WordPress has suggested I republish this, and for once I agree with an algorithm. This article first appeared on July 11, 2020, six years ago today. The world was still trying to work out what to do with itself in the aftermath of the first lockdown, and we were trying to work out what to do with a cancelled trip to Hull.
The solution, as it turned out, was Paris. My daughter Kate was ten years old, on crutches, armed with opinions about Greek mythology and strong feelings about Marks and Spencer. I had a walking stick, two cameras, and the quiet delusion that I might, at some point, get a shot worthy of Henri Cartier-Bresson. The Louvre did not disappoint either of us. The 127 floors on my step counter very nearly did.
She is sixteen now. She still loves Paris. I still have the walking stick, though the arthritis and I have reached something of a truce. I have no idea if she remembers the Mona Lisa, or the painting of Napoleon crowning his bride, or Louis XIV looking improbably good in tights. But I know she remembers the day. That, I think, was the point.
We’re still in Edinburgh. We’re walking down the Royal Mile. It’s festival season. There are plenty of shows to watch, and the one we saw first was by Max Von Trapp. Not to be confused with the Sound of Music Von Trapps, but a comic magician. One of my favourite kinds. The jokes and tricks rolled fast, as did my laughter.. Kate laughs at all the jokes, even the more adult-focused ones, just like Killian did when we visited the festival when he was that age.
Saint Giles was our next stop. As you know, I’m Catholic, not Protestant. As we wandered through the national Cathedral of Scotland, I was struck not only by the beautiful organ music, but by the lack of the familiar Stations of the Cross, the statues. The centre of attention was not the Lord and the sacrifice of the Mass, but the preacher’s pulpit. I felt this lack and prayed my daily Rosary, head bowed in prayer.
I joined Kate outside, slightly perturbed by the experience.
Lunch was a kebab. Simple and delicious. Kate loved it.
It was time to move on to see Greyfriars Bobby, a wee brown dog, famous for his loyalty. The legend is such that the people of Edinburgh raised a statue to honour him, and people rub his nose either for luck or as a sign of affection. I went into the Greyfriars Pub for some Guinness, reflecting on my own dog Molly, now 16, who greets me every morning as if I’m her favourite person and gets all excited when I get home from work. I can see why wee Bobby was a legendary dog, and why he inspired so many people.
We wandered through the graveyard looking at the tombs of the citizens of Edinburgh from the past. And we found a certain Thomas Riddell who JK Rowling used in her books. Kate acquiesced and allowed me to take her photo in front of it.
We ventured towards the Covenanters’ section of the graveyard, supposedly the most haunted section. I felt nothing and saw nothing, but Kate started to have a headache. We paid our respects and decided to find Bobby’s grave at the entrance. Kate noticed the sticks put on his grave, as you might leave a favourite dog toy. She just had to go and find him a suitable stick. Bless that dog. Teaching us a valuable lesson in pure love years after his death.
We ventured back out onto the streets of Edinburgh, leaving the relative tranquility of the graveyard behind us. This was about to be the reason she wanted to come to Edinburgh in the first place: a cocktail bar. But not any ordinary cocktail bar. The Geek Bar, decorated every four months into a new theme. The theme she wanted was from a video game that she plays with Killian. Oh no—they’d changed everything… It was now all about Stranger Things on Netflix—something I had heard by name but knew nothing else about.
Liquor? Maybe quicker, but it’s not something I’m a great fan of. The lady took our order and explained the concept. I felt as if I was in Starbucks for the first time. She asked which flavours I liked, and with her expert help, I made up my mind. The drink was obviously dangerous—too smooth, too sweet—and I couldn’t feel the alcohol. Neither could Kate, who was only allowed a mocktail. I have to be a responsible parent after all. The second round was just as deadly, and I was beginning to feel very happy. I wonder why…
So maybe, at the end of all this, the real magic isn’t in the tricks or the drinks or even the famous city. It’s just—being there. Following your children into their weird, wonderful universes, and watching them set the place on fire with laughter. And really, what’s better than that?
Thank you for following this series of UK Chronicles, and I would just like to say that this is the last one. It had been a long day, but a good day, despite the disappointment in Otterburn. You overcome and adapt. Killian was still sad not to have some Roman armour though.
