Fountain 22, Lavedieu, 4 August

I followed my instincts from La Chaise-Dieu to Allier. I had the whole day to arrive at the barn of my new Anglo-Franco friends. I aimed roughly south west and came upon fresh shining black tarmac looping through dense deciduous forests. Blueberries, strawberries and raspberries were nearly leaping off their bushes. What else could I do but stop and pick handful after handful until I was stained blue and purple like an ancient Celt covered in woad. Then I found a safe place to park Louise and curled up in a mossy patch for an afternoon nap. It felt like a fairy tale, although I couldn't say which one, and nothing terrible happened to me apart from a couple ant bites.

Signs for Lavedieu claimed it was one of the most beautiful villages in France. It was lovely, but it was a preserved in aspic sort of place, like a museum exhibit lacking the edginess of reality. It also lacked drinking water and I was parched.







             Another eau non potable fountain.

My plastic water bottle was warm and crinkled, leaking free radicals into the stale water. The heat of the stones came through my clothes making it as uncomfortable as a radiator to sit on.

 

A lovely jewel of a church. 

11th Century volcanic stone and filled with frescoes, carvings,

free standing sculptures and Far East tourists.

 A peculiar lion-bodied 'green man' figure.

  

Having been raised a Catholic I often forget that the well known saints I see in churches

 aren't familiar faces to everyone who visits. 

This little group of tourists obviously looked upon my familiar symbols 

with surprise and amusement.

The twisted body of St. Sebastian, mounted on the pilaster 

supporting the arch, sent them into fits of barely stifled giggles which echoed around the church.

  Taking it in turns, they stood beside him, imitated his pose with encouragement and 

adjustments to get it just right and then took plenty of snap shots to take back home with them.

My best Christmas wishes, dear readers. Christmas Eve. Chalice Well, Glastonbury, Somerset

Christmas Eve.
Our family tradition is to completely forget the last minute supermarket rush for sprouts and whatever people cannot live without on Christmas day and take a long walk. Christmas and its trappings always threatens to overwhelm me with an existential crisis, but Christmas Eve in the wind and rain and snow and ice and whatever the day throws at us is transcendent. Even the singular year we were having a beach BBQ in shirtsleeves, dusting the sand off our burnt vege sausages and discussing whether we should throw off all our clothes and swim in the great grey wintery Atlantic. Under the barrage of commercialism and high expectation, this day feels real and elemental.

Glastonbury is a well known spot for all sorts- Christians, Arthurians, Druids, New Agers, Travellers, Neo-pagans, Wiccans, Low Impact Livestylers, Crystal Healers, Rock Festival Goers, Ley Line Enthusiasts (here the Michael and Mary line cross over at three different points), etc.

Archeological evidence has shown that the Chalice Well has been in constant use for over 
2000 years and it dispenses 25,000 gallons of water every day even in times of drought. 
According to Christian legend Chalice Well marks the site where Joseph of Aramithea
placed the chalice that had caught the drops of Jesus' blood and from thenceforth the waters turned red. It was also here that Joseph thrust his staff into the ground which took root to produce the Holy Thorn Tree (Crataegus Monogyna praecox) which blooms in the Chalice Well garden every Christmas.

                                              Chalice Well inside the Chalice Well Garden. 

    On the adjacent road there are two pipes, one for the Red Spring and one for the White Spring. Having two very separate water sources whose mineral content is so different in such close proximity is quite unusual.  The red water is due to its high iron content, while the white water contains calcite.
I filled my bottle with the white to drink after we climbed up the Tor in a gale force wind.

           Wishing you all a very happy and peaceful Christmas, my dear readers. 

Thank you for reading.

Joyeux Noël!

щасливого Різдва

圣诞快乐

Gelukkige Kerstmis

Frohe Weihnachten

Selamat Natal

Buon Natale

Wesołych Świąt

Срећан Божић

Счастливого Рождества

มีความสุขคริสต์มาส

Giáng hạnh phúc
        Gembira Krismas        

        

Fountain 21. Place d l'Abbaye, Le Chaise-Dieu. 4 August

  Dore-L'Eglise

 c. 15th-16th Century stone cross depicting baby Jesus swaddled and patient in anticipation

 of his ultimate crucifixion thirty-some years down the line.

