Wednesday 4 March 2015

Treasures in our Charentaise Backyard

"The Charente in France... where's that?" we asked ourselves when the invitation for a long exchange in that region arrived.  Brittany, Provence, the Loire, even Burgundy,  all the romantic tourist names, had an established position in our picture of France. But "Le Charente"...nothing!

Google answered the basic questions. Very rural, West coast area, no specific great attractions but with the second sunniest climate after Provence. Juignac, the nearest village to Le Petit Maine, was almost a non-entity, the ancient village well perhaps being its most significant feature. But La Charente" was to be our home in France for almost a year.

The great advantage of a prolonged stay in the one area is the chance to explore it  in depth. Over eleven months we did just that and we found wonderful little treasures in our backyard: treasures that don't figure on tourist itineraries, that don't have large coach parks, and that sometimes are even in disrepair. 

Murals in the Church of  Saint Arthemy, Blanzac

Blanzac-Porcheresse, or locally just Blanzac, is an extremely  nondescript small town about 20 minutes drive from home, population just over 800. It's clearly a poor commune. A casual traveller simply would see no reason to even think about stopping over in Blanzac. I go there to play tennis quite often (yes, I did eventually make contact with a very friendly expat tennis group).  The local club apparently has withered but the two courts are maintained by someone and always open.

When passing through Blanzac (going somewhere else) one doesn't actually  drive into the town square; the "main" road from Montmoreau takes one  around a corner past a decrepit Tabac, over the creek and through  the potholes and up past a small shop and out of town. However, in passing through, as we often did, we had noticed that a rather large church sits in the town square. Its' L' Eglise Saint Arthemy, " a twelfth century church with Gothic and Romanesque influences". Saint Arthemy, apparently, was a bishop of the Arveni Celtic tribe who achieved martyrdom in the 4th century.

Now one can't be visiting grand sites and spending lots of money every day, can one? So to relieve the boredom of another cool but sunny day at home, we decide that today is the day to visit that church in Blanzac and find a quaint cafe for a coffee.

We push open the door to Saint Arthemy's church and carefully close it in accordance with the flapping notice: "Please close the door so the bloody pigeons can't get in"...or words to that effect. It's musty and dim but we are amazed to see three huge murals on the right wall of the nave. One is more an unfinished drawing. The two finished but very faded works here are framed by formed arches. In the right hand transept  chapel are two lovely murals framed by painted copulas together with many earlier very faded works. The left transept has matching murals, also under painted copulas. However, the general deterioration of the church is very visible. The works are stunning but clearly in need of much restoration and preservation.

Your author understands that it is the responsibility of the commune to maintain any historic churches in its area if the church is not heritage listed. If the commune is small then usually it simply does not have the funds for preservation. So dampness and neglect slowly destroy this priceless legacy.
One can see that Blanzac has tried but is failing. Sadly, green algae and mould from rising damp are ever where evident.

In a sombre mood we leave St Arthemy's  church...alas the Place de St Arthemy is as sleepy as the church. No cafe, no bar open so no cheery "bonjour monsieur, deux vin rouge SVP" in Blanzac for us today.

The Templars' Legacy in the Charente

The Templars, as in the rest of France, had a strong presence in the Charente; Wikipedia lists 13 "commanderies" in the Department. Commanderies would be built around a permanent water source and probably comprise as a minimum the monk/ knights' living quarters, prilgrims' house, stables and of course, the chapel.  All that remains on most sites is a small chapel, perhaps indicating only a modest number of knights in residence. Twelve of the 13 sites are actually still in use for regular worship, the 13th is in ruins.

If one takes the winding lane past the tennis courts in Blanzac and continues out of town for several kilometres one comes to the  wonderfully named Chapelle des Templiers de Cressac-Saint-Genis, perched on a low hillside. The original commanderie was built over the years 1150-1160; now all that remains is  the chapel. There is still a working well in the church yard. Adjacent to the chapel is a "modern" farmhouse and garden. On our visit, bushes bearing beautiful succulent ripe red tomatoes were staked out quite close to the garden fence. Possibly the ghosts of knights past helped me to  resisted the open temptation offered by these gorgeous fruits!

The glory of this relatively unknown chapel is its astonishing frescoes still adorning large parts of the interior walls. During the Revolution the chapel frescoes were partly destroyed and subsequently the chapel was seized and sold by the new anti-clerical government and used for centuries as a barn.  It is amazing that that any frescoes survived at all!

Let me show you some of those that did survive.

The frescoes were created in the same style as the famous Bayeux Tapestry. The fresco narrative apparently tells the story of the victory in 1163 of  Templars and the rest of the French army over the Saracens, led by Nour Ed Din, at the Krak des Chevaliers in the Holy Land. Now the French army happened to have been led by one Geoffroy Martel, brother of the Count of Angoulême. Which does make one wonder if the choice of subject was, just perhaps, influenced by the fact that Angoulême and its count were a mere 22 kilometers north-east of the commanderie!