So, despite not rocking the Roman look, we still had to get back to Lesbury because that evening we would be eating with my parents in a pub in Boulmer, which was just down the road from Lesbury and on the coast. Boulmer is one of those little fishing villages that still has a small fleet of fishing boats that would have caught the fish and chips that we would be eating that night.
To get back home, I could take the more direct route, or I could go via the scenic route. Luckily for you, Dear Reader, we had enough time to take the scenic route. My driving was leisurely, or even slow, as we meandered through the bendy country roads. Again, just taking in the rural views and loving every minute of it. We wanted to go back to Rothbury to get another of those yummy sandwiches in the breadcakes that you only seem to be able to get in the UK.
We found the same parking spot as we did that very morning and crossed the road to go back to that morning’s bakery. It had just shut! Please don’t worry for us though; our lives still had some meaning. We visited the ironmongers that hadn’t yet opened that morning. It was one of those places that had everything that one could need, from bird feeders to butter dishes. Killian decided that I needed a new walking stick. He had seen me leaning with my old one, which, in his mind, was too small for me. I think he really had his eye on a shepherd’s crook, but we settled on a nice wooden walking stick that is just a tiny bit taller than my French ones, and it’s propped up against my desk as I write—a little reminder of home.
Killian suggested we walk to a particular shop and then return, now with my new walking stick in hand. Leisurely was definitely the word of the day and summed up our attitude to it so well. We strolled down to the RSPCA charity shop. I thought I might just be able to get Killian a jacket to help smarten him up a bit, but failed. Ah well. We walked past the toy shop, which you could tell was for rural folk. The amount of toy tractors and all the farming machinery was awe-inspiring. Somebody somewhere had obviously been frustrated as a child…
We passed the Queen’s Head pub, and surprise surprise, we went in. I ordered the drinks and the crisps, made sure Killian had a place to sit, and went to the loo. The bar was full of locals, I presume farmers, judging by the size and musculature of the men. It would appear that their Friday evening sesh was just beginning. There was a couple of walkers with their dog, and a water bowl had been provided, and the dog was enjoying some of the treats from the complimentary dog treat jar. While some find the Northumbrian accent incomprehensible, to me, it’s music to my ears. I get every word of it. Killian, although fully bilingual in English, was struggling, praying that nobody would come up to him and try talking to him. Poor lad. And that was despite a pint of creamy, silky John Smith’s Bitter!
We left Rothbury behind us, feeling as if all were good in this world. Leisurely and peaceful, which felt amazing. We would head back towards Alnwick and have another look at the scenery in a new light compared with that morning. I have taken this route a few times and in the valley have always noticed a castle, and this time I thought, you know what? I’m going to have a look at that place. We saw the sign to the village of Edlingham and its 14th-century castle and turned left. You park just in front of the church, and you can go and see the ruins. We went into the church and saw somebody taking photographs with an old film camera. This guy had a vintage Nikon, and it looked beautiful. As photographers will do, we started talking shop. We talked about the films we used and how my X100F, although not a film camera, was the nearest thing I had found to a film camera in its feel and use. The photographer mentioned that the castle ruins were propped up with large iron beams, which seemed to detract from their historical charm. So, we decided to skip the visit. We parted ways and left the church after having managed to capture a couple of photos. Killian came running back in to ask the guy if he had a Nissan. He did. Well, in that case, it was his car that had just smashed into the church gate. Killian lifted the damaged gate to put it against the wall, and the driver was convinced that he had put his handbrake on. The gentleman called the number on the church notice board to try and tell the vicar about what had happened, but there was no answer. We never did find out if the driver managed to reach the vicar, but it was an unexpected end to our day of exploration.
Welcome, Dear Reader, to the very edge of the Roman Empire, and by implication, civilisation. You might be wondering why there’s a carving of a phallus as the cover photo for this article. Well, don’t forget that soldiers will be soldiers, even when they’re part of a Spanish Cavalry regiment stationed here. Some things never change—except these soldiers were caught by archaeologists centuries later!
Chesters Roman Fort was constructed along Hadrian’s Wall to keep out the “uncivilised” Picts and Scots. This impressive wall stretches across the country from East to West, ending at Wallsend in Tyneside. It was a massive undertaking, and I’m still amazed by this feat of engineering.
