The croissants are still warm from the oven. Chuckling at our swooning appetites, the bakery madam wishes us a good breakfast. Tempted to devour them on the spot, we resist and revel in their buttery aroma filling our French 2CV car.

Fetching croissants every morning is but one of the delights we discover while renting a French country house in the heart of the Loire Valley, midway between Angers and Saumur. This rose covered, white stone house tucked by a stand of poplar trees is our holiday base. We’re but fifteen kilometres from the Loire River and within a 50-kilometre radius, vineyards, villages, and classic chateaux beckon.

Chenonceau, with its arched gallery stretching across the Cher River, is considered the loveliest in the valley. Known as the Chateau of the Ladies, it has a decidedly feminine air and reflects the influence of the women who have lived here. Unlike many chateaux that have mandatory guided tours, Chenonceau allows visitors to wander freely. With brochure at hand, we marvel at enormous Flemish tapestries, sculpted ceilings, medieval paintings, and intricately decorated furniture. The library is intimate and cosy while some rooms have elaborate fireplaces that could swallow us whole. Strikingly unusual are the black walls and ceiling decorated with silver symbols of mourning in the bedroom of widowed Louise of Lorraine. Diane de Poitier, Henry II’s mistress, built the bridge across the river. After he died, his wife Catherine de Medici ousted Diane, reclaimed the chateau and ruled France from there. She added the famed gallery on top of Diane’s bridge. In WWI, the gallery was a hospital and in WWII, the gallery’s southern door provided access to France’s Free Zone. Diane and Catherine each added a formal garden at the entrance but these, while attractive, are small compared to the gardens at Chateau Villandry.

The buildings at Villandry date from the 1500s but the renowned gardens were created in complete harmony with the Renaissance styling of the chateau in the early 1900s. Three garden tiers: water, ornamental, and kitchen, are precise, orderly sections stretching almost as far as we can see from where we stand on the Belvedere lookout. Cloistered in lime trees, the peaceful water garden has a sunken, Louis XV mirror shaped lake complete with swans. Intricately patterned, the ornamental gardens are vibrant blocks of red, yellow and lavender, which represent themes of love, religion, and music. The potager or kitchen garden is a showy mix of fruits and vegetables based on 16th century geometric designs. Each of the nine squares has an individual colour scheme and is framed with knee-high espaliered apple trees. Combinations such as purple eggplants and cabbage with cauliflower and lacy carrot tops provide contrasts in colours and shapes. I can easily imagine 16th century monks quietly pruning and tending. Alongside the potager is a large herb garden and running our fingers through the rosemary bushes perfumes them with the tantalizing scent of their essential oils. All this garden browsing stimulates our appetites and we’re off in pursuit of lunch.

In France, the delectable possibilities for lunch are legion. We relax at a café on the riverbank, another on a hilltop in the midst of grapevines, and at one in a troglodyte house tucked into the limestone cliffs. Classic picnics of cheeses, breads, and wines are taken in a chateau’s park, beside a vibrant field of sunflowers, and on a Loire sandbar. At our farmhouse, we grill selections made for us by the helpful butcher in Azay le Rideau and pair them with a bottle of our favourite local red, St. Nicholas de Bourgeuil. On our outings, we search out the vintners recommended by locals and buy, as we find their wines so inexpensive. Each village has a sign listing its numerous winemakers; it is more than a lifetime’s challenge to visit them all. Fortified with food and drink, an afternoon nap is foregone in favour of a history lesson in nearby Chinon.

The ramparts of a fortress-like chateau crown Chinon, which sits prettily along the Vienne River. Most of the chateau is in ruins but the still intact tower keep looms high on the hill. Rue Voltaire is a well-preserved medieval street, lined with buildings half-timbered or of white stone. Cats lounge on carved windowsills, looking with indifference at the house where Richard the Lionheart lay in state in 1199 or at the intersection where Joan of Arc dismounted in 1429. History galore.

Within a matter of days, we’re happily immersed in living the French country life. We’ve learned the poplar trees by our house are grown as a crop, their bark used for wooden Camembert boxes. Furthermore, the bakery madam knows our daily breakfast order by heart.

Tours is an excellent starting point for exploring the Loire Valley. It is approximately 2 hours by train from Paris. From Tours to the south-east is Chenonceau; to the south-west are Villandry and Chinon.

If you go

www.chenonceau.com
www.chateauvillandry.com
www.chinon.com

 About the author:

Karoline Cullen always travels with camera and pen at hand. Her works have been published in numerous newspapers, magazines, and on-line and she is a member in good standing of the British Columbia Association of Travel Writers. www.cullenphotos.ca

Photos by Karoline and Gary Cullen, Cullen Photos:

1. 2cv at the bakery
2. Chenonceau
3. Catherine de Medici’s garden
4. Chateau overlooking town
5. 2cv and a field of sunflowers

by Karoline Cullen

My eyes search in vain for a sliver of light. The blackness is absolute and our shallow breathing the only sound. When the guide finally spotlights the frieze of beasts above our heads, our gasps of appreciation echo off the cave walls.

We collectively crane our necks to study the 13000-year-old paintings gracing the cave’s ceiling. We are in Grotte de Rouffignac, just south of Périgueux in the Dordogne area of southwestern France. In this region of dark forests, wending rivers, and rolling hills, inhabitants from prehistoric Cro-Magnons onward created decorated caves, gas lit towns and gardens. For modern day travelers like my husband and me, dawdling through these sites perfectly fill our days in the Dordogne.

On a gray rainy day, we agree that going into a cool, damp cave is an ideal alternative to getting wet above ground. We almost miss Rouffignac’s unassuming entrance in the woods and are soon on a little electric train whirring off into the darkness. The guide highlights large, round hollows in the rock where cave bears denned for the winters and long scratches on the walls where they sharpened their claws. The bears were long gone before early man created his art by the light of tallow lamps in these galleries and passages. Spotlights dance over paintings of bison, horses, ibex, wooly rhinoceros, and what this Grotte is famous for, multitudes of mammoths. There are single animals and groups. Some were engraved with chisels or, on some softer surfaces, with fingers; others were outlined in black. Using the curved surfaces of the cave and strong simple lines, the prehistoric artists captured the beasts’ enormity, power and shagginess. The anatomical correctness of the mammoth drawings vouches for their authenticity, the guide explains. Until modern researchers studied frozen mammoths in Siberia, only people who lived amongst these animals could have drawn them with such exacting detail. Why Cro-Magnons ventured so far into this cave to make these paintings is unclear. In this, and many other caves throughout the region, our relatives left powerful depictions of the animals populating their world.

Fast-forward many millennia to when Dordogne residents were not painting on rock but building with it. Sarlat-la-Canéda is a bustling market town with a wonderfully preserved medieval centre. Narrow cobblestone lanes wind between golden stone buildings with black slate roofs.

Many of the ground floor buildings date from the 13th century, while distinctively styled Renaissance houses were added in the 15th century. At night warm, glowing gaslights bring out the fine architectural details and highlight cheery flower boxes on mullioned windows. On a ramble through the maze of streets leading away from the main square, my husband and I savour the atmospheric ambience.

The bronze geese in “Goose Square” pay homage to one of the regional specialties, foie gras. We pass animated patrons at sidewalk restaurant tables and their jolly noise echoes down a deserted walkway presided over by leering gargoyles. Tomorrow, these streets will teem with shoppers attending one of France’s best markets. We will be amongst them, shopping for picnic supplies.

After rock caverns and stone buildings, I long for the freshness of outdoor greenery. On a bluff high above the Dordogne River, the gardens at Marqueyssac are the ideal counterpoint. We could tour the 18th century chateau but the garden paths beckon. Thousands upon thousands of boxwoods were planted in the 19th century along winding paths to give a fanciful, labyrinthine effect.

The bushes are hand pruned into bulbous shapes and swirling patterns. It is an extravaganza of green! Wandering further, I sniff the wafting fragrance of rosemary and lavender before I see the sizable herb gardens. Along sinuous paths in the forest of oaks, cypress, pine, and lime trees are delightful surprises of sculptures, stone huts, waterfalls, or hidden benches. We have no trouble finding a secluded spot for a picnic while appreciating the plants, the views, and the occasional peacock wandering by. At the end of the walk is the Belvedere lookout, with its expansive view of the river, rolling vineyards, far off chateaux, and the cliff hugging ochre houses of a town below.

It’s possible a distant Cro-Magnon relative contemplated this view before he descended into the valley in search of another cave to paint in. Of course, no mammoths or wooly rhinoceros roam the valley floor today, but we know from those old paintings that long ago, they most assuredly did.

