All quiet at Le Quesnoy

With strong links to New Zealand, and to Cambridge especially, Le Quesnoy was a 'must visit'. Surely we'd only have to wave our passports to be welcomed with open, gesticulating arms, or kisses on both cheeks ... or an invite to lunch with the Mayor even.

About 70 km from Arras, Le Quesnoy was famously liberated - by scaling the steep fortress walls -by New Zealand troops from its German occupation at the very end of World War I. Liberated, what's more, without destruction, ensuring the eternal gratitude of the town's residents. Some 90 Kiwi soldiers died in the attempt.

Unfortunately, we managed to arrive in this sleepy town just on midday, in time to hear the town's bells playing Bach's 'Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring'.

We walked to La Maison Quercitaine de Nouvelle-Zelande. Shutters were drawn. We tried the Office Tourisme. Doors locked. Oh well, no handshake from the mayor then. Like much of France, Le Quesnoy slumbers from 12 till 2.

There was plenty of evidence of the town's historical link with New Zealand on its walls though. And there was one boulangerie open, so all ended well.

This trip brought to an end our relationship with our lease car, the Peugeot, and its formidable GPS 'voice', The Lady.  As in any relationship, we had weathered ups and downs over the three weeks, but it was with a tinge of regret that we handed back the car at Sodexa's Calais depot before boarding the Eurostar to London. We have plenty more adventures to come on this trip, but they will be without the guidance of The Lady.

Mort pour la France

We Kiwis have been fed  a steady diet of films, novels and family stories suggesting that, for many young men, going off to war was A Great Adventure. Our sense of nationhood was apparently forged in the heat of battle at Anzac Cove on the Gallipoli peninsula. The Anzac Day service there is now almost an obligatory item on the OE agenda. 


Going off to war may well have been a great adventure for young New Zealanders. Being overrun by war, though, was a personal and national tragedy for the French people.

We are spending a few days in Arras before crossing the Channel to London. Arras was part of the Western Front during World War I and was also the site of  a major British offensive  designed to bring the war to an end. Well, no need to state the obvious.


The New Zealand Division, 15,000 soldiers, arrived on the scene in September 1916. And 2,000 of them died within the month. My grandfather, Wilfred, and his brother Roy sailed from Wellington in May 1916 as part of the NZ Rifle Brigade. I have a photo of these two handsome young men in uniform; no doubt they visited the Wellington photography studio to make sure their mother had something to remember them by. My Grandad returned within a year and lived till his late 70s, a hard-working small time orchardist in Hastings. Roy was one of the unfortunate 2,000.

War graves at Estaires cemetery

His grave in the small Estaires Communal Cemetery has been immaculately maintained by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. And he does have his name on a headstone; over half of those New Zealanders who died on the Somme have no known grave.


I didn't know what to expect, or how I would feel, when we visited his grave yesterday. A family member I never knew who has been dead for nearly 100 years ... 


I guess seeing his grave became a very personal way of absorbing the impersonal and obscene figures thrown at us at every war museum or memorial we have visited this week. For instance: Six in ten French men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-eight died or were permanently maimed in World War I.


However, I came away feeling regretful. I am the only remaining child of an only child on my mother's side of the family...I must be the first of the family to visit this unknown man's grave, and I suspect I will be the only one. It's hard to imagine that our two 20-something sons will feel any connection. And there is no one else in the entire world who is related to Roy Wilkie Saywell. 

Vimy Ridge memorial

The Canadian war memorial at Vimy Ridge also deals in huge numbers. The battle to take this unassuming looking ridge not far from Arras has become Canada's own symbol of nationhood.  The monument itself is remarkable,beautiful and surprisingly peaceful...which was the intent of its designer. More about this memorial


The really interesting story about this monument is that, in World War II, rumours of its destruction by the invading Germans were rife, and widely reported as fact in western newspapers. Hitler himself paid a visit to Vimy Ridge in 1940, was apparently taken by the memorial's message of peace, and it remained intact throughout the war.

The Battle of Arras, though another criminal waste of young lives (the British commanders' tactics weren't the best when it counted), was one in which New Zealanders played a crucial part. We visited the excellent La Carriere Wellington 20 metres below the city of Arras. These medieval chalk cellars were chosen by the Allied commanders  as the place to gather 23,000 soldiers before the surprise offensive against the Germans. 