 

I have never seen this iconography on any of the hundreds of French stone crosses that I have encountered in my travels. This obvious juxtaposition of innocence and vulnerability is so tender.
However we always remain vulnerable and ultimately perishable.
So what happens to our innocence?
Do we actually lose it as if it were a purse full of credit cards?
Or do we mislay it and put something else in its place. Like fear.



 I am always moved by paintings or music completed just before the creator expired. Such as Mozart's Requiem Mass or Chagall's final lithograph, completed the night before he died in 1985.
 It shows a painter at the easel with an angel descending with open arms. I suppose at aged 98 one
 can assume the end is getting closer with each breath, but the strength of this work does not give
the impression one might expect from its chronology.
Yet, perhaps knowing that, we are invited to read into the picture and develop its symbolism further. Could those be the soul's wings on the artist back?
Is the woman on the easel offering the painter flowers from beyond the canvas?
I have grown to love Chagall because he is not afraid to paint the poetic and lyrical nature of his spirituality.

 

                                              'Towards Another Light' by March Chagall

                                                       

                       
                                  The Fountain in the Place d' l Abbaye, Le Chaise Dieu
                                      Eau non potable which has been a very rare event.

Le Chaise-Dieu, God's Chair, is set on a high butte of 1082 m.  

It was very quiet. As if all the motorbikes and cars were floating in a dream.

 Even the five muddied young men in matching blue leathers roared and wheelied 

their KTMs in a muffled, head stuffed in cotton wool sort of way.

                                                      
                                                Grave marker from the floor of the Abbaye

I must confess, that for years I have owed much of my petrol station confidence to a television advert
 and Side Show Bob. 

After having put diesel in an petrol car and petrol in a diesel car, embarrassingly and expensively more than once, I now pause,
and recall an advert reminding the owner that their very clean and quiet car had a diesel engine.

The word "die" was written in unexpected places leading us to perceive a sinister threat.  However, as the car owner refuels the car we realise it is only to act as an aide memoire.
Then I remember Side Show Bob's trial on The Simpson's.

Blue-Haired Lawyer: What about that tattoo on your chest? Doesn't it say "DIE BART DIE"?

Sideshow Bob: No, that's German

[unveils tattoo]

Sideshow Bob: for 'THE BART THE'.

Woman on Parole Board: No one who speaks German could be an evil man.

Funny how one's brain works.

La Source, Bostfaucher

 Normally I am a shy person. I pretend, often quite convincingly, that I'm not.
However, in all my years of travel, I have never just popped in on someone who was simply a friend of a friend. Even when they say the usual "Oh you will love them. They will love you" stuff. Because chances are it won't be that way. They won't love me at all because so much of love is built on history and shared experience. It will be awkward and silent and whatever gift I might have brought with me will smack of the Goldilocks syndrome- too small, too big, too wrong.

This journey, in an attempt to grow and mature, eg to feel the fear and do it anyway, I did drop in on two different houses of friends of friends. The first experience was so wonderful I regretted all the times I had abstained. All those fascinating people my friends have photos of and send Christmas cards to have been missed opportunities to do what people do - make meaningful connections, expand their tribe, fill their address book or multiply their Facebook friends.

The second visit reminded me why I have avoided launching myself upon a stranger. He had been an internationally acclaimed trapeze artist, making him far too interesting, handsome, extraordinary and utterly preoccupied with wooing a very beautiful young woman he had obviously just met. A middle-aged motor biker with matted down hair just didn't cut it. He didn't recognise our unshared history.

 I won't dwell on our mistiming. Only be grateful I wasn't flying through the air waiting for him to catch me.


     La Source, Bostfaucher

 I was aiming to arrive at 4 pm for the afternoon break in the Daily Rhythm of meditation and silent mindfulness. Although I was rudely late, and cringing at the noise Louise cut into the quiet of the valley, Lizzy and David welcomed me with open arms and an overwhelmingly delicious rich chocolately fruity extravaganza of a cake which we ate in the garden with quaint little cake forks.