 If You Go:

Full Day Tour Dordogne & Vezere Valley

For photos of the cave paintings and information: http://www.grottederouffignac.fr/index.php/fr/

Sarlat-la-Canéda

The gardens at Marqueyssac are a National Historic Monument.

Half day Tour of The Villages of the Dordogne

About the author:

Karoline Cullen always travels with camera and pen at hand. Her works have been published in numerous newspapers, magazines, and on-line and she is a member in good standing of the British Columbia Association of Travel Writers. www.cullenphotos.ca

Sarlat-la-Canéda-Place photo by Gilbert Bochenek / CC BY

All other photos by Cullen Photos

2. The author at the entrance of Grotte de Rouffignac.
3. A lane in Sarlat.
4. The lit main square of Sarlat at night.
5. Garden Marqueyssac boxwoods.
6. Garden Marqueyssac path and valley view.

If you’ve been to Versailles you’ll know that it redefines large. Looking out from the main palace, the gardens go past the horizon in two directions—literally as far as the eye can see. The historic site covers 2,000 acres, making it larger than Manhattan. Once the home of French kings, Versailles can take all day to tour, and you still would not see everything.

Because of its distance from the main palace, many visitors do not get to a small chāteau on the grounds known as Le Petit Trianon.

Originally designed for Louis XV’s mistress, Madame de Pompadour, construction on Le Petit Trianon was begun in 1765. Madame de Pompadour, however, died before the miniature palace was completed, which eventually happened in 1778. The next Louis (XVI) gave the chāteau to his wife, Marie Antoinette, who used it as an escape from the hectic life at court.

Back in the 1980s, I saw a movie on television called, “Miss Morison’s Ghosts.” The programme told the story of two British women who visited the Palace of Versailles on a hot August day in 1901.

While wandering the grounds near the Petit Trianon, the pair of women became disoriented. They subsequently witnessed a series of people and sights that seemed strange, and they also experienced feelings of oppression and dreariness. The event upset them so much that after they had recovered, they did not speak of it for a long time. But when they finally discussed it months later, they learned that they each had seen different sights during the same time period in the same places.

Curious and somewhat disturbed, the women wrote down their individual accounts independently of one another and then compared notes. Surprised by what was revealed in their writings, they began carrying out research on the palace, its history and particularly the small chateau near where they’d witnessed the sights: Le Petit Trianon.

Eventually they learned that their visit to Versailles August 10, 1901 had happened on the anniversary of Louis’s and Marie’s imprisonment during the French Revolution. They discovered descriptions of the property made at the time of the French Revolution that matched what they had seen.
Returning to Versailles (several times in fact), they found the landscape different from their first visit, and records indicated that some of what they had seen did not exist in 1901. It had, however, existed in the 1700s.

Watching the movie “Miss Morison’s Ghosts,” I thought the tale fictional and was surprised to find later that these women did exist. The story had caused a scandal when they published it in 1911 – 10 years after the incident – in a book called, “An Adventure.” They wrote the small booklet using the pseudonyms Elizabeth Morison and Frances Lamont to conceal their identities. This turned out to be a good idea because the book was ridiculed by many, and the authors would likely have faced scorn and ultimately ruin.

After their deaths, however, the authors’ identities were revealed as respected academics Charlotte Anne Moberly and Eleanor Jourdain. In 1901, Moberly was the first Principal of St. Hugh’s College in Oxford, a hall of residence for young women. Jourdain had authored several textbooks and was being considered for the position of assistant to Moberly. Moberly visited Jourdain in Paris, where Jourdain tutored students. They decided to visit some of the sites, and on August 10, they took the train to Versailles.

The book that Jourdain and Moberly wrote had descriptions of everything they saw and heard that day and includes details of music, people, clothing, tools, landscape and buildings. Moberly wrote about “very dignified officials, dressed in long greyish green coats with small three-cornered hats…” She also described a man wearing a cloak and large shady hat whose appearance was “most repulsive… its expression odious. His complexion was dark and rough.” A lady in a summer dress and white hat sketching on the grass was determined by Moberly to have been Marie Antoinette.

Eventually the book they published became known as “The Ghosts of the Trianon,” and the alleged event as the ‘Moberly-Jourdain Incident’ once their true identities were revealed. Over the years, the story has been the topic of scrutiny, ridicule and serious study.

Disbelievers have insisted that these academics were suffering from heatstroke on that sweltering August day. Believers have maintained that they had travelled back in time to the 1700s. Another explanation is that they had inadvertently strayed into a fancy dress party sometimes held on the Versailles grounds by the French avant-garde. The two women themselves thought they may have tapped into psychic memories of Marie Antoinette.

When I eventually found my way to the Palace of Versailles, I was reminded of the story of “The Ghosts of the Trianon.” In addition to wanting to see the grandiosity of this historic location, my love of mysteries drew me to Versailles. Of course we toured the main palace, but I simply had to visit the small chāteau to satisfy my curiosity about the Moberly-Jourdain Incident.

Wide paths walled with massive manicured trees connect the Petit Trianon with the main gardens. In the days of Marie and Louis, travel to and from would have been by carriage. Today, there is a trolley to shuttle visitors back and forth. But I was compelled to walk the same paths that the British academics would have walked in 1901.

Of course we got lost along the way. You could even say we became disoriented, possibly just as Moberly and Jourdain had more than a century earlier. It is easy to do. The tall trees make it impossible to see anything other than the path you are on, which all look the same and intersect at angles. We found ourselves at dead ends twice and had to backtrack to get around a canal and a fence. And we were there in the autumn without the stifling heat of summer that may have caused even more physical distress.

We did eventually arrive at the picturesque chāteau with its private gardens and domed gazebo. The building itself has been called “simple and elegant, architecturally correct…” While knowing little of architecture, I must agree. The impression the chāteau gives is: right; appropriate; proper. But I wonder if that is a relative comparison. Could it be that after touring the grand palace, one can’t help but see the small chāteau as more appropriate by contrast? The Trianon gardens certainly contrast with the formal symmetry of the main Versailles gardens. Meandering paths and streams form a nature retreat around a neo-Classical gazebo. Known as the Temple of Love, the gazebo is only a short walk from the chāteau yet because of the vegetation looks and feels isolated and secluded.

In “Ghosts of the Trainon” or “An Adventure,” Jourdain apparently wrote: “Everything suddenly looked unnatural, therefore unpleasant; even the trees seemed to become flat and lifeless, like wood worked in tapestry. There were no effects of light and shade, and no wind stirred the trees.”

I say she ‘apparently wrote,’ because I have been unable to acquire a copy of the book. However, I must admit that the whole area had a flat, lifeless look to it when I was there, as if it were a life-sized painting. Jourdain is reported to have used the term ‘tableau vivant,’ or living picture, which seems appropriate for what I experienced.

Did I feel the dreariness they’d described? Maybe; there was something unnatural about it all. I wonder though if that had to do with how out of time it appeared—preserved as it would have been for the kings and queens who are now long dead along with the lifestyle they represented. Ghosts of the past, certainly.

As noted early, I have not found a copy to read, and I have also been unable to view the film a second time. For some reason, it is easier to travel to Versailles than it is to get a copy of the film “Miss Morison’s Ghosts” or the book that inspired it.

Sadly, there were no actual ghost sightings for us. But there have been for others. The area is known for ghostly visions and weird occurrences, and a woman matching Marie Antoinette’s description has been seen sketching near the Petit Trianon on more than one occasion. The ‘incident’ experienced by these British academics, however, is the most famous (to date).

If You Go:

Read the book here

Wikipedia

Internet Movie Database

Watch the movie below…

About the author:
K.M. Lowe is writer, journalist and corporate communicator. In her 20+ year career, she’s worked at NGOs, high tech, publishers and the media. Her jobs have included communications director, publishing advisor, staff writer, and managing editor. With a passion for story-based communications, she’s written 100+ articles and hundreds of blog posts. She has traveled extensively and lived in Canada and in West Africa. For more information visit: www.kmlowe.com

Full Day Private Guided Tour Versailles Castle Gardens Petit Trianon from Paris – $233.65
from: Viator

Photo credits:
Versailles photo #1 courtesy of www.all-free-photos.com.
All other photos by K.M. Lowe:
The palace of Versailles and its grounds combined cover 2,000 acres, making it larger than Manhattan… literally as far as the eye can see
The Petit Trianon chateau was built for the king’s mistress, but she died before it was complete. So when it was finished, he gave it to his wife instead.
Paths from the main palace of Versailles to the Petit Trianon are lined with massive hedges preventing visitors from seeing exactly where they are or where they are going.
There are rumours that Marie Antoinette’s ghost is seen in the small (well, relatively speaking) garden of the Petit Trianon near the Temple of Love.

by Barb Harmon

Located in the South of France with a picture-perfect medieval old town, belle epoque villas, and a yearly average of 316 days of sunshine, it is easy to see why the seafront town of Menton is called the Pearl of France. It has also earned the title of the Lemon Festival Capital of the World. Every February when it hosts the Fete du Citron it becomes apparent why Menton has kept this well bestowed title for 84 years.