This is Wellington, looking towards Auckland...

A group of experienced New Zealand miners were called up and became the NZ Engineers Mining Company. Their task was to enlarge these underground caverns and create a series of interconnecting tunnels. Which they did superbly. So, deep underground in northern France, we were led through caverns named Wellington, Auckland, Blenheim, Waitomo...and were made to feel quite special because of our nationality. It was a remarkable experience. 

Last word on this awful war goes  to Siegfried Sassoon, who was wounded at the battle of Arras:

The General

"Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
"He’s a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

Paris comes to a standstill

After getting ourselves up close and personal with an earlier stage of the Tour de France, we weren't too sure what to expect when we returned to Paris for the final day of racing on Sunday. Was it madness to contemplate viewing the race from the Champs-Elysees along with hordes of others? Given that we're heading off to the Olympics in London in a few days, when most sane Londoners will be clearing out, perhaps our foray into the City of Love would be useful experience...

As it turned out, this was a fantastic day to be in Paris. The hordes were there of course, most of them lining up to visit the Louvre when we were considering this option to fill in the morning. Plan B (actually MY Plan A) had been to lose myself in the Forum des Halles, the vast underground shopping centre that was once Les Halles, the city's wholesale food market. It was closed, though.

Never too young to start training!

A stroll from the Louvre over to the Jardin de Tuileries mid-morning gave us the chance to scope out the best place for race-watching. We settled on a spot in the gardens overlooking the Rue de Rivoli. Just on the other side of the Place de la Concorde from the Champs-Elysees and about 500 metres from the finish line.

There are thousands (this may not be hyperbole) of heavy green metal chairs scattered around the gardens. Two of these found their way to our spot and we set up camp alongside two other couples of a certain vintage. Introductions made, the three couples from the UK, Norway and New Zealand settled down to spend the next ...five...hours waiting for the cyclists to arrive.

Another pic of Bruce waiting for cyclists to pass by, though no Stubbies this time

When the action did arrive, it was  so exciting. The cyclists did eight (I think) laps of the sprint circuit. By the time they whizzed by us for the final time, Bradley Wiggins was leading the Sky Train - and just about to launch Mark Cavendish to the finish line.

What an amazing finish to an amazing Tour. 

I can't believe I'm writing this... the girl who stopped going to PE in the 4th form (by hiding in the school hall) and who made reserve for her primary school's D netball team, waxing lyrical about a sporting event? (The great irony of my young life was falling for a sporty chap who grew up to become  a PE teacher!)

I digress. Somewhat. Enough said. Here's a picture to prove this blog hasn't been a figment of my over-rested brain...Au revoir.

Sabbatical = no sowing, no pruning

"Six years thou shalt sow thy field, and six years thou shalt prune thy vineyard, and gather in the fruit thereof;  But in the seventh year shall be a sabbath of rest unto the land, a sabbath for the Lord: thou shalt neither sow thy field, nor prune thy vineyard."

Leviticus 25. 

God's words to Moses on Mt Sinai make good agricultural sense - resting the land occasionally ensures greater productivity. Driving past vast tracts of French farmland gives us the impression that land is deliberately left fallow here...New Zealand countryside seems to be much more intensively farmed by comparison. NOT that I know much about farming, so will stop right here!

I can do words though.The meaning of sabbatical is derived from the word sabbath, which also makes sense. After six years, or seven or eight, in the classroom it is timely to let the mind lie fallow. No sowing, no pruning. I'm translating this to mean 'no preparation, no marking'.

And what bliss it is to be on sabbatical and to be free for a term (or two!) from these two constants of teaching.

What a sabbatical DOES provide is time. Time to read. Time to walk. Time to travel.

Time to think of very little, or to consider more weighty matters (something Bruce is very good at). Time to reflect. And time to make plans for the future.

I'm very appreciative of this gift of time and would like to say thanks to the St Peter's School Trust Board and to the Principal for the opportunity to let my brain lie fallow awhile. 

Just one point though. Leviticus suggests one year's rest after seven years. Any chance of following this Biblical example?

Tour de France - It's SO not about the bike ...