Killian, my dear son and heir, whom you might recall from the previous article about his misadventures at Otterburn, was slightly less impressed. “Ce n’est pas le Mur d’Hadrian, mais le muret d’Hadiran,” he quipped—translating to, “Not Hadrian’s wall, but Hadrian’s little tiny miniature wall.” Some people are just impossible to please!
Despite his initial skepticism, Killian was genuinely impressed by the quality of the stonemasonry, even after nearly 2,000 years. With his background in plumbing, he quickly noticed the Roman plumbing and underfloor heating, which makes you realise how little we’ve actually invented since then.
When we visited the cavalry lines and saw where the horses were kept, he was astonished to learn that three men and three horses lived in the same building, with the horses at one end and the soldiers at the other.
Even though he was flippant at the start of the visit, he took a keen interest in everything and enjoyed explaining each building to me. Maybe he’s a closet intellectual after all…
As we continued our tour, my knee was giving me trouble, and Killian showed his concern, asking if I really wanted to go down to the river to see where the bridge once stood. I insisted we go, so we made our way slowly towards the river and the soldiers’ baths. And by baths, I mean a fully-fledged hammam complete with sauna and dry heat—the very latest technology to provide the frontier soldiers with some home comforts. If those baths were still operational, they might have been perfect for soothing my arthritic knee!
We walked slowly towards the west gate and could only imagine the civilian buildings buried beneath the fields in front of us. This site wasn’t just a series of building outlines but a thriving Roman community on the very edge of civilisation.
Speaking of civilisation, I felt it might just be time for a cup of tea. As we strolled through the site towards the car, we spotted a tea shop. A cup of tea and a slice of cake were just what I needed—I was in heaven! Good old National Trust! No wonder they’re an institution. Our conversation shifted to the gift shop, where I was trying to convince Killian that, despite how cool owning a replica Roman helmet and armour might be, it could be a tad impractical and he might not have many occasions to wear such Roman regalia. Mind you he would be very dashing!
If you want to, you can even play a game of “Where’s Waldo” or “Where’s Wally,” for the British readers. Note I didn’t say “Where’s the Wally…” Keep an eye out for the photos of Killian…
Otterburn was the original destination of this little outing into the Northumbrian countryside. As a younger boy, I had been with Killian to the Mill in Otterburn that used to make beautiful rugs from the wool of the local sheep. That mill stopped producing them a few years ago, but Killian had this memory in his mind.
But we weren’t there yet… The drive from Hepple to Otterburn takes us through yet more landscape. We passed by Cragside, the first house in England to have electricity, powered by a waterfall. Green before green was no longer just a colour. We had visited the huge house when Killian was about 13 and hadn’t been back since. But this story isn’t about Cragside. Not this time. It wasn’t open as we drove by, so that was that.
As in the previous sections of our father-son drive, there were plenty of places to park along the side of the road to take in the scenery. And that we did. I remembered that time two years ago when I was there connecting with my father. And here I was, connecting with my son.
Otterburn means different things to different people. It is not just an area of outstanding natural beauty, but also a training area and live firing range for the Infantry of the British Army. I remember playing for an Officer’s mess night once when I used to wear green for a living. Although you can still wander around when the Infantry isn’t training, you’re constantly reminded not to touch any military debris—it might explode and help you become an integral part of the landscape.
The landscape shifted from the wild moorlands of Hepple to more farming country. Think sheep, hemmed in by century-old dry stone walls. Signs warned you to keep dogs on leads and informed you that any dog found attacking—or even just worrying—sheep would be shot on sight. A sobering thought. I jokingly warned Killian not to do the same, just in case.
At the top of the hill, I parked up and surveyed the patchwork landscape, scissored by those dry stone walls. Killian pushed on one and you could feel it giving way. I told the feckin’ eejit to stop right now. These walls were old and not to be messed with. His French side came out—he wasn’t impressed by this stalwart of the British countryside. I told him these walls had stood for years and it wasn’t going to be a bloody Frenchman that was going to change that.