The festival initially started as an exhibition of lemons, oranges and flowers and quickly grew into what it is today…the World’s largest event celebrating citrus. The festival itself is held for approximately 19 days and coincides with the Carnaval in Nice. Menton is a mellow town but during the festival it is bustling with the 240,000 people which are there to experience the town and the festival. Located 20km from Nice, 1.5km from the Italian border it offers the best of both countries…food and ambiance.

There is a theme each year and the giant citrus covered displays as well as the floats reflect the theme. I attended ‘Around the World in Eighty Days (with a Secret stopover in Menton)’. The Fete du Citron was celebrating its 80th Anniversary and it was tied into the 140th Birthday of the author Jules Verne.

In the book, the Englishman Phileas Fogg accepts a wager that he and his valet can make it around the world in eighty days. They travel by exotic and traditional means making several stops along the way in an effort to win the bet.

The story was translated into life size displays which were decorated with lemons and oranges. Every display had sound. The Pacific Railroad, hot air balloon and elephant were just a few modes of transportation. Walking through the festival was like walking through a living book.

The displays are erected in Les Jardins Bioves with its pea gravel walkways and gardens flanked by palm trees. It takes thousands of hours to put the festival together as it also has many citrus covered parade floats. 145 tons of oranges and lemons are used. The smell of citrus floats through the town. Approximately 15 tons of metal is used to create the moving floats and stationary displays which are then covered with metal netting.

The fruit is attached to the netting by elastic bands and is checked daily to make sure it looks perfect. If necessary, replacements are close at hand. The displays are lit at night and worth a second look if you have visited during the day.

The Promenade du Soleil is the location for the Golden Fruit Parade. This is held every Sunday afternoon during the festival with the night parade on Thursday evenings. Excitement fills the air along with lively music, and energetic dancers, as the floats roll along the seafront. Fireworks add to the excitement.

Reserve some time to explore Menton. The old city and port will take you back in time. From the 1600’s, the gently colored Saint-Michel Archange Basilica on Parvis Saint-Michel will leave you in awe. You can’t miss seeing the belle epoque villas and lush gardens as they are scattered everywhere. Rue Saint Michel the lively pedestrian street offers numerous spots to enjoy a drink, meal, shop or just to people watch.

If You Go:

Transportation – Trains from Nice run regularly. There are shuttles from the station to the festival area. If walking from the main Menton train station, allow 15 minutes to reach the festival area. Buses from Nice are available but stop often.

Menton Tourist Office, 8 Avenue Boyer, Palais de l’ Europe. 00 33 4 92 41 76 76. It is located across the street from Les Jardins Bioves. Ask for a map of the city which is free and will come in handy if you decide to explore the town.

Tickets – These can be purchased at the Tourist office. Tickets for the Citrus displays in Les Jardin Bioves are €10 for adults, €6 for ages 6-14. Children under 6 and those with mobility problems are free.

Parade reservations are required. Seated tickets for adults are €25, €10 for children 6-14. Standing room only tickets are €10 for adults, €6 for children 6-14.

Arts and Crafts Show – FREE in the Palais de l’ Europe. This features local artisans and is the perfect place to pick up a souvenir or two.

Full Day Private Custom French Riviera Tour from Nice

About the author:
Barb Harmon’s love affair with travel began in high school as an exchange student in The Netherlands and continues to this day decades later. As empty nesters, she and her husband travel as often as possible looking for the next adventure. She is a member of The International Travel Writers and Photographers Alliance. You can visit her blog at: www.chasingthenextchapter.com

Photos by Barb Harmon:
Lemon Man citrus display
Hot air balloon by the Palais de l’ Europe
Train engine citrus display
Promenade du Soleil

by Anne Harrison

I lay in bed, staring at the flood-lit towers of Notre Dame through my sky-light. Founded by Saint Landry in 651 AD, the Hôtel-Hospitel Dieu was the first hospital in Paris, and still cares for ill Parisians. The ghosts of some 1300 years of medical history glide along its marble corridors, whispering in consultation outside the wards, then pass into the old-fashioned lifts to visit the fourteen quiet hotel rooms hidden on the sixth floor.

Early drawings of the Hôtel-Hospitel Dieu show a main hall divided by pillars into three aisles, with four rows of beds per aisle. Like many medieval hospitals, the Hospitel catered for the poor, offering food and shelter in addition to basic medical care. (With wolves attacking Paris well into the 1400’s, this proved a vital social role.) By 1515 the Hospitel spanned both sides of the Seine, and Francis I built the Pont au Double to allow the transport of patients across the river, its name coming from the double denier toll used to pay for its construction.

AMBROISE PARÉ (1510 – 20/12/1590)

Ambroise Paré rose to eminence as the King’s surgeon, serving four kings: Henri II, Francis II, Charles IX and Henri III. Noted for his humility, Paré once remarked “Je le pansai, Dieu le guérit,” (I bandaged him, God healed him). Paré saw knowledge of anatomy and dissection as essential for surgery, and created the Confraternity of Saints Cosmos and Damian, distinct from the Confraternity of Barber Surgeons who were not true doctors, for they did not understand Latin.

This era in French History was marked by both civil and religious war, including the Bartholomew Day’s Massacre of August 2nd, 1572. (The signal for the slaughter of the Heugonauts to begin was the ringing of the bells of St-Germain-l’Auxerrois matins.) As a consequence of personal experience, Paré wrote widely on the management of trauma. His 1545 Method of Treating Wounds describes how, lacking boiling oil to put on amputated limbs, he instead used a mixture containing rose oil (which contains the mild disinfectant phenol). To his surprise, this mixture gave his patients a better recovery. Paré also promoted the ligature of blood vessels during amputation to minimize haemorrhage.

BICHAT (14/11/1771 – 22/7/1802)

Despite refusing to use a microscope, Marie François Xavier Bichat is remembered as the father of modern histology and pathology. An anatomist and physiologist, he initially worked in Lyon. During the Revolution, however, Bichat fled to Paris, where he accepted an appointment at the Hôtel-Hospitel Dieu in 1793.

At this time, the Hospitel employed the then large number of eight physicians and one hundred surgeons. Often housing more than 3500 patients, with up to six patients per bed, it gained the reputation of the most unhealthy and unhygienic hospital in France.

Political instability continued, with the memory of the French Revolution, followed by the execution of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, haunting the country. (Louis XVI’s diary entry for July 14th, 1789, says much with its brevity: Rien – nothing). During Bichat’s appointment, Napoleon was promoted to general, then married the creole Josephine in 1796. (Apparently reluctant, Josephine was encouraged in the match by her current lover). Two days later Napoleon marched off to conquer Italy.

Bichat lies buried at Père Lachaise Cemetery. Once a poor district haunted by outlaws, La Cité des Morts now boasts to being the world’s most visited cemetery. Amongst the 300,000 people buried here are Abélard and Héloîse, Proust, Bizet and Jim Morrison.

DUPYTREN (5/10/1777 – 8/2/1835)

Guillaume Dupytren became assistant surgeon at the Hôtel-Hospitel Dieu in 1803, Professor in 1811, then Chair of Clinical Surgery and Head Surgeon in 1816. He also established a benevolent institution for distressed physicians.

His appointments coincided with the Napoleon’s First Republic. Even those few parts of Europe Napoleon failed to conquer were influenced by Neoclassicism, and the high-waisted Empire Fashion. Then came the reactionary Congress of Vienna in 1815, establishing a balance of power which somehow lasted until 1914. Yet the ideas of liberalism, equality, nationalism and democracy could not be quenched, as witnessed by the insurrections of 1830 and again in 1848, when barricades and rioting blocked the streets of Paris.

DIEULAFOY (1870s)

Best known for his treatise on appendicitis, Dieulafoy’s triad – hyperesthesia of the skin, exquisite tenderness and guarding over McBurney’s point – is still memorised by medical students. At this time cholera outbreaks regularly swept through the overcrowded city. Partly for hygiene, but also to develop broad avenues allowing rapid troop movement (and to prevent rioters barricading narrow streets), Baron Haussmann began redesigning Paris. The slums surrounding the Hôtel-Hospitel Dieu on the Ile de la Cité, so vividly described in Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame, were levelled in 1864, and the present building begun in 1877.