Like butterflies we landed briefly to enjoy the sweet nectar of meaningful conversation on ideas of philosophy and spirituality, gardening and cake recipes. Then I had a tour of the vegetable garden and the house which they have converted to fulfill a shared dream. They offer retreats for the weary, those in need of a rest or change of perspective. Our hour together was both delightful and rewarding, imagine a whole week.                                                   

 

 

                                                        www.retreathouseauvergne.com

Marsac en Livradois. 3 August

                                                 Marsac en Livradois, Puy de Dome

      7:30 pm and I really should stop for the night, having just passed a municipal campsite next to a river. In a cul-de-sac by the park a group of partying young men shout " Le Triumph!" and wave and hoot, urging me to join them. Obviously their vision was blurred by the beers, otherwise they wouldn't have invited someone old enough to be their mother. Nevertheless, I smile and call back "peut-être je reviens" and backtrack to the campsite.






Marsac is a strange town. It has the ambiance of an old hill-billy town in Arkansas and I feel unnerved, like I'm about stumble onto the set of "Deliverance".




I have just done a Google search and almost all it gives, as apparently there is virtually nothing to say about the place, is a bit of geographical detail.



I include a snippet as it reminds me of a funeral tribute given by someone who neither knew nor cared about the deceased. It reminds me of my father's funeral and the handful of hollow sentences the priest said after he double-checked his notes to ensure he said the correct name.

Surface :	48.46 km² (4 846 hectares)
Altitude minimum :	531 m
Altitude maximum :	1 041 m
Altitude moyenne :	786 m
Altitude de la mairie:	545
Coordonnées géographiques sexagésimales (WGS84): Latitude: 45° 28' 44'' Nord Longitude: 03° 43' 40'' Est Coordonnées géographiques décimales : Latitude: 45.48 degrés  (45.48° Nord) Longitude: 3.725 degrés (3.725° Est) Coordonnées en Lambert 93 du chef-lieu : X: 7 569 hectomètres Y: 64 869 hectomètres
	If one feels the need to note the lowest altitude, the highest altitude, the average altitude and the altitude of the Mayor's office, that in itself says volumes. However, there are quite a few photos of the town and its inhabitants and I'll add a few of my own. It has an individual and quirky style.  I admire that.

	A provincial Edward Scissorhands reference.
	Breakfast at the war memorial and now I know that a quarter of a watermelon in one sitting is too much.

Further provincial references to Christo and Olsen Zander.



A local cultural festival resulted in trees and fences being wrapped with old clothes: jumpers, socks, bobble hat etc.
 After breakfast, I took a stroll to walk off some of the watermelon. I bumped into the man from the campsite with the two slinky, hungry-eyed Alsatian dogs and a disabled wife who never left their camper van. He made a face and shook his head "pourquoi"?  I explained the little that I knew and added that the locals seemed very honoured to be making a contribution to the international the art scene.



















http://www.christojeanneclaude.net/projects/wrapped-trees#.UqzpMY1SK3c

www.thisiscolossal.com/2011/12/fabric-wrapped-trees/‎

Fountain 20. Fountain of the Choristers, Le-Puy-en-Valey. 3 August

 Ponots, the people who are from Le Puy, in my brief and narrow experience, are very friendly and proud of their city and its traditions. I learned about the 14th century Fountain of the Choristers, named after a little singing boy, from a beautiful girl with perfect lilting English from the Specialities de la Region shop on the corner. She used to work on the tourist train which wended through the city ferrying international tourists with their snapping cameras. (Apparently more photographs have been taken globally in the last year than in all the years since 1839 when Daguerre and William Fox Talbot introduced their respective photographic processes. However, I digress as this is not a fact I learned from her but from Hugh Laurie on Desert Island Disks.)