Pilgrims at this Chapel in a show of penitence and zeal were encouraged to rub their hands down a particular stone in the wall. The wear marks of the fingers are clearly visible but the blood has long since been washed away. Perhaps it was a case of  "no rub, no grub"!

The chapel was declared an historic monument in May 1914 and  is now owned and regularly used by the Protestant Reformed Church of Barbezieux.

At Gurat, a little known "Monolithic Church"

One of our simple pleasures is driving along any byway or laneway in the countryside that takes our sudden fancy. Driving to Villebois-Lavalette one day we took a side road that led though the village of Gurat.  On entering Gurat we spied a small sign pointing to "L'église Monolithic", 100 meters.
"Monolithic church" actually refers to an underground church that has been carved into a cliff face. A justly famous example is the magnificent Church of St Jean at Aubeterre-sur-Dronne but we had never heard of one at this seemingly insignificant village called Gurat.

Down a side road we find a 3-space car park opposite which is a track wandering away beside a tiny creek we later learn is called Font Longe, which runs into the nearby River Lizonne, a tributary of the Dronne. The track and the brook lie at the base of a low rocky cliff atop which sits the village.

Walking down the track 200 meters we see a large hole above us in the cliff and a little sign saying: "L'eglaise".  The top of this hole is only a meter or so below the very obvious foundations of a substantial village building. As this has obviously been the situation for hundreds of years we reason that the "church" roof is unlikely to fall down on our heads, even though we have not actually graced a proper church for quite some time!

Clambering up the steep path we find ourselves on a wide stone ledge into which have been carved fifteen or so sarcophagi, plus pools and drainage channels. This is the forecourt of the ancient church of St Georges. The interior is only about 6 metres by 12 metres with support pillars forming nave, choir and apse. One side tunnel tapers upwards to a crude wooden gate, chained shut. Behind the gate is a store room and a flight of steps clearly leading up to the cellar of the building above.  We explore all the nooks and wonder about the monks and villagers who may have called this their parish church.

Wikipedia tells us that the community was at its height in the 12th and 13th century but why it  apparently was never finished and why the community of monks suddenly dispersed is unclear.

A sign back at the car park informs us that the Commune is working to enhance the tourist visitor numbers, hoping to encourage perhaps one tenth of the people who visit Aubeterre to come visit Gurat. Good luck, but I have to say it's a very big ask indeed.

Tuesday 10 February 2015

Place de la Fontaine, The Language Group and a Picnic at Silvie's

Le Perroquet Vert is a quaint English cafe cum club for anyone; it's a meeting place, a craft club, an outlet for artisan made clothes, a book exchange and many other things. It's in the heart of Chalais  on the wonderfully French "Place de la Fontaine".  The central fountain features a bronze statue of  a beautiful young woman in a modern high-cut bathing suit standing in the fountain and cupping her hands under the water pipe.

The lady in the fountain.
The music maker















The Place, an intersection of five streets, is quite small, about 75 meters across, on several levels and is surrounded by picturesque 19th century buildings. Well, they're picturesque to us southern hemisphere visitors but probably  quite ordinary to the French eye. I like to think that they give  great character to the Place. Built of grey stone (the building material of choice in Chalais), they are mostly four stories high, typically with a shop or cafe at street level and apartments above. Several of the buildings feature narrow,  ornate,  but rusty wrought iron balconies wrapping around the first floor. The apparent condition of the balconies would not invite one to throw open the French windows and step outside to take the air. And, naturally,  all the sagging window shutters on the upper floors are tastefully decorated in that French provincial “peeling paint” style.

There's a very good pharmacy on one corner of the plaza, a bucherie opposite, a forlorn closed shop "for lease" on another  and cafes on the other corners, one being Le Perroquet Vert.

In the Place. Is the blond lady perhaps appreciating the aroma?
Summertime enjoyment is taking "un café” or “une bière" at a table in the plaza under the shade of the leafy plane trees. On Mondays this enjoyment is enhanced by the hustling spectacle of the street market.  A fish monger's stall is always thoughtfully situated right alongside the plaza seating where its aroma can bring tears of pure joy to the eyes of fish monger aficionados.

On market day, a regular busker plays to the captive audience under the trees.  Youngish, with  moustache and stubble, dressed country rustic style, he hand cranks the music cards through his organ grinder and sings the old French songs in a suitably husky voice. His performance adds to the great atmosphere of the morning. It's so arty that I think we customers could all be extras in a film production and I look around for the film crew and cameras.

One morning in February Val and I decided to take coffee in " Le Perroquet Vert". We sat next to three ladies talking quietly in English. So Val leans over to the ladies, excuses herself and asks if they know of any social tennis group in the area. (I had carted my tennis racket half  way around the world in the fond hope of somehow breaking  into a tennis group.)   No, unfortunately they didn't.  But the ladies became interested in our plans for a long sojourn in the area and the whole house exchange experience.

This was a most serendipitous meeting, the single most fortunate meeting in our time in France.