To combat both disease and revolution, the Parisian sewers were modernized, and opened for public tours in 1867. Society ladies could be seen floating by in luxury sluice carts, steered by white-clad sewer men.

HARTMANN (1860-1952)

Hartmann’s appointment to the Hôtel-Hospitel Dieu proved eponymous: Hartmann’s procedure, Hartmann’s pouch, Hartmann’s critical point, Hartmann’s forceps, to name a few.

In 1874, a group of artists (including Monet, Degas and Pissaro) organised an exhibition in Paris, and Impressionism was born. Baron Haussman continued to beautify Paris, and in 1889, Eiffel built his temporary tower. The Dreyfus Affair of 1894 divided the country, leading to the rise of the Left and the separation of Church and State. (Consequently, the Augustine nuns left the Hôtel-Hospitel Dieu in 1908, where their order had tended the sick for centuries). This Golden Age of The Third Republic – La Belle Epoch – ended only with the First World War.

TODAY

The Hôtel-Hospitel Dieu remains a working hospital, with a special interest in ophthalmology and dermatology. It is also a perfect place to stay in the true heart of Paris, where the celtic Parisii founded a fishing village on a small island in the Seine over 2,000 years ago.

If You Go:

♦ Hôtel-Hospitel Dieu website
♦ Parisian visitors Bureau
♦ An institution not to be missed: shakespeareandcompany.com
♦ Time Out: a guide to all things Parisian

Ghosts of Paris: Private Evening Mystery Tour

About the author:
Anne Harrison lives with her husband, two children and numerous pets on the Central Coast, NSW. Her jobs include wife, mother, doctor, farmer and local witch doctor – covering anything from delivering alpacas to treating kids who have fallen head first into the washing machine. Her fiction has been published in Australian literary magazines, and has been placed in regional literary competitions. Her non-fiction has been published in medical and travel journals. Her ambition is to be 80 and happy. Her writings are available at anneharrison.com.au & anneharrison.hubpages.com

All photos are by Anne Harrison:
The towers of Notre-Dame
A typical Parisian market
The Arc de Triomphe, Symbol of Napoleon’s achievements
The inner courtyard of the Hôtel-Hospitel Dieu
Eiffel’s temporary tower

Moving from History to Legend Through Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo

by Anastasia Klimchynskaya 

On the 24th of February, 1815, the lookout of Notre-Dame de la Garde signaled the three-master, the Pharaon, from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples.”

Thus begins Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo, telling of the arrival of the ship Pharaon (bearing the novel’s protagonist, Edmond Dantes) into Marseille. By a strange coincidence, I arrive in Marseille on the 25th of February, almost exactly two centuries later. I had vowed to visit this sacred place ever since I’d read Alexandre Dumas’ novel at an impressionable young age – – and finally, here I am.

The Count of Monte Cristo is Dumas’ sweeping tale of love, betrayal, and, above all, revenge. But it is also the story of transformation, both of its protagonist, Edmond Dantes, and of the reader – and at the center of that story of transformation figures the Chateau d’If. Mentioned in a deceptive, throwaway line on the first page, as the Pharaon passes by it on its way into port, the island fortress comes to play a significant and symbolic role in the novel: imprisoned there for fourteen years, Edmond Dantes escapes through the means of a faked death, his symbolic resurrection transforming him into the eponymous Count of Monte Cristo and allowing him to pursue his revenge.

His transformation had, in a way, been mine as well. For The Count of Monte Cristo, despite its cliffhangers and breathless moments, also possesses a stunning ability to see into the essence of the human soul, and at my tender age of thirteen, it had become that story which, read in one’s youth, becomes the transformative tale that first gives one some understanding of the nature of the world. It was the novel that had spurred me to pursue a career of studying literature, and now, as a student of French literature studying abroad in France, I came to make a pilgrimage to the birthplace of the fictional character who had played a role in that transformation, and set me on the path I was to follow.

So far, I followed almost exactly in the footsteps of Edmond Dantes, but perhaps it would be just as fitting to say that I was following in the footsteps of Dumas. An avid traveler, Dumas wrote as widely as he journeyed, inspired both by the places he visited as by the stories, legends, and history he collected on his travels. The world was his plaything, an endless well of opportunities to transform history and reality into fiction; everywhere he went, words and stories sprang forth, until the original sources had become obscured by the wild, sweeping stories of intrigue, suspense, and humanity that he penned. Marseille was no exception; Dumas visited the town on numerous occasions, treading where his literary creation had supposedly walked and using it as fodder for his story. Dumas always had a knack for hanging the romance over the reality – a sterner reality that hits me square in the face as I emerged from the Marseille metro.

Here, as I mount the steps from the metro to the street, a bustle of cars and trams, the blinding light of the sun, and the shouts of the fish-sellers hit me squarely in the face. And yet there’s also a novelistic charm to the quay where I emerge; two centuries may have passed, but the feel of an important port town is almost the same as in Dumas’ day: the smell of salt and sea, the wind whipping my hair, the sellers of fish haggling, the busy fish market with its clusters of boats, their tall masts rising proudly to the sky like a forest of leafless trees.

My first order of business is to find a ferry.

This also happened to be almost exactly what Dumas had done – except that in his day one did not take ferries. Instead, standing on the quay, he demanded the first available boat, only to watch a transaction between two boatmen as one quite obviously purchased Dumas as a passenger from the other.

Dumas recounts how he attempted to reimburse his boatman for his own price, only to be informed “No, Monsieur Dumas, you don’t pay.” At his surprise at being recognized, the boatman replied, “If I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t have bought you.” As much as Dumas attempted to pay, the man refused, informing Dumas “You’re our breadwinner, with your Monte Cristo novel. We really should give you a pension for all the fares you provide for us from those who want so go to the Chateau d’If!”

Soon I’m on the ferry, my hair blowing in the salty breeze as I watch the harbor fade away beyond me. Looking back, I wonder if Edmond Dantes also looked back on his native city as he was taken away to the Chateau d’If. Did he watch it shrink and be lost from sight, thinking he might never see it again? It’s only belatedly that I remember that, indeed, Dantes looked back, seeing the light shining in the window of his beloved one last time. Did Dumas, too, on his trip, wonder about the fate that he’d condemned his protagonist to?

Finally, we approach the island harboring over the fortress, and I look over the side eagerly, recalling the foreboding words from the novel:

Dantes …saw rise within a hundred yards of him the black and frowning rock on which stands the Chateau d’If. This gloomy fortress, which has for more than three hundred years furnished food for so many wild legends, seemed to Dantes like a scaffold to a malefactor.”

True to his Romantic roots, Dumas’ description was properly gloomy, atmospheric and terrifying. It’s little like the impression I have, as I first glimpse the fortress and then step off the ferry onto the rock landing, breathing in the smell of salt and sea. The sun shines down, the fresh seawater lapping against the rocks. It’s early spring, not yet quite warm, but not cold either; above all, though, it’s the kind of weather that reminds me of warm summer vacations. Much like any reader of Dumas, I’ve allowed the story to overshadow reality, hoping to see a dark fortress on a stormy night.

I mount the craggy steps hopefully and enter eagerly, only to be confronted by a squat building of yellow stone, square in its shape and with short, stubby towers at each corner. The fortress itself is small centerpiece on the craggy island surrounding it, the ground around it pebbly and barren.

When I walk into the edifice itself, the first thing I chance upon is the gift shop, packed full of Dumas novels in a variety of languages, biographies of the author, musketeer figurines, and quills and ink, and again I’m confronted with Dumas’ uncanny ability to bring his creations to life in such a way that the lines between fiction and reality, history and story, legend and truth, are blurred. In his heyday – the heyday of the French Romantic novel, published in the newspapers – his fiction was enormously popular, the equivalent of the bestsellers today. Much like Arthur Conan Doyle, who, decades later, would be unable to escape the onslaught of letters addressed to “Sherlock Holmes,” Dumas too was inundated with enthusiasm for characters he’d invented, with readers traveling to the places where his characters had “lived” and adventured, mindless of the difference between fictional people and real ones.

The first time Dumas visited the Chateau d’If, he was a tourist as much as I, but rather than paying homage to a literary monument, he was visiting a historical one. Originally built in the 16th century by King Francis I to defend France from the sea, it had once been a military stronghold, then a prison. Set on an island off the coast of southern France, it was ideal for holding political prisoners from the various revolutions France experienced in the 19th century. During Dumas’ first visit, in fact, its claim to fame was that it had once housed Mirabeau, a writer, orator, and statesman from the time of the French Revolution.

