to not scratch it, but that proved impossible. My eye remained irritated for several days. Finally, I decided to call the Travel Guard people who were handling the insurance for my trip and get a list of ophthalmologists in their network, just in case. It worked great. The Insurance people emailed me a list and I never had to use it. My eye slowly healed and I forgot all about the incident after about a week and a half when my eye returned to normal. A selfie from June 14 clearly shows an irritated red bump in the corner of my eye. (No, I am not going to show that to you here. You will just have to wait to see that photo when that part of the travelogue is revealed!)

Additional References:
Wikipedia entry on the History of Normandy
Wikipedia entry on the Château de Caen
Alison Weir, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Ballantine Publishing Group, 1999.