But this story is about Otterburn. I’d warned Killian that Otterburn wasn’t as he remembered. He had this dream of buying a rug, but I wasn’t even sure they still sold them. My latest recollection of the place was that it had become more of a “country style retail outlet.” The signs still said the rugs were made in the UK, but the magic was gone.
It was the low point of the day. Killian stood there, staring at the overpriced rugs, his expression shifting from excitement to quiet disappointment. “This wasn’t how I remembered it,” he muttered. I could see the years of imagined nostalgia fading in real-time. We looked at what was on offer, checked the prices, and it just wasn’t worth it. The small café had a sort of mini-museum feel, but all we bought was a double espresso, a sausage roll, and a small cake. Killian ate; I didn’t touch it.
As we sat there, the conversation drifted to how Killian could see himself living in the area. I had to let him down gently. “We’re on holiday, son. Living here isn’t the same.” I knew what I was talking about, especially after living in France for over thirty years. The economic decline in the area was as stark as the difference between summer and winter in Northumberland. Both beautiful in their own way, but I know I have a penchant for summers. Winters are dark, rainy, snowy, cold, and thoroughly depressing. Beautiful—but still depressing.
It was all such an anti-climax. This had been one of the places Killian had been dreaming about for years.
I was at a loss for what to do. Then, out of nowhere, I had one of those genius ideas we only dream about. I wanted the day to end on a high note. “You know, son, we’re not too far from Hadrian’s Wall. Do you fancy it?”
His eyes lit up. He did fancy it, so off we went, a certain spring in our step.
I’ve been going to Bamborourgh since I was a little boy. Fifty years later, it still affects me in a way that not many places do. Growing up, there was a painting of the castle in my mother’s bathroom, and ever since I learned photography, I’ve wanted to capture my own photo of the place. Patience, my dear boy, patience…
The last time I was there, I was with my wife and daughter. We explored the castle—a gurt big affair that overlooks the coast and the Farne Islands. This time, I was with my son. It’s all about passing on the experiences we’ve had to future generations. To be honest, this whole trip was about creating memories for the children and spending quality time with them. Ever wary of spending too much, we decided to visit just the village and the beach.
Exploring the Beach: A Walk through the Dunes
To get to the beach, you have to go through the dunes, following the paths, because wandering around the dunes willy-nilly is not the done thing—conservation of the local flora and fauna and all that. The castle towers above the beach, giving a sense of protection. By the time we got there, the beach was fairly full of people, dog walkers, and their dogs, all just enjoying the summer. A British, Northumbrian summer, but summer nonetheless.
I don’t know if you know, but I have a gammy knee and arthritis. I’ve also been taking collagen every day, and although it seems to be doing me good, it’s a bit early to see real effects. Killian was very kind, looking after me and making sure I was keeping up. He’s a good man, and it’s nice spending time with him. After walking on the beach for a while and letting me take my pictures, we found a log to sit on before heading back into the village.
A Stroll Back to the Village: Nostalgia and New Discoveries
As we headed back to the car, we came up the side of the castle and walked along the cricket ground. Dogs and their walkers were still out in force, with the owners throwing balls for the aforementioned dogs. All of a sudden, I missed Molly, our dog, and thought how much she would have loved coming with us, but she’s an old girl, and it wouldn’t have been feasible.
I thought about going up to the church to pay my respects to the local heroine, Grace Darling, who was the Lighthouse Keeper’s daughter in the 19th century. During an epic storm in 1838, a ship was wrecked on the Farne Islands, and Grace and her father went out in a rowing boat to pick up the survivors, as it was considered too rough a sea for the Seahouses lifeboat. They saved 9 out of the 62 passengers and had to shelter in the lighthouse for a further 3 days until the storm calmed down.
A Pub Lunch at The Lord Crewe: A Culinary Interlude
I didn’t manage to get that far. Killian, much like myself, has a weakness for pub lunches. And look, a pub! The Lord Crewe! One of those posh pubs that tries to hit above its station… We went straight to the bar and tried to order two pints of Guinness, while letting them know that we wanted to eat too. “Oh, in that case, just go up to the restaurant, and they’ll deal with you…” I was ready to leave the place and go somewhere else, but Killian was hungry, so we didn’t. However, we did enjoy being rude about the two barmen in French.