But when Dumas returned, several decades later, after he’d become a famous novelist, all he saw here was the traces of this novel. This second time, he went incognito, such that the concierge told him the story of his own protagonist. Dumas admits that absolutely nothing was missing from the tale of Dantes’ escape as recounted by the unknowing man. When he left, Dumas presented the concierge with a certificate stating that his summary conformed perfectly to the novel itself.

Two hundred years later, little has changed. The shadow of Dumas’ story – and his marketability – hangs over every inch of the monument the way it did two hundred years ago, obscuring its historical significance. Stepping inside, I find myself in the courtyard of the fortress, and my first care is to find the “cell” of the Edmond Dantes – the same one, probably, that Dumas himself was shown as he was recounted the tale of his famous fictional prisoner. Blithely ignoring the historical reality that states that Dantes didn’t actually exist, everything here is rendered as closely to the novel as possible.

The cell itself is large, brightly lit with an electric light that illuminates every nook and cranny, but I have no doubt that with the door locked and the electric light shut off, the dark and windowless room would be a cold, lonely, gloomy prison. I run my fingers along the thick stone walls, wondering what it would be like to spend several decades here, with nothing but these walls and cold floor for company. Insanity seems like a likely outcome, and a quest for revenge even more so. There’s even a passageway dug between this cell and a neighboring one, that of the Abbe Faria – another of Dumas’ characters, the one who helped Dantes escape and taught him everything he’d need to know for his revenge. According to Dumas, it was already there on his visit a century and a half ago. It didn’t matter that there had been no Edmond Dantes or Abbe Faria; his spirit lingered there.

Having explored the cell itself, I wander around the rest of the chateau, climbing its three stories to the rooftop and gazing at far-off Marseille on the coast. Then I wander the rocky, barren island, passing the half-hour until the next ferry arrives to take visitors back. Lost in thought, I venture into the tall, wild grasses to gaze down at the sheer drop into the sea. Despite the warm sun illuminating the scene, there’s a hopelessness to these barren crags. Standing at the very edge, I reminisce about how Edmond Dantes escaped by being thrown into that very water as he played dead and wonder if perhaps I’d picked the exact spot from which they had thrown his body into the depths, unwittingly allowing him to escape.

As I take the ferry back to Marseille, my mind is equally lost in thought. Around me, tourists are enjoying sun and sea, seemingly unaware that such great literary adventures had happened just off the coast. But for me, this place is all about the book. When Dumas reread his own works on his deathbed, he admitted that he preferred The Three Musketeers to The Count of Monte Cristo – but, respectfully, I disagree. It is the Count who dropped into my life in the shape of a book, telling me a bittersweet story of being human – and, somehow, carefully, subtly, informing me of the way of the world. He’s the one that brought me to France, to study French literature in the same Paris where most of it was birthed. It is the nature of Dumas’ works that they simultaneously overshadow reality and capture its essence – and the fact that his story had taken me on a journey of thousands of miles to follow in the footsteps of a character who had only walked here in myth and fiction is testament to that fact.

Marseille Shore excursion: Private Full-Day tour in Aix en Provence – winery and Cassis

If You Go:

The Chateau d’If is located on a small island off the coast of Marseille in the south of France. Marseille can be easily reached by train or plane; to reach the island itself, you will need to take a ferry from the Old Port (Vieux Port). The ferries run multiple times a day and stop at several islands, including the Chateau d’If. Check the ferry schedules online ahead of time and bring a schedule with you so that you can time your visit to fit in between ferry departures (a suggested time to visit the fortress and island thoroughly is an hour). Tickets for entry to the fortress can only be purchased upon arrival at the island. The fortress is open every day during high season and every day except Monday during low season, but keep an eye on the weather – the ferries might not run due to inclement weather. Ferry schedules, fortress hours, ticket prices, and other details can be checked at the fortress’ website.

About the author:
Anastasia Klimchynskaya is a graduate student in literature and an avid traveler, two passions she combines into literary travel. She believes travel should be as adventurous as the books she brings along on the trip with her, and writes about her literary travel adventures in her blog at itinerantbookworm.wordpress.com.

Photo Credits:
Isle d’If Chateau and Marseille by Jan Drewes (www.jandrewes.de) / CC BY-SA
The Chateau d’If by Anastasia Klimchynskaya
Sign pointing to the cell of the ‘Count of Monte Cristo’ by Anastasia Klimchynskaya
A view of the fortress from the ferry by wpopp / CC BY-SA3
Faraway view of the fortress – Philippe Alès / CC BY-SA
The inside of the Count’s cell – Ask Nine / CC0
View of Marseille from the ferry by Anastasia Klimchynskaya

by Elizabeth von Pier 

All my life I have traveled with someone. First it was my husband, then after he died, various friends and family. So this was my first solo trip (at the age of sixty-something!). I was meeting family in Italy afterward so somehow that future connection made me feel more comfortable going alone to Paris. Also, I know the city fairly well. So, I rented an apartment for two weeks in the 6th arrondissement of Paris, the centrally located St. Germaine des Pres quartier, and set out for the adventure of a lifetime.

I found I enjoyed traveling alone because I could do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. But dining out was a problem for me because I don’t like to eat out alone. So, for the most part, my dinners were an assortment of take-out foods I got at various stalls and epiceries and I ate by the window of my apartment, watching the Parisian world go by.

My “home” in Paris was a third floor flat overlooking an upscale boulevard. Across the street were two popular and competing cafes, the Cafe de Flore and Les Deux Magots. One morning I watched them set up their tables and chairs getting ready to open for business as the homeless family who spent the night six feet away folded up their blankets, packed their belongings into a cart, cleaned up the debris, and set off down the street.

I typically started my day power-walking in Luxembourg Gardens [TOP PHOTO]. The flowers were still beautiful, even in October. I admired the statues of kings, queens, gods, goddesses, and cherubs holding urns filled with flowers. People picnic on the grass and lovers kiss. One couple was kissing my first time around the park, and was still at it my second time around. Sundays are the biggest day when everything steps up a notch. There are hundreds of joggers doing their laps, groups of people are practicing tai-chi, ponies are lined up waiting to take little ones for a ride, teens are rehearsing dance steps, families are waiting in line to get into the marionette show, children are at the edge of the pond sailing their toy boats, and bands are playing Israeli and other dance music. The big fountain at the southern end is turned on, with its ferocious-looking fish, turtles, horses and goddesses. I left smiling ear-to-ear.

I would pass the Eglise Saint Sulpice, known as the “Notre Dame of the left bank”, on my way to Luxembourg Gardens. Usually there were beggars near the door, holding out weather-worn hands for a few euros. Inside the church are beautiful Delacroix frescoes and outside in the piazza is an elaborate fountain. Little pre-schoolers played at the edge of the fountain laughing and squealing in French. As I walked by, I often heard the bells tolling, calling the faithful to services, a glorious sound to my ears.

On occasion, I got mistaken for a local as I pointed some lost tourists in the right direction. But on one of those days, my ego was quickly deflated when a group of art students doing a project on “integration” asked for a photo of me dancing with one of the male students (“integration” of the old and the young, I presume).

I took some time each day to visit one or two of the many attractions of this city. There are way too many to describe, but there were some that especially interested me. I flaneured (strolled) to the lovely Place des Vosges and the Musee Carnavalet, one of the mansion-museums owned by the City of Paris that are free to the public. I shopped at the bookstalls on the Seine and came upon an outdoor exhibit of avant-garde photography. Now I’m wondering if that photo of me dancing with the young student might someday show up in a public venue like this! And of course I walked the Champs d’Elysees, stopping in several car showrooms to see their prototypes and custom one-of-kind models.

It rained one night while I was reading in bed. It was a heavy downpour so I went to a window overlooking the boulevard and everything seemed to be shimmering. The shop windows displaying high fashion were all lit up and reflected in the wide wet sidewalks. And the raindrops looked like sparkling gold in the yellow street lights.

The Musee l’Orangerie has some beautiful works by Monet, including his water lilies. The canvases are magnificent, each 50 to 60 feet long and are mounted right onto the walls. The four paintings capture Monet’s garden in various light. The student quarter is an enjoyable area to wander and get lost in. Rue Mouffetard, one of Paris’ famous market streets with dozens of delightful specialty food shops, is in this area. Nearby is the Grand Mosque de Paris, awe-inspiring and tranquil with tiled arcades, a minaret and an interior patio garden modeled after the Alhambra in Spain.

One Saturday evening there was a free organ recital at Notre Dame. Being in that mammoth cathedral at night with its colossal stone pillars, dark side altars and images of the hunchback and the gargoyles up above was haunting. So was the music. I came back to the flat to see the homeless family across the street return to their usual spot. Later, feeling guilty with a full belly and looking down at them from my lovely, warm and comfortable apartment, I got dressed and went out to give the mother some euros. It was even worse than I thought. There were three sweet little cherubs all under four years old sprawled out, mouths open, sound asleep and snuggling next to her warm body.