Today was our final full day in Limeuil, but we had always planned to spend it catching up with the Tour de France. Stage 18 conveniently passed only 70-odd km from the Dordogne region. Bruce has spent many happy hours on Google Earth researching the route and finding the best place to see the action; the spot he chose was on the D19 as it curved around the Lac du Causse, 15 km from the finish line in Brive-la-Gaillarde.

  As we know, life is all about the journey. The destination, especially when I'm navigating, can be a pleasant bonus. But our leased car - a Peugeot 308 - has an inbuilt GPS system. Translation: There's a woman in the car who constantly tells the driver what to do...and it's not me!

Limeuil is in the middle of the countryside. The Tour de France also tends to gobble up the countryside. So the best way to get from Countryside Point A to Countryside Point B was to listen to The Lady.

Curiously, she must have been aware of the nature of today's excursion. The route she chose was more or less as the crow would have flown (if it were interested in the Tour de France, of course). But The Lady chose to send us along some rather interesting 'roads'. Black tarmac and white dotted lines soon disappeared and we found ourselves trundling along cyclepath-width lanes, with the occasional detour onto what looked more like footpaths. Once the road name goes to three numbers (as in the D 184E), expect to give way to pedestrians...

All credit to The Lady, though; she took us precisely where we needed to go. We found ourselves an excellent viewing spot by early afternoon. 

When in France...read Albert Camus!

And it wasn't long before the circus arrived. Not the riders, just the pre-show entertainment: an endless convey of decorated trucks, cars and floats promoting  sponsors' products - interspersed with gendarmes on fast motorbikes. Kids, young and old, scrambled to catch the freebies tossed from moving vehicles. There was plenty to keep us entertained for the three hours or so until the announcement "cinq kilometers!"

Jeremy Roy, a French rider, led the blur of colours past our corner. His leading group of three was closely followed by two other riders.... and the peleton - the main bunch - would have been only 30 seconds behind them. After over 200 km of racing, they were tightly bunched. 

The stage had an exciting finish: with only 300 or so metres  to go, Mark Cavendish sprinted from nowhere to cross the line - his second stage win of this Tour. 


We were oblivious to this excitement of course; back in the car, The Lady had found us some different cycle paths for the return journey to Limeuil.

Vive la Revolution!

Bastille Day, July 14, marks the birth of the French Republic in 1789. This year, the national day fell on a Saturday, so it has been a weekend of celebration. On Friday, we watched the setting up of two massive marquees. In a medieval village, with no access for trucks or trailers, this involved an inordinate number of men, 16 at least, carrying the top section of each marquee down to the Port (the riverside area). On arrival, and before the rest of each marquee was assembled, there was the obligatory greeting, each bloke kissing the cheek of the others (you know, mwah mwah). Some time later ...

By Saturday evening when we wandered down the hill from Limeuil-haut, the party was well under way. We joined others in the heavy rain, bought our tickets then exchanged them at the catering tent for moules, a steaming bowl of mussels in their shells, cooked with onions.  Mmm, yes. And frites with mayonnaise, double yes! There was a DJ lined up for later in the evening. Sunday evening's tent meal was described as a banquet of local delicacies. We stayed with chez Richards for chops and salad but kept ourselves awake for the evening's highlight, the fireworks display, at 11pm.

What a spectacle! Because Limeuil is at the confluence of two rivers, the two arched bridges nearly abut at right angles. These bridges were lit as part of the display, which lasted a good 15 minutes. Then it was time for families to gather rugs, wine bottles, chairs and babies, and take themselves home.

It's so tempting to draw conclusions and make generalisations about other cultures when you're travelling - based on only small glimpses of those other lives - but I was struck by the family atmosphere evident during both evenings. Celebrating one's national holiday is treated seriously; small children were formally dressed, and were very much a part of the occasion.

Funnily enough, there were no signs banning alcohol consumption in public places, nor was there evidence of law enforcement officers ... or of drunkenness.

Just families celebrating their national day .

The highs and lows of the Vezere valley

Limeuil is at the confluence of two rivers: the well-known Dordogne and the smaller Vezere (wish I could do French accents!). Both rivers were important transport routes in the past. Hence those drunken boatmen who were dragged up the hill to la Maison de la Justice to face the consequences of their revelries. (I think of this every time I venture into the cave under the house to do battle with the washing machine. This cellar was the lock-up.) Tomorrow, we will be investigating the Vezere from the water (hiring a double kayak for a 2-hour trip).