The girl rattled off her tour guide speil and frequently laughed, when to her surprise and perhaps relief, she found that she had forgotten entire segments and that her dates were rather rusty. The fountain has exceeding clear water, I must taste it, as it is supplied by a local volcano and is directly on the thirsty pilgrim's route to the Cathedral. This road is called Rue de Tables because lace makers would put their tables outside, which they still do today, and work, hoping to attract custom from the passing crowds.

 

The final flight of 60 steps up to the Cathedrale de Notre Dame du Puy

The decorative facade is made of white limestone and black volcanic breccia is similar

 to the Abbaye Saint-Chaffre in Le Monastier-sur-Gazeille

 

 

A tourist, as I doubt a Ponot would have the need to do something quite like this,

 followed me into a side chapel, and laid herself down on a huge marble slab marking the 

burial place of someone special. Then like a dog who circles inside its bed several

 times before it feels suitably comfortable, she rolled over, slid about, wrestled with

 her handbag until she found a natural position for an afternoon break.

                                                        

                                                              The shoes of the Virgin Mary

Fountain 19. Le Monastier sur-Gazeille 2nd August

  

In 1878, Robert Louise Stevenson began his two week trip through the Cevennes 

with Celestine, his donkey, from Le Monastier.

In 2013, I was two weeks into my seven week trip with my motorbike,
Louise, when I arrived in Le Monastier.

Robert and I have much in common it seems. 

And I quite admire many of his remarks

eg

" For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake."

and

"There is no duty we so much underrate as the duty of being happy. By being happy we sow anonymous benefits upon the world. "

and

the little sign that my son gave me a few Christmases ago which

 hangs next to the this and that of my house

"That man is a success who has lived well, laughed often and loved much."

Very optimistic advice from a man who suffered ill health all his life and died aged 44
while opening a bottle of wine in Samoa.

 

I doubt that Robert left with a fan fare. But I was lucky enough to arrive with one.

 As I strolled through the shadowy aisles of the 10th century abbaye, 

where even the dust hovered in a static denial of time passing,

 wild Gypsy/Balkan music blared and echoed and thrashed off the rough volcanic walls.

It was the 25th Festival of Brass Music.

Unfortunately, I had a thumping great migraine at the time.

To see and hear for yourself: visit this website link

   http://www.festivaldumonastier.fr/HAIDOUTI-ORKESTAR-FANFARAI.html

the wonderful rough hewn volcanic blocks that make a mosaic of the west front, 

squashed between buildings and awkward to photograph

Fountain 18. Source of the Loire 2 August

                                              This wide plain opened out before me.

In the distance I could see only the plain, because indeed it is a high plateau, where fresh cut fields exposed the shy pale blades of grass and the grey tarmac ribbon curled gently along the contours. A surprising wind clipped me sidelong from time to time, propelling me across the lanes like a drunkard. Flocks of Harleys overshot me and then pulled over to roll cigarettes, slip off studded jackets and shake golden tresses out of helmets like they do in the movies.
Following the tradition of the tortoise and the hare, I chugged on and got there first.







 Mont Gerbier de Jonc is one of the 450 extinct volcanoes on  the Massif Central, an enormous and remote area which covers 15% of France. The peak rises to an altitude of 1,551 m and from its base are three springs that are the source of the Loire, France's longest river which snakes along for 1,012km before it reaches the Bay of Biscay.

At the time it seemed like such a bother to get re-togged up into walking clothes, which of course, now I regret. Nevertheless, I did hover round the base and stuff myself silly on wild raspberries, strawberries and myrtilles.







Across the road, was the unlikely emergence of the source. I had driven several hours to arrive at the birth place of this great river that I have crossed so many times as it widens near Nantes. I have swum in her tributaries, slept beside her listening to frogs and hedgehogs, watched the night lights: stars, cafes, street lights and fireworks dance on her surface, so this felt an important deepening of our relationship.

The water flowed through an oak pipe into a trough that was built into the porch of an old stone farm building.
Now the building is a shop and visitor centre selling everything you could possibly make with mrytilles.  Little human traffic jams built up on either side of the door as family groups, cyclists, seasoned walkers with thick socks and badges, filled up their bottles, blocking the entrance to the shop.