There is a fabulous view from the open-air roof terrace of the Tour Montparnasse, a 59-story modern skyscraper and one of the most hated buildings in Paris. And you avoid the long lines at the Eiffel Tower. I strolled there leisurely and revisited some places I especially loved in the past–the Palais-Royal, a former palace that now houses lovely shops and cafes, Galerie Vivienne, one of Paris’s 19th century covered arcades; and the fabulous Opera House where I sat on the steps and listened to a street performer playing a violin.

I highly recommend going across the river to the Jewish quarter where there is a small take-out joint on rue des Rosiers that makes THE BEST felafel wraps loaded with veggies and sauce. You can’t miss it because there’s always a long line at the take-out counter on the street. Order your wrap and enjoy every morsel as you sit on the curb or lean against the building like everyone else.

One morning, I decided to check out the City Pharmacy close to my flat. French pharmacies are found on every block and identified by a neon green cross. They are both weird and delightful places where you can fill a prescription, but you can’t buy tampons or help yourself to Tylenol; it must be fetched for you by an official Pharmacist in a lab coat. And the walls are covered with shelves and shelves of skincare products, all claiming to re-hydrate, plump and re-rejuvenate. In every narrow aisle, there are at least two “assistants” to point out your flaws and help you spend your euros.

After listening to too much sales talk and feeling even worse than when I first went into the pharmacy, I went to lift my spirits at my favorite and, I think, the most beautiful bridge in Paris, the bronze lamp-lined Pont Alexandre III. Its elaborate decorations include Art Nouveau lamps, cherubs, nymphs, and, at either end, gold winged horses valiantly prancing atop large cement pillars.

The metro is the best way to get to Montmartre but keep in mind that you have to climb 180 steps to get out from underground. This area attracts bohemians and artists (and tourists) and is very charming with its steep hills and narrow cobbled streets. At the top is Sacred Coeur, a basilica that looks like a big cream puff. On weekends, wine flows, scrumptious foods are available, musicians play, people dance, street artists draw, and the shops do a booming business.

I have found the Parisians to be very polite, friendly and helpful. Whenever I needed help, I said “Bonjour, Madame/Monsieur. Parlez-vous Anglais?” And they always answered “just a leetle beet.” Then we proceeded en Anglais.

So my vacation at an end, I wrapped things up, packed my suitcase, and said a fond farewell to the nymphs in Luxembourg Gardens and the gargoyles on Eglise St. Sulpice. I thought about the homeless family who sleeps across the street and said a silent prayer for them as the bells of Eglise St. Germaine tolled.

Literary Paris: Private Book Lovers’ Tour

If You Go:

contact@apariscommechezsoi.com for apartment rental at 1 rue du Dragon, Paris.
La Coupole, 102 Boulevard du Montparnasse, 75014 Paris, France, tel. 33 1 43 20 14 20.

Ghosts of Paris: Private Evening Mystery Tour

About the author:
Elizabeth von Pier is a retired banker who has travelled extensively around the world. She typically travels with other women and brings that perspective to her writings. This, however, was her first solo trip. Ms. von Pier lives in Hingham, Massachusetts and has been published in TravelMag.co.uk and Journey Woman.

Photo credits:
Luxembourg Gardens by Jebulon / Public domain
Eglise Saint Sulpice by Mbzt / CC BY-SA
Notre Dame by Madhurantakam / CC BY-SA
Paris Metro station by DIMSFIKAS / CC BY-SA

by Emily Monaco

History, as it’s studied in school, can be a tough concept to wrap your head around. Centuries can be covered in days; weeks can be spent on one event. For many, the time when prehistoric man was living and roaming the caverns and fields and mountains of the Earth gets scrambled with the era of the dinosaurs. I had a hard time figuring out a real timeline when I was in high school history class. In fact, it’s only been in living history, in exploring the places where these things actually took place, pressing my hand against the wall of a building that once witnessed a revolution, a king’s court dance, a meeting of the French Resistance, that I’ve been able to understand, even a little bit, the events, the moments, the people that came before me.

But somehow, prehistory is harder to get a grasp on. How can you look at a place and imagine nothing, none of the buildings or houses or even roads, none of the modernity that seems to exist wherever you go today? It’s difficult, near impossible, and yet I found it much easier to wrap my head around the prehistory as I journeyed through Southern France.

The Aude department of France is a region that seems to exist out of time anyway. Nearly everywhere you look, you can frame the views to exclude the houses, the cultivated grapevines, to see just rolling hills, the Pyrenees Mountains in the background and the stone caves hidden within the valleys and cliffs that pervade the landscape. While calling prehistoric man a caveman is a misnomer, it is, in fact, within one of these caves, the Caune de l’Arago or Arago Cave, that Tautavel Man was discovered in the 1960s.

Tautavel Man is a 450,000-year-old fossil, a proposed subspecies of Homo erectus, one of our true ancestors. I find it incredibly hard to fathom the time between when he was born and when I was, and yet that’s the point of the museum in the town of Tautavel, which explores the discoveries uncovered in the cave and offers a unique view of life in this region at Tautavel Man’s time.

The exhibits are the result of several historical digs in the cave at Arago, which was occupied for nearly 200,000 years. The first evidence of prehistoric life in the caves was uncovered in 1828 – the same period when the street rebellions featuring in Les Misérables were taking place in Paris. Here, though, with the clear views over the hills and the mountains, time seems to collapse onto itself. It’s easy to imagine, as you peer at the photos of the digs, the reconstructions of the caves within the museum, that these discoveries are happening right now, and even, that this is the view that Tautavel Man had from the space he called home.

The museum is split into two portions: the first is in the village and offers an exploration of the tools and shelters created by Tautavel man and his contemporaries. Visiting this portion of the museum first allows you to experience some of the wonder that the first archaeologists excavating in the cave above did.

This portion of the museum is the perfect introduction for what will follow. These tools in mind, this life of hunting, gathering, preparing food and seeking shelter is only highlighted as you ascend on foot to the top of the hill overlooking the town, towards the second museum, home to a great variety of dioramas, interactive displays and videos, explaining not only what Tautavel man’s life was like but what this part of the country was like. Leaving the museum, the scenery below looks completely different as you imagine animals more often associated with the African plains roaming what is now mostly cultivated grapevines.

The museum is ideal for visits with kids, complete with activities in the summer including teaching participants how to throw a spear or make fire out of stones and moss. But even for adults, these activities are essential to gaining a true glimpse of life in the time of Tautavel Man.

But while Tautavel allows you to explore man’s daily life 450,000 years ago, his tools his food, his technical ability to survive, Lascaux, just a bit to the north, allows you to understand what makes man truly man: art.

It is in Lascaux that, in 1940, three local teenagers accidentally stumbled upon prehistoric cave paintings, changing the way that we perceive of these “cave” men forever. Soon after their discovery, experts identified the paintings as Paleolithic art, some of the earliest to have ever been discovered. The paintings are far more recent than Tautavel man, at 17,300 years old, and they have long been a draw to this region, not far from Limoges, where art still remains an important element of local life due to the tradition of Limoges porcelain.

I went to Lascaux to visit the caves, but like all visitors since the 1960s, I actually visited Lascaux II, a replica of the original cave, which was closed when experts realized that lichen had become prevalent due to the frequency of visits and risked destroying the paintings. But visiting Lascaux II is not discouraging; after buying our tickets in the village of Montignac below and driving up to the caves, we are taken on a journey through time.

Visits to Lascaux are always guided. At first, this seems strange – the journey only takes place along a few meters – but soon, you realize why this is necessary. Glance at the paintings, and you’ll see something: a representation of an animal that seems familiar, a use of color that seems to stay in the realm of rust, brown, tan, black. But with the guide, the reality of the brilliance of these paintings comes to life.

The guide goes into details that never would have occurred to me over the next 45 minutes: how the paints were made by the artist, who shows considerable skill in representing the animals that existed around him including horses, cattle and stags. As we wander through the caves, I almost forget that this is a facsimile, until the guide explains the feat of reproducing the caves using a concrete base and the recreation of the same sorts of paints that would have been used for the originals. Lascaux II is accurate up to a couple of millimeters to the original.

But even more important than the how of the Lascaux caves is the why. It’s a question that has plagued artists for centuries – and now, we know, for millennia. Why did the artist decide to portray these scenes of life, of the things that surrounded him? What was the impetus for the cave paintings of Lascaux?