One of the ladies, Barbara, was the convenor of an informal French and English language group. She explained that the group met every Thursday evening (excluding holiday periods) in the “Amicale Laïque de Chalais” rooms and invited us to join. Which we did.

By this time it was clear to us that very little social activity would arise from our French connections at either Le Petit Maine or Juignac, the local village where we attended that end of season  fete and dinner. Our French, while adequate for day to day living and (very) short conversational needs is certainly not adequate for any extended social interaction. Hence we were quite keen to grab the opportunity  to join Barbara’s group.

Turning up at the next Thursday evening class we were made most welcome.  Barbara had us introduce ourselves. We did try our broken French but lapsed into English, which was quite OK as this provides good exercise for our new French classmates . Us being on such a long vacation with a house exchange and coming from Australia...."oh, that is so far away!"... did create some excitement  for the group that evening.

The group comprises about equal numbers of English and French people, of middling to later years. The exception is young Arnaud who works in the family hardware business and wants a better command of English so he can attract the many English home renovators in the area. That's his official line but maybe he really wants to better chat up the girls when on holiday in England ("oh, what a lovely accent you have Arnaud…...you must let me see your etchings"). With his wicked sense of humour and a full range of Gallic facial expressions we all think he has totally missed his calling.

Jolly Ian...that's not Pam by the way.
In the group there's Jenny and Mick, retired from their undertaker business, Barbara's husband Pete, a retired prison governor, Phillip  and  Laura who love horses and dogs and old sports cars, Patricia and Roy, a lovely Welsh couple, Pam and her husband, big Ian, who is suspiciously reticent on any details about his past (shady?) history and then there’s Carol and Linda.

On the French side we have petite Claude and Jeanette,  retired professionals, gentle and courteous. Silvie, Genevieve, a senior manager with a large engineering company, Marie-Pierre, Francoise and Jean-Yves, retired farmer and for many years deputy mayor of his commune. And of course the afore mentioned group comedy relief, Arnaud.

Mea culpa...I know there are other lovely people in the group whom I have not mentioned by name and I beg their forgiveness.

The sessions are great fun with much laughter. Usually Barbara has each person briefly tell of their activity during the last week with anyone free to correct mispronunciations, of which there are many. Jean-Yves always seems to be working in his garden or cutting wood. Quite often someone's chance remark will lead into an extended impromptu "lesson" led by Barbara. Val once remarked on the absolute lack of pumpkins in the shops or market stalls (she had wanted to make pumpkin soup) which led to a discussion on the seasonality of French produce. One lesson was given over to the humble lamington when Val  brought some to class.

The upshot was that your intrepid travellers struck up lasting friendships within the group.

The social ball started rolling when Barbara and the charming Peter invited us to lunch in company with Pam and Ian at their home in the village of Passirac. Ian is a large, jolly man possessing  a wickedly dry sense of humour, one liners delivered deadpan while his eyes twinkle and his hand reaches for the pint pot, be it beer or vin rouge, both of which he consumes copiously. I try valiantly to keep up but the competition is just too good. Pam, his wife, rolls her eyes yet again.

 Barbara serves a traditional Charentais  cassoulet.  The lunch, the wine and the conversation is delightful with everyone getting nicely nicely. Val drives home (as usual) via the little back lanes (as usual).

This first invitation was especially appreciated as we had begun to consider the doubtful benefits of a year in the social wilderness and the lack of extended  convivial conversation with anyone but ourselves.

High summer arrives and Silvie announces that she intends to throw an afternoon garden picnic for the whole group. Everyone turns up at Silvie's and there is much bonjouring,  kissing of cheeks and hand shaking.

Silvie's is a long house with a totally windowless rear wall which forms one side of the rustic courtyard of a much larger and grander farmhouse. Entry to this house is via a shallow sweeping staircase onto a terrace and into the ground floor. The elevated ground floor is built over a cellar level which is only half below ground. There is a second floor,  above which is the attic space with a series of round dormer windows presumable giving light and air to the servant quarters.
Ourselves on the left, Patricia and Roy on the right.
Barbara and Pete are centre on the left
Everyone has bought something for the feast and something for the glass. Long trestle tables are placed end to end on the grass and are soon covered in food. There's bread and green salads and quiches, rich pates, charcute, gateaux, English sausage rolls and scotch eggs, many varieties of cheeses. Jean-yves is the hero of the day. He opens and distributes a seemly endless supply of his farm pineau. It's a tasty drop and easy drinking. Jean-Yves is justifiably proud.

What a day in the sun! Happy friendly people with a common bond, laughing, chatting loudly, eating and drinking. Your travellers feel themselves privileged to be part of this lively gathering of French and British friends on a farmhouse lawn deep in rural France. Forget the organized tours...this is the real thing! Thanks Silvie.
Arnaud: I theenk there ess an escargot in my salade!!!
That's Jean-Yves with the bottle.

Val drives home (as usual) via the little back lanes (as usual).