Yesterday, though, we explored above and below ground.

The Vezere is a UNESCO World Heritage Site because of its numerous prehistoric caves. There was a flurry of activity in the area after discoveries of cave painting and humanoid remains in the 19th century. The best-known cave system, Lascaux, was closed in the 1960s after they realised the thousands of tourists passing through had brought in bacteria that threatened the 17,000 year old paintings. Lascaux II is an exact, hugely popular reproduction of the original cave. People book tickets months in advance or queue early on the day to get in. Organised people, that is...

We always prefer the road 'less travelled by' so first stop was in the little hamlet of St Cirq. Five of us crammed into the small cave to listen to a 30 minute explanation of the cave drawings. We got the gist. This cave contains one of only two prehistoric drawings in France of a human figure: 'Le Sorcier', a very well-endowed chappie of some spiritual significance.

la Madeleine

Both the Vezere and Dordogne rivers meander in great loops throughout the countryside. The French call these meanderings 'les cingles'. One consequence of this randomness is not knowing which side of the river you're on at any time...I THINK we may have crossed the river to visit la Madeleine, our next stop.

the river from medieval vill

age

Another pleasingly quiet spot up in the cliffs above the river, Abri de la Madeleine is the site of both  prehistoric and medieval villages. With a good English language booklet, we were able to meander happily, building up an appetite for lunch.

The impossibly pretty village of St Leon sur Vezere was our lunch destination. Some intense research on my part (reading the guestbook recommendations as well as the hosts' own suggestions) had revealed that most visitors to this region take a gourmet's interest in what they eat. All of the suggested restaurants would be very popular, they warn, and must be booked days or weeks in advance. Peasants at heart, we bowled up to the Auberge du Pont and enjoyed hearty peasant fare from the menu de jour (15 Euros each).

St Leon sur Vezere

That just left the biggest and most impressive village troglodytique: Roque St Christophe. This is massive! Over 1km of caves have been carved out of the limestone bluffs above the river, over 5 levels, providing shelter to man since prehistoric times - or,as the advertising claims, for 55,000 years. Certainly during medieval times, from around 900AD, it had been a fully-functioning fortified city. With some ingenious use of machinery to lift and pull loads, as well as to eject unwanted intruders, this was a much-prized piece of real estate. So much so that said intruders, especially the English, were a regular nuisance. As they were throughout much of France during the 100 years War. Apparently, there was a successful English attack  in 1401 - by starving the inhabitants out - but they managed to hold it for only 5 years.

Coincidentally, France is under attack again: Bradley Wiggins seems to have an unassailable lead on the Tour de France, and David Miller today was the fourth Brit to win a stage of the 2012 Tour. Vive les Anglais!

The view from the fortified city

Most beautiful

We are awash in beauty. Limeuil, a living, breathing medieval village of about 300 permanent inhabitants, is stunning. But it is not alone. Each village, small town or bastide (fortified town) in the Dordogne region seems to be vying for the title of THE most beautiful village in France. 

Almost overwhelming at times. And there's always that antipodean sense of awe at living in a 500 year old cottage and visiting a 1000 year old abbey (on this evening's walk). 

 

It's as much about texture as colour: warm limestone walls, faded terracotta tiles, dark, weathered timbers and brightly-painted doors and shutters. Add flowers and shrubs in pots and terraced gardens...et voila!

A musical encore

Our last evening in Paris we trekked the length of the number 11 Metro line - again! -to the Ile de la Cite on the Seine. There, we queued with many other tourists for tickets to Vivaldi's 'Four Seasons' in the beautiful Sainte Chapelle (King Louis IX's Holy Chapel, completed in 1248).

The concert featured an exuberant French violinist, Frederic Moreau. He conducted and played with two other violinists, two violas, two cellists and a harpsichord player. 

After a somewhat frustrating day trying to book tickets (involving queuing in different places around the city) it was just blissful to experience brilliant playing in exquisite, acoustically perfect surroundings. In a venue that just happens to contain pretty much the world's largest collection of C13th stained glass windows ....

The audience was  perhaps the only drawback; mostly (American?) tourists, they took numerous photos with flash ON during the performance - and even committed the concert-goers' cardinal sin of clapping between movements.