These questions only lead to more questions, even amongst experts. Why, for example, are there no reindeer displayed, when this was the principal food source for the artists? How talented must the painters have been to be able to use perspective to create a sense of depth? How did they know what rhinoceros were? There must have been some in this area, though it seems impossible to imagine, just as it did in Tautavel.

While all of these questions bring us closer to the answer, none answers it. Today, some researchers claim that the paintings are prehistoric star charts, guides to the summer night sky and what we would later call the zodiac. Others say that the work is religious or spiritual, conceived from visions experienced during trance dancing.

Whatever the paintings mean, they give us a key to understanding the thoughts and feelings of some of our furthest ancestors, from a time before there was history, before there was writing. It seems impossible to fathom: we are so close that we can touch the walls of these caves, cool and solid, and yet the men and women who made these paintings could not speak to us, write to us.

I wonder if it’s not something I’m meant to understand completely. Perhaps it’s the dark, or the bodies of people I don’t know pressed up against mine as we move through the narrow passages. Perhaps it’s the fact that, after thousands of years, these paintings can still convey their effect. Here, walking through these caves, I feel, as I did overlooking Tautavel man’s backyard, as though we are one and the same. As though this is, truly, our shared history.

If You Go:

Tautavel Museum
Avenue Gregory, Tautavel
Open Mon.- Sun., 10am-12:30pm and 2pm-6pm
Lascaux Caves
Place Bertrand de Born, Montignac (ticket office)
(Directions will be given to reach the caves by car)
Open Mon.- Sun., 9:30am-6pm, 9am-7pm July and August

Lascaux IV and The Art of the Caves in Sarlat

About the author:
Emily Monaco is a born-and-raised New Yorker based in Paris. After pursuing a Masters degree in 19th century French literature – and many years of trying – she has come to the conclusion that she will likely never be French. She has since devoted herself full-time to writing about food, drink and culture shock for various publications and on her blog, Tomato Kumato. She also offers guided tours of Paris’ food, wine and literary haunts. Emily is always on the lookout for an excellent cup of American coffee, a good beer and fantastic cheese.

Photo credits:
Cave painting of animals in Lascaux by Jack Versloot / CC BY
The view from the top of Tautavel (Emily Monaco)
Overlooking the valley below Tautavel (Emily Monaco)
A statue of Tautavel Man outside the Tautavel Museum (Emily Monaco)
Archaeologists excavating in the Arago Cave by Gerbil / CC BY-SA
A demonstration at the museum of how Tautavel Man made fire (Emily Monaco)
Cave painting of animals in Lascaux Lascaux / Public domain
Village of Montignac, below Lascaux caves (Emily Monaco)
Guided tour of the Lascaux caves (Emily Monaco)

I had come to Fontainebleau doubtful of the merits of visiting French palaces. On my first visit to France I had toured Versailles, and any notions I had had of sweeping across luxurious rooms were dashed when my feet hit the expansive gravel entrance and I was bumped aside by a tour leader holding an umbrella high above her head.

Once inside Versailles, things improved slightly: the grandness and the opulence were there, but I did not sweep along the rooms as much as I was herded, pushed along in a sea of other tourists, all holding their cameras in front of their faces. During my visit, the Hall of Mirrors was under such heavy construction that I walked straight through that heralded place without realizing where I was. A friend dragged me back in, and I held my camera up and took an obligatory picture. I still have that photo of my foggy reflection, blurred from the dust coating the hall’s solitary uncovered mirror, my lips pursed, drop sheets festooned behind me.

Years later, on the eve of my next trip to France, a friend I was meeting sent me an e-mail that contained three words: Château de Fontainebleau? Some quick research told me Fontainebleau was a palace used by French royalty, about 45 minutes from Paris. I was skeptical, feeling that visiting would mean long lines and vast car parks, but my friend insisted, so to Fontainebleau we went.

My first impressions were favorable. Fontainebleau is one of the largest palaces in France, and its attractive buildings are bordered by expansive gardens and, farther on, the Forest of Fontainebleau. One enters through the Yard of the White Horse and is immediately struck by the château’s large horseshoe staircase. No gravel and not a tour group in sight.

Kings and Emperors

A château first stood on the site during the 12th century and served as a hunting lodge for the kings of France. In 1169, Thomas Becket, the exiled Archbishop of Canterbury, consecrated the site’s chapel to the Virgin Mary and Saint Saturnin. Numerous French kings visited and expanded the château, and in December of 1539, Fontainebleau, by then far larger and more luxurious than a simple hunting lodge, played host to Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor. His son, Henry II of France, was a frequent visitor, and Henry’s wife Catherine de Medici gave birth to six of their children within the château. Hunting parties continued to be held at Fontainebleau, marriages were arranged and conducted, a peace treaty between France and England was signed on 16 September 1629, and over a century later Louis XVI signed a trade agreement with England, effectively signaling the end of the American Revolutionary War. Monarchs, royals, and heads of state all visited the château, but Fontainebleau’s most famous resident did not arrive until 1803.

Napoleon first visited the Château de Fontainebleau to inspect the newly finished military academy, École Spéciale Militaire. By the beginning of the 19th century, the château had fallen into disrepair; the vast majority of its furnishings had been sold during the French Revolution, and Fontainebleau was left empty and neglected. Napoleon chose to leave Versailles–with its Bourbon links–vacant and instead turned his attention to transforming Fontainebleau once again into a home and symbol of power.

More than any of the French kings who lived there before him, Napoleon completely refurbished Fontainebleau and restored it to its former grandeur. He is responsible for multiple structural changes, including widening the château’s cobblestone entrances in order to allow his carriage to pass through. Pope Pius VII stopped at Fontainebleau in 1804 when he came to crown Napoleon Emperor of the French at Notre Dame Cathedral. He returned to Fontainebleau as Napoleon’s prisoner in 1812 and remained in the château until 1814. Napoleon visited Fontainebleau regularly, hosting visitors and signing treaties within its walls. It was at Fontainebleau where, on 20 April 1814, Napoleon gave his famous farewell to his Old Guard and signed the Treaty of Fontainebleau, resigning from power in what is now known as the Abdication Room before being exiled to the island of Elba.

After his escape from Elba, Napoleon would return to Fontainebleau just once more, for a span of a few hours during the Hundred Days. Fontainebleau would become one of the favorite courts of his nephew, Napoleon III, who carried out the château’s final major structural changes with his wife Eugénie.

Architecture, Art, and Arbors

Less widely known and visited than Versailles, Fontainebleau still offers the same degree of beauty and splendor. Its long history and renovations by generations of rulers has meant that Fontainebleau’s sprawling palace showcases examples of French architecture from the 12th to 19th centuries. Its most defining feature is its grand horseshoe staircase, commissioned by Louis XIII (who was born in the palace) and built by Jean Androuet du Cerceau. The majority of the château’s current buildings were constructed in the 14th century under Francis I, whose architect Gilles de Breton created much of the Cour Ovale, the château’s oldest and most central courtyard.

Inside the château, numerous rooms hold historic and artistic significance. The longest room in the château, the Gallery of Diana, was turned into a library by Napoleon III and now holds approximately 16,000 volumes, many from the library of Napoleon I. Two sumptuous boudoirs of Marie Antoinette reveal the opulence of Fontainebleau; in keeping with the fascination of exoticism at the time, they contain numerous Turkish items and motifs. Several private rooms of Napoleon I are on view as well, including his official bedroom, while the Room of the Empress has been restored to how it would have looked when Josephine was a resident. A large collection of furniture, art pieces, costumes, and documents from the imperial family are displayed within the château’s Napoleon I museum. The Napoleon III Theatre, one of the finest examples of Second Empire theatres, has been recently restored and now hosts occasional shows.

Fontainebleau, with its combination of Italian and French artistic styles, is considered by many to be the birthplace of the Renaissance within France. Much of the palace reflects the Italian Mannerist style, popular during the later years of the Renaissance and now widely known as the “Fontainebleau style.” The palace’s Gallery of Francis I, which is dominated by Florentine artist Rosso Fiorentino’s series of frescoes, was the first large decorated gallery to be created in France. Other Renaissance painters who contributed to the art at Fontainebleau include Francesco Primaticcio and Benvenuto Cellini; the latter’s Nymph of Fontainebleau is now housed at the Louvre.

Beyond the palace’s rooms are Fontainebleau’s grounds, which contain four courtyards, three main gardens and span over 130 hectares. Of the gardens, the Grand Parterre is the largest formal garden in Europe and was Louis XIV’s most significant addition to Fontainebleau. The Cour d’Honneur, now often known as the Cour des Adieux, is the courtyard in which Napoleon gave his farewell speech to his soldiers. In addition, the grounds include a canal, manicured French and English-style gardens, an orange grove, and numerous fountains and statues.

