Fountain 38 The Sad Source, Le Boreon 12 August

 

The Sad Source

broken water pipe, old pallets and odd bits of rubbish

St. Bernard de Menthon

St. Bernard is incarcerated overlooking an expansive car park high in the middle of nowhere.

St. Bernard de Menthon was born about 1120 in the Chateau de Menthon, near Annency to a wealthy noble family. According to popular legend, Bernard wasn't keen on his arranged marriage, so he fled   the family castle on the night before the wedding. During his flight he threw himself from his window and Angels delivered him gently to the ground.

He followed his calling and joined the Church where he rapidly rose in rank due to his virtue and learning. Unhappy about the "pagan ways" in the Alps he devoted himself to converting and performing miracles. However most memorable was his hospice service.

 Since ancient times there has been a path across the Pennine Alps leading from the valley of Aosta to Valais. The traditional route of this pass is perpetually covered with 2.5 m of  snow and drifts sometimes accumulate to the height of 10m. Although the pass was extremely dangerous, especially with springtime avalanches, it was well used by French and German pilgrims en route to Rome.

Bernard had the charge of caring for the poor and travelers, so around 1050 he founded a canonry and hospice at the highest point of the pass, 4384m, at the site which has come to bear his name. All year, and especially during heavy snowstorms, the canons went out in search of those who might have succumbed to the severity of the weather. They offered food, clothing, and shelter to the unfortunate travelers and took care of the dead. From the 17th century they were accompanied by the common herding dogs of the Valais.

The St. Bernard dog's average weight is between 64–120 kg and is approximately 70 to 90 cm at the shoulder. They are thought to be descendants of molasser dogs brought into the Alps by the early Romans.
The most famous St. Bernard at the pass was Barry, who reportedly saved between 40-100 lives. There is a monument to him at the Cimetiere des Chiens and his body is preserved at the Natural History Museum at Berne.

 St. Bernard dogs are still on the site as pets,  however now helicopters are used in rescue operations.

Armadillo of God - more examples of

   In my post  "Fountain 23   Chanteuges  5 August" I had mentioned my initial
perplexity at coming across the Armadillo of God.

A few days ago, while searching for a birthday card for a friend, I found this postcard which I had bought at Chartres Cathedral over 14 years ago. When I bought the card I was especially moved by the humanity in the faces of the shepherds and the saggy leggings worn by the shepherd on the right.

And now I see another little flock of "armadillos".

                        Asher, Zebulun, Justus, Nicodemus, Joseph, Barshabba, and Jose*

    The shepherds, with their diminutive flock, are told about the birth of baby Jesus by an Angel-
   sculptures from the facade of Chartres Cathedral c1100

Numerous biblical figures, eg. Jacob, Abraham, Isaac and Moses kept large flocks.
At this time, the taxation was according to the number of rams which were owned.
 

  A depiction of a ram from the Aberdeen Bestiary

  a 12th-century illuminated manuscript

                                 
                                                               Castlemilk Moorit

           The Castlemilk Moorit is a result of crossbreeding with the wild European mouflon 

            which  can be traced back to between 11,000 and 9,000 bc in ancient Mesopotamia
 where there is evidence of sheep farming for milk, meat and skins.
Wooly sheep, whose fleeces were shorn, spun and woven into cloth,  began to be developed from around 6,000 bc.

What is so astounding is that Castlemilk Moorits are descended
from a single flock of ten ewes and two rams,

 and the British Rare Breeds Survival Trust lists the breed as "vulnerable",

 having a maximum of 900 registered animals.            

* The names of the shepherds who visited baby Jesus -

Asher, Zebulun, Justus, Nicodemus, Joseph, Barshabba, and Jose

from the Syrian Book of the Bee

                                                                          

Fountain 37 The Market Square Castellane 11 August

 

The fountain in the market square

A boy kicks around a football. His shirtless father runs to return it. 

The tattoos on his chest rising and falling.

Behind the fountain, high on the cliff, is the Chapel of Our Lady of the Rock, 12th century.

Inside the chapel are the votive offerings that have been left as thanks.

136 engraved plates

21 bridal bouquets 

a given array after a vow to Our Lady, dating from 1757

a given array after the cholera epidemic in 1835

a table given by a released prisoner, dated 1875 

a table given after a smallpox epidemic, dated 1870,

a table given by a person who escaped a shipwreck in 1896

I first visited Castellane a couple years ago. 

I had thought I was "lost" in a fog high up in the middle of nowhere. 

Following the empty, single track lanes which were cut into the side of the cliff, 

it grew cold and started to rain. I had very little fuel or food. 

                          I had to guess which road to take as it was all too small for my map

 and the sun was buried under thick cloud. 

Expecting to be left for the vultures to pick at my bones, I suddenly came into Castellane. 