Paris, I'm missing you already...au revoir.

Music and parks; music in parks

Successful big cities embrace large green spaces. I was thinking about this while we were in Singapore. Despite the heat, we walked around the Botanic Gardens, including a stroll through the most a-maz-ing orchid section. Recovery involved being horizontal in a shady spot on the impossibly green grass. With kd lang in my ears and gentle snores alongside, it was a great place for a spot of people-watching.

Paris is renowned for its parks, of course. Parisians live in apartments so seem to live much of their lives outdoors. If they're not travelling on the Metro (and most of Paris seems to use our line whenever we do), then they are in cars or on scooters,or cluttering up the footpaths, or conducting business deals at their local corner bar/cafe. Or they head off to their nearest bit of green. We've walked through some impressive, well-populated green spaces in the past few days:

• The Luxembourg Gardens - Paris's 2nd largest - where people religiously observe the Keep off the Grass signs and old men play boules. (Where ARE the old women?)

• The Promenade Plantee - Once a railway viaduct, this is a remarkable garden that stretches about 4km from the Opera Bastille all the way out to the boulevard Periphique. We walked a good stretch of this elevated pathway in the early evening, sharing the space with walkers, runners, nutters,  readers, eaters...and suspicious loiterers.

• The biggest green space: the Jardin des Tuileries, all 25 hectares of it. This is where Parisians go to have serious fun. The amusement park seemed to have all the things that make people scream loudly. Meanwhile, past the grand fountain and pool, we stumbled upon an outdoor stage being set up. We were back by 8pm that night to join the audience for a free concert of original works based on the remarkable images of a Korean photographer, Ahae. Digital photography has created a monster in this young man...Jill, beware! Over the course of two years, he took over one million photos...wait for it...from ONE window of his home. The first half of the concert was a mix of orchestral classics and new compositions based on his photography. All good. By half time, though,we were ready to go home for dinner. The second half was titled 'A Tone Poem in Twelve Parts'. Enough said.

Le Shopping

Being responsible for your own food is good. Apartment living encourages this.Yesterday, our first in Paris, was a day of shopping.
First, The Market Experience:
A couple of train stops away we found the Tuesday market at Place des Fetes. By the time we arrived, the fish, pork, fish,  foie gras, fish, chickens and fish were battling the heat and flies, so we stocked up on just fruit and veges. I'd had the impressive forethought to pack my hessian shopping bag (from lovely Lisa) so felt pretty smug filling it up with market wares before the metro trip home. Mind you, you can only make like a Parisian until you open your mouth...

But where was Brian Lamb when we needed him? The array of cheeses, pate, breads and unidentifiable other foodstuffs were nearly too much for my senses to cope with.
Then, the Supermarket Visit
Following a long afternoon on foot and on a bateau mouche on the Seine, we found (thanks, Google!) a Monoprix supermarket. (Though it took three exhausting, rush hour changes on the Metro to complete the journey home.) Things were more straightforward here, and it was pleasing to note that the French do lower themselves to use frozen veges.I had another Where's Brian When You Need Him moment in the wine section but finally stumbled out of that corner with a 7 Euro sauvignon. Price is all when it comes to French wine...if I don't know what I'm buying it might as well be cheap.
The other good thing to come from finding the Monoprix was that we have finally solved the Great Underpants Debacle. Nothing wrong with MY packing; need I say more?

Bookends

It didn't occur to me until we'd left NZ that our time away would be bookended by stays in luxury hotels.
Singapore's Park Hotel on Clarke Quay epitomized decadent affluence (Caroline Gill and I stayed here while doing IB training last year, thanks StP!). White suited flunkies everywhere - to deal with luggage, press lift buttons, anticipate door openings... And the outdoor pool two storeys above ground level was rather pleasant.

And our final stop on this trip will be in San Francisco at the upmarket (well, it cost enough to be) Club Donatello.

Otherwise, it's all apartments and transit hotels, such as the aptly named Mr Bed on the outskirts of Paris.

Nothing wrong with apartment living though. here's a pic of our home in Paris for the next few days.

PS: I've just remembered the not-so-good bit about luxury hotels: the mirrored elevators. There is NOWHERE to hide...