Today, Fontainebleau is home to the Écoles d’Art Américaines, an American school that teaches architecture, art, and music. The remains of the vast royal hunting grounds, now known as the Forest of Fontainebleau, continue to surround the château and are home to numerous rare plant and animal species. The forest is also famed for its rock climbing opportunities. Alpine climbers have used the surrounding boulders to train for mountain climbing since the 19th century, and today the area is one of the largest and most famous bouldering sites in the world.

With its long line of royal residents, its importance to Napoleon, and its numerous works of art, Fontainebleau offers one of France’s best opportunities to see a palace heavy on history and beauty, but light on crowds and commercialism.

Fontainebleau Vaux le Vicomte Full Day Private Guided Tour from Paris

If You Go:

The Palace of Fontainebleau is located approximately 55 kilometers southeast of Paris. To travel by rail from the main line of Gare de Lyon, take a train for Montargis Sens, Montereau or Laroche-Migennes, alighting at the Fontainebleau-Avon stop. From there, the “Ligne A” bus runs regularly to the palace; alight at the “Château” stop.

The château itself is open every day except for Tuesdays, 1 January, 1 May, and 25 December. The palace’s official website provides a wealth of information for planning visits.

About the author:
Christine is an explorer, scientist, and writer. She has lived in the United States, Europe, and Central America and is currently pursuing a graduate degree. When not studying, she enjoys traveling, particularly to off-the-map locales.

All photos by Christine Sarikas.

Arras, France

by Anne Harrison

On the 8th September 1916, my great-uncle died from wounds suffered during the Battle of the Somme. Second Lieutenant Henry Byron, 1st/5th Battalion, South Lancashire Regiment, was twenty-two. His brother – my grandfather – enlisted at the age of fourteen, had a kidney shot out in Ypres, contracted TB while convalescing, and was shipped home with six months to live. Deciding escape was the only way to survive the miasmas of war-time Liverpool, he worked his way to Australia, jumped shipped in Perth, and died at the age of ninety two. He could never bring himself to return to France and visit his beloved brother’s grave.

In contrast to the American Army, which built large cemeteries for their war dead, the Commonwealth Forces tried to bury their soldiers near where they fell. Consequently, this area of France is dotted with cemeteries. Uncle Harry rests in Dartmoor Cemetery, Becordel-Becourt, not far from Arras.

The landscape here is flat, and has been farmed – and fought over – for centuries. Tilled land spreads in all directions, dotted by the occasional stone farmhouse, a church spire, a copse of trees. Shrapnel from the war still surfaces each season as the fields are farmed. The heavy soil stuck to my shoes, and all too easily turns to mud. A confusion of back roads loop and intersect through small villages, where horse-drawn carts are still in use.

Arras is a medieval town of cobbled streets and limestone tunnels. From the end of 1914 until early 1918, the Western Front (which stretched from Belgium to the Mediterranean) was never more than three kilometres away, and the town itself was occupied and nearly destroyed. Much of the town was rebuilt in traditional style, and Arras is now World Heritage Listed by UNESCO.

Since medieval times, the main square – Le Place des Héros – has been home to a market, and now every Saturday stalls of meats, poultry, cheeses, fruits de mer and all manner of fresh produce spill over the cobbled stones and into the surrounding streets. Le Place des Héros is dominated by the gothic Hôtel de Ville. For anyone brave enough to climb the Belfry and face the bleak winds, the entire countryside is on display, and on a clear day Paris is visible. Not surprisingly, this was used by both civilians and the military for viewing the progress of the war.

Beneath the Hôtel de Ville is an entrance to the Boves, or medieval tunnels. The origin of the name is uncertain; however, from the 10th century limestone was quarried here, until the practice was moved outside the city amidst fears the town would collapse. The tunnels run along five different levels, at times up to twenty meters deep. Most of the buildings on Le Place des Héros have their own entrance, now used mainly as cellars or for storage (and an exquisite restaurant, La Faisanderie, perfect after a day touring the battlefields).

Despite the cold and damp – the tunnels remain at a constant 11º C, with 80% humidity and no sunlight – people lived here in medieval times. In WWI, New Zealand Royal Engineers (complete with canaries in cages) extended the tunnels so troops could move in secrecy to emerge near the German front line. Up to 24,000 men could be concealed, and the remnants of electrical lighting, makeshift kitchens and even latrines are still visible. Tunnels were divided into those for foot traffic, hand-drawn trolleys and a light rail system. Casualties were moved with relative safety, and a field hospital (complete with operating theatre) was established underground.

After a few hours spent touring the battlefields, the number of lives lost becomes mind numbing. (An organized tour helps give some structure to the mayhem of the First World War.) The Battle of the Somme commenced on the 1st July 1916. On the first day, some 20,000 men died; this figure does not include those, like Uncle Harry, who were to later succumb to their wounds. By this stage of the war, some generals on both sides had come to accept a loss of 1:1 as a good result. Reflecting this, the Franco-British Thiepval Monument is simply huge, largely to accommodate the names of the 73,367 British soldiers with no known grave. The country of Newfoundland never recovered from the loss of men, leading to its absorption by Canada in the 1920s.

In an attempt to break the ongoing stalemate of the war, in March 1918 the Germans launched another offensive to capture Amiens (which, being near the sea, was vital for supplies). As a consequence, the small town of Villers-Bretonneux was captured in the world’s first battle between two tanks forces: British Mark IVs against the German A7Vs. After a house-to-house battle, Australian soldiers liberated the village on 24th April 1918, at a loss of some 1200 Australians. Amiens was never captured, and the German front line began to recede, leading to the Armistice of 1918. Many historians see the liberation of Villers-Bretonneux as a turning point of WWI.

Although nearly a century has passed, pictures of kangaroos and slouched hats fill the town, and there is even a Restaurant le Kangarou. The main road is Rue de Melbourne, and the Australian flag flies atop the Australian National Memorial, which lists the 10,982 Australian soldiers with no known grave. ANZAC Day is celebrated here every year. The first floor of the school (a gift in the 1920’s from the school children of Victoria to the children of the town) houses the Franco-Australia Museum. Above every blackboard are the words N’oublions jamais l’Australie – Never forget Australia.

The Canadian National Vimy Memorial encompasses a 250 acre battlefield park, which includes the area of the Battle of Vimy Ridge (9th April, 1917). Both Allied and German trenches have been preserved, and it is still possible to walk along them. The trenches never ran in a straight line, and had alcoves at regular intervals for shelter from bombs and snipers. Some barbed-wire stakes remain; earlier ones with only one hole, and a later design which could hold three stands of barbed wire. These also had the advantage of having a screw on the base, allowing them to be silently screwed into the heavy soil, and not hammered.

Uncle Harry’s grave is in a corner of the small Dartmoor Cemetery, which began as Becordel-Becourt Military Cemetery in 1915. It has only 768 (762 identified) WWI Commonwealth burials. In September 1916, the XV Corps Main Dressing Station was established nearby, and it is here Uncle Harry died. Surrounded by fields, Dartmoor Cemetery is now a peaceful spot, overlooked by most tourists, for there are so many cemeteries, and so many memorials to the War To End All Wars.

Full-Day Canadian WW1 Somme Battlefield Tour from Arras

If You Go:

♦ www.ot-arras.fr – Official Arras Tourism website (in French)
♦ www.arras.fr – Another website with an English option, but not as detailed
♦ www.westernfronttours.com.au – A web search brings up many companies which run WWI / WWII battle tours. Most are British. Based in Arras, Western Front Tours is run by an Australian who has an extensive knowledge of WWI, and happily modified our tour (of only four persons) to include a visit to Uncle Harry’s gravesite.
♦ www.awm.gov.au – Official site of The Australian War Memorial, with a database for searching for overseas graves
♦ www.restaurant-la-faisanderie.com – If in Arras, try this restaurant. Simply superb.

Small-Group Day Trip to Arras and Vimy Ridge WW1 Battlefields from Paris

About the author:
Anne Harrison lives with her husband, two children and numerous pets on the Central Coast, NSW. Her jobs include wife, mother, doctor, farmer and local witch doctor – covering anything from delivering alpacas to treating kids who have fallen head first into the washing machine. Her fiction has been published in Australian literary magazines, and has been placed in regional literary competitions. Her non-fiction has been published in medical and travel journals. Her ambition is to be 80 and happy. Her writings are available at anneharrison.com.au and anneharrison.hubpages.com

Photos credits:
Arras street by Peter H from Pixabay
All other photos by Anne Harrison:
Many WWI trenches remain today
Tunnels in the Boves
Uncle Harry’s grave