It was bubbling with people. The sun was raising steam off the pavement and the drenched campers. 

In the frenzy of my reprieve I bought something at nearly every bakery. Had I known about the Chapel of the Rock, I would have left votive offerings for Our Lady for her succour - mini-pizzas, olive and herb bread, flaked almond sticky buns, chocolate Chantilly cream cakes.

This year's visit it was blue skies and a white hot sun.

I parked up by one of the clusters of motorbikes. Streams of Harleys rumbled past, driven by smug, big chested men in sunglasses. It felt like a motorbikers' catwalk, and although Louise is far more beautiful than any of the mere machines that passed us, I felt inadequate. I can't do the "cool" look.

Five or six youngish Italian men, obviously enjoying strutting in their tight leathers, pointed at Louise and laughed. I presume at the enormous load that is strapped to her. When they saw me, modeling the latest "we are not amused" look, their struts melted into awkward tiptoes.

Fountain 36 Fountain with a View Moustiers Sainte-Marie 11 August

                                                                    Looking south

 Moustiers was founded by Sainte Maxime, the bishop of Riez, who arrived from the Abbey de Lerins with a handful of monks in 434. (The Lerins Islands, situated off the coast from Cannes, had been inhabited by the Romans since the 1st century. They had attracted other island loving saints from afar, eg, St. Patrick who allegedly left Ireland to study there in the 5th century.) Initially the monks  lived in caves and drank from the spring which flows out of the cliff face. The town has been a site of pilgrimage since 470. (I have written a bit about this in the post "This is not how I was expecting it to be" 8th August.)
 

The present village was built on platform terraces a hundred metres up the side of a limestone cliff on the site of a 10th century castrum, or permanent village. A stream which runs through a narrow rocky canyon divides the town into two. The sound of water can be heard all over the village, as it flows down its natural course or is channeled into the numerous fountains, as a drone under the babble of the huge tourist population who come to wander the medieval streets and vaulted passages, and buy traditional faience pottery.

  heading east

    The Gorges of Verdun

  25 kilometers long and 700 meters deep

                                    The turquoise colour is due to its glacial sources. The fine minerals,

"rock flour" are suspended in the water and is called "glacier milk".

        

Fountain 35 The Diane Fountain, Moustiers Sainte-Marie

I had driven for miles following the vague directions given by the stone mason's wife from the campsite at Malaucene. She had described the minutia of the campsite,  highlighting the dearth of children in a gleeful voice, but had failed to give the essential information, such as its name, which would enable me to actually find it. I stopped for directions at a table placed at the side of the road. A flimsy plastic awning sheltered a very round and flowery old woman who smiled and said that she knew of a lovely and economical campsite. Nevertheless, she appeared to not hear, or understand, when I asked for directions.

Then launching into a well rehearsed scenario, she offered me her wares in a clockwise order. I refused her offer of lavender sachets stitched into tiny purple and orange pillows, lavender and beeswax floor polish, lavender bath soap, lavender and honey throat pastilles, lavender infused olive oil. When she got as far as the jars of lavender honey, I knew that despite its cost, I must concede to a sale. Once our business was completed, she pointed to a rough tarmac road in the distance. 

"Suivre cette route. Ce n'est pas très loin."

I followed the ever narrowing road for twenty minutes or so. I had based my waning trust upon one faded sign with "Camping" painted in clumsy red letters. The road climbed and gave me a 180 degree view of the enormous slash of a turquoise lake nestled among nearly black mountains. I was about to give up and retrace my route when I saw a powow of white teepees on the horizon.

                                                           

   Inside the church in the centre of Moustiers Sainte-Marie 

Mary modelling rather unusual colours from her normally sedate wardrobe

 

                                                               The Fountain of Diane

                 I have already written about this fountain in the August 11th posting, 

 so I will leave it at that.

     

           
          Everywhere the fragility of love.                

Fountain 34 Capitaine Vincens Herve' Barjols 10 August

Tucked somewhat incongruously at the end of a humble leafy square was this monument dedicated to the fallen soldiers of WW1. These are not fighting men engaged in battle. These are men at ease, their guns hang over their shoulders or rest on the ground. They chat, drink tea, conspire, console, joke and engage with their dog. They appear to be normal men, responding with their different emotions to their shared plight. The more time I spent looking, the more I wondered if they were waiting in the trenches for action or waiting in the after life for some sense to be made of it all. A couple of the men stare out at the viewer. And of course they would only be young, a similar age to my own son. Their hollowed eyes accentuated the distance between us. Their look saying, without judgement, "you can never understand how I feel, how we feel". And that is true, I and we will never understand.

                                                                            detail
   

                                                               
                                          another fountain with metal bars to rest a bucket

                                
                                        and another lavoir surmounted with a house plant

   
                         
                                   and another lavoir with separate drinking water fountain

                                                 and another water trough style fountain