Killian decided on fish and chips, or “cod fillet with a beer batter”, and I went for the prawn cocktail. As you can see in the picture, even as Frenchmen, we couldn’t fault the presentation of the dishes. The taste was pretty good too! Eating a meal like that just takes you back to a place of joy and nostalgia. It takes you back to a place of calm and reflection. It takes you back to a place where everything is just the way it should be. It almost helped us forget the two barmen. Almost…
A rather delicious and impeccably presented prawn cocktail..
Continuing the Adventure: More Pints and Ice Cream
We paid and left, still joking at the barmen’s expense. We continued up the road and found the other pub. Ah well, another pint of Guinness. We never got to the church, but that was fine, as I already had the photos I wanted. The beach, the castle, and the dog walkers. We headed back towards the car and had that ice cream that we had noticed while walking up to pub number two. What a sound decision. It was very good ice cream and helped us forget the two rude barmen from the other place… Almost…
Capturing Bamburgh: A Photographer’s Reflections
Anyway, back to the car, and back to Lesbury to go and see the girls. I had the photograph I wanted. I wanted the castle, on top of its hill overlooking the beach and the dunes. The other photos were just a bonus. Yes, I went to a place for just one photo, but it was a photo I had been eager to get for some time. The next time I might just have to go at sunset to get the good light…
Photography Insights: Challenges and Techniques
Let’s conclude by talking about the photography from the day. The main technical difficulty was my camera’s metering of the scenes. I had to really expose for my highlights to compensate for the bright sky and the reflection of this light on the sand. I was actually worried about not being able to retrieve the information in the shadows. Luckily, Lightroom was a champion with photo editing and showed itself to be a top-notch app. For me, Bamburgh is all about the castle. It’s about the castle and the sea. It’s about the castle, the sea, the sand, and the dunes. If you can capture all that, then you’re well on your way to getting some pretty good photos.
As a compliment to the film archive article featuring the standing stones in Carnac, I’m just going to drop this article here. Paris 19972 – Versailles 2003 is a site run by a friend who has some very interesting articles and a prolific output of articles covering a wide selection of subjects, including Bretagne, Paris, Versailles, Spain.
Welcome back to the film archives, and welcome back to Brittany, that gorgeous corner of France where my in-laws live. I think I might have let it be known that my French family love camping. Yes, they’re so in tents… I’ll just let that joke sink in for a couple of seconds. In 2016 I had begun “collecting” cameras. The photos from this Breton outing in Saint Cado were taken with the Kodak Retinette 1B, a little gem of a camera from the 1960s, and HP5 Plus film.
We’ll start with Saint Cado. It’s one of those picture-perfect postcard places. It’s not easy to take a bad photo of the place. It’s photogenic. It’s quaint. It has all the clichés of a small Brittany island in the Ria d’Etel, which is an inland sea connected to the Atlantic at the Barre d’Etel… I’m thinking lobster pots, oyster beds, black and white houses with slate roofs, a local Saint, a chapel to this local saint, who was actually from Wales of all places, and a miraculous fountain that fills up with every incoming tide. Yes, it’s one of those places… Did I mention that the bridge that links the island to the mainland is a Devil’s bridge? It is said that the devil demanded the soul of the first creature to cross it. The story relates that Saint-Cado, who was a shrewd fellow, put a cat on it! It is just gorgeous!
Let’s talk about the Kodak Retinette 1B. As I said in the introduction, it is a camera from the 1960s that uses zone focusing, and the 1B as opposed to the 1A has a selenium light meter that works a treat. Zone focusing is where you focus by zones. Mind-blowing, right? If I look at my lens, I will see a distance measurement that I will use as a guesstimate. I will move my aperture dial and let’s say I’m at F8, well everything from one F8 to the other F8 will be in focus. A lot of cameras from this period used this system, and it works. If you want to open right up to F2.8, then there are little rangefinders that you can put on the hot shoe mount and there you will be able to get an exact reading for the distance from your subject. Up to you…
Why use a camera that is over 60 years old? First of all, why not? It works. It’s simple to use. It doesn’t need a battery. You load your film and Bob’s your Uncle! Off you go to shoot your 36 exposures. It also looks pretty damned sexy hanging around your neck too… It actually looks so sexy that my son nicked mine, and I had to go and get another one. At the time of purchase I must have paid no more than £15, and even now it will cost you less than £50.
