Читать книгу Of Rivers, Baguettes and Billabongs - Reg Egan - Страница 17

CHAPTER TEN

You wonder whether the English have changed. I remember, but it could be that my memory is not good, I seem to remember then, that the English on their travels were cool towards fellow guests, especially Australians. And yet the following morning at breakfast another Englishman said, “Good morning,” and stopped by our table for a chat.

As he subsequently told me he had turned eighty. He had on a pair of red trousers, which he wore with style. How one sometimes envies the English (but not for their red trousers): France and the continent are only a short journey away whether by tunnel, ferry or plane. You can go to France for the weekend.

They had been to his house in the Gers for a couple of days, the bloke in the red pants said, and were now on their way to their son’s house near Fontainbleau, did I know of any interesting towns on the way?

“You’ve been to Bourges and seen the wonderful cathedral with its incomparable stained glass?”

He hadn’t, so I waxed very lyrical about Bourges, and then we got on to the writer George Sand and the very special writer Alain-Fournier — one to the south of Bourges and the other to the north. He sat down, as he was waiting for “the wife to come down”, and we started talking about George Sand or Lucie Dudevant (nee Dupin) to use her correct name. I told him about the small village of Nohant (near la Châtre) and how some years ago we had booked into the one and only hotel in the village. It couldn’t have been staged, but as I carried the luggage from the car to the hotel the sounds of a piano playing one of Chopin’s Etudes clearly floated down to us, and later we met the girl, the daughter of the owners, who of course played the piano.

That night at dinner a rather garrulous Englishman (actually a Pom, to be fair) insisted on joining us for coffee. He despised the French and took a great delight in spraying them with smoke and unburnt petrol — so he said. His trick was to hold up an impatient French driver for as long as possible and when the Frenchman got close to him preparing to pass, the Pom would switch off the engine of his Jaguar and then after a moment switch it on again. The result? He covered the windscreen of the Frog’s car with oil and petrol — at least he maintained that he did. And having related this cleverness on his part he collapsed on the table with laughter.

George Sand’s château is not grand but it is pleasing. Inside, the rooms are reputed to be much as they were when she died in 1876 at the age of 72. Her dining table is set as for a formal dinner and place cards include Chopin, Flaubert and Musset. It’s been done before, no doubt, but here it looks genuine, somehow.

She lead an active but a troubled life, and had her share of sadness. Undoubtedly she was a person of courage. There’s a poignancy about the little family cemetery and her inauspicious place in it.

The man in the red trousers decided to go there and so we began to talk of that other writer who lived to the north of Bourges — Alain-Fournier. He, in my view had a singular talent and the pity is that he was killed at such a young age in the First World War.

Alain-Fournier wrote touchingly and incisively of the penultimate school days of two teenage boys — one who was prepared to follow and the other who was determined to lead. Both boys had imagination, sensitivity and romance, in fact, they were going through the dreamtime of many an adolescent, whether male or female.

Alain-Fournier’s story is set in and around his school and village of La Chapelle-d’Angillon in the Department of the Cher, and as I have said, it is just to the north of Bourges. He wrote extensively for one so young but is known for his novel Le Grand Meaulnes which was published in English as The Lost Domain. He was born in 1886 and was killed in September 1914 in the first battle of the Marne. He showed great insight and understanding of human nature, especially in the first half of the book.

Our man determined to see Sand’s château and Alain-Fournier’s village and then return to Bourges where they would stay overnight. I envied him. His wife came down and I said goodbye. When we got back to our room I took out the map of France. We were only a few kilometres from Rocamadour and it had easy access to the A20 which ran almost in a straight line to Vierzon just to the north-west of Bourges. Alain-Fournier’s village was only thirty-four kilometres from Vierzon. I began to add up the kilometres and divide by 140 — a reasonable speed on the autoroute. But, then I thought of our limited time and I pictured the Dordogne and so…I unfolded the local map. Today was to be Gourdon and Fenelon and villages on the way there and back — good stuff, exciting stuff.

So Gourdon it was. This is not a big town but it is unusual. If you park in the main street there’s an interesting church on your left called Eglise des Cordelliers. It was built by the Franciscans in the fourteenth or fifteenth century, but in the nineteenth century the authorities embellished it with a massive and curious tower. The building is now used for concerts.

I suggest you leave your car where you parked it and that you simply “spiral” your way (on foot, of course) up the rather steep hill to the other church, Eglise St. Pierre. On your way up you will see some quite old houses, (even as far back as the thirteenth century), and some interesting shops. Gourdon, for some reason, seems to be a centre for music. We happened to be there on a Sunday which was La Fête des Mères, or Mother’s Day. The special service had finished in St. Peter’s church and fortunately the congregation was just leaving, but someone still played the organ and the smoke of the incense hung over the empty pews. It took me back quite a few years.

Michelin does not remark on the stained glass except to say that there is a “large rose window”, but I thought the glass was worth a paragraph. I liked it very much. But then it is fair to say that my passion for stained glass is extreme. I would go so far as to state that there is no painting in the world which can match the beauty of the stained glass in Bourges cathedral, or Notre Dame in Paris or Chartres — especially the rose windows of the last two.

When you leave the church of St Peter at Gourdon, take the stairs around the side for a great view over the old roofs of the town, the church itself and the surrounding countryside. The walk up to the viewing table had been neglected when we were there and it puzzled me, as the rest of the town is proudly kept. But it doesn’t spoil a quite wonderful view.

The Bouriane is said to be worth a visit taking half a day at least and judging by the little that we saw I would agree. It is all rivers and hills and chestnuts and walnuts — not a bad enticement. That is the beauty of a picnic lunch: you always have a view with your baguette. And speaking of baguettes I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s the balance between the dough and the crust that is so precise and wonderful. But then there are so many great breads: Turkish, Italian, Jewish, Indian. English? I cannot think of any delicious English breads and yet they should have some for their splendid cheeses.

And there’s pastry — patisserie. How could one exist without pastry? So often in France the boulangerie and the patisserie are separate shops, they are that specialised. I soaked up the last of the walnut oil and looked at my watch. We would have to leave the view and go back to Gourdon and then out on the D 12 to Château Fénelon. It would be an easy and a restful journey.

We had been to the château on a previous occasion but didn’t have the time to see over it. Fénelon is more than just the childhood home of François Fénelon, it is a beautifully proportioned fifteenth century château set on a hill rather than a cliff or rocks. There is a softness about it which is partly the building and partly the trees which surround it, especially perhaps on the far side.

When you walk through the grounds of Fénelon and realise that it had to cope with something like a hundred or more horses and their carers, and troops and artillery and the like, you begin to realise why a château of this kind had to be so large. Fénelon is a sleepy and a tame place today but there would have been hectic times when war threatened or actually happened. Now it is views and lawns and roses and tranquillity and beauty. When you inspect the private rooms you realise just how small they were: the kitchen, Fénelon’s room — even the reception area and the dining room — none of them were large. I love the history and the stillness of the place.