So there you have it – a charming little island, a vintage camera, and a roll of trusty HP5 Plus. This trip to Saint Cado was a reminder that sometimes, the best photos come from the simplest tools and the most unexpected places. And who knows, maybe those old film cameras aren’t just gathering dust in the attic – they might just be waiting to capture your next adventure. (But if you happen to see my son with a Kodak Retinette slung around his neck, please tell him to bring it back!)
Have you ever come across the articles named “The 10 Prettiest Villages in France,” “The 10 Prettiest Villages in Yorkshire,” “The 10 Prettiest Villages in Northumberland,” or “Some Other Dream Spot in This Beautiful World?” No? The one closest to us, is about 15 kilometres away and not in the south of France, which I believe to be completely overrated. Like most contenders for this type of little town, there is a bustling market every Friday morning (which is actually pretty wonderful, if not a touch on the pricier side), a park that hugs the river and lets you unwind while taking in the gentle sound of the water. A castle stands watch over the entire town. Meandering streets wonder up and down hills as do the locals. It is in wine producing country surrounded by vineyards who would be more than happy to flog you some wine…
Yes, it is one of “those” places, Dear Reader, but it is still beautiful. Clisson is also aware of this. Of course, I’m simply jealous because I don’t live there but wish I did.
In this series of photographs, I also chose to maintain the film-like appearance of my digital photography. It appears that summer is rapidly approaching. The days are already warmer and sunnier, but are not yet unbearably hot. And such weather is simply God’s way of encouraging you to go have a refreshing pint!
Dear Reader, you know how in the past I have talked about how some of us love the big massive telephoto lenses? And how others like to go wider? And how we start of with the “nifty fifty” F1.8 and learn on that? That was in the days before digital photography and a world where zoom lenses came to the fore. We had them before in the days of film photography, but my memories are of using these prime lenses, and zooms seemed to be looked down on. I wanted to go wider.
I remember my first proper photography course where I learnt the basics of film photography, going from taking the photo, developing the film, and getting a print as an end result. I remember seeing a photo of a horse taken with a massive head taken with a wide-angled lens and finding it fascinating! When I said the head was massive, the lens deformed our view of this majestic beast and its body seemed smaller than its head, which is something indeed. It was then that I learnt a photograph doesn’t have to represent a visual that is faithful to the subject. We can mess around with reality and show the world completely differently.
So, as I said, I learnt photography with a 50mm lens. These 50mm seem to be closest to how the human eye sees the world. It represents reality. In 2018 I acquired the Fujifilm X100F which has a lens equivalent to a 35mm lens. Slightly wider, but still represents the reality of this world, and is considered “the” street photography lens par excellence. It has a larger angle of view and allows me to get a little more in the frame and I felt the difference with the 50mm straight away. It was still a great lens and very versatile until I tried taking a close-up portrait. All of a sudden, I discovered some distortion in my model. I’m not saying that my model is deformed, well, no more deformed than any of us.
Suddenly watching YouTube, as many of us do apparently, I discovered the 16-35mm F4 lens from Canon for my Canon 6D Mark II. It was a little more than I had ever paid for a lens, but worth every centime of euro and so satisfying. If you care to have a look in the archives of this blog on my Instagram feed, you will discover many photos taken with this lens. My desire to go wider was now a reality. Distortion of reality was now in my hands. I could create interesting images. I discovered the way a very wide-angled lens can transform the world around us. Leading lines exist all over the place, and the wide-angled lens exaggerates each line, leading or not!
But, and this is a big but. You fellas can’t deny… It is possible to go wider. I know. Exciting isn’t it! My mind is now blown! There is a lens, a very special lens, called a fish-eye lens. This type of lens can offer you even more distortion and make the world seem even weirder than it already is! Canon does one. It’s a 15-8mm zoom lens. There are two types of fish-eye lenses. One will give a rectangular view, however distorted, and one will give a round image with a black frame. It’s a wonderful piece of engineering and for over €1000 it can be yours. But for €1000 it can’t be mine simply because I can’t justify spending that much money on camera kit and might even be cause for divorce. Since it is cheaper to keep her, I would have to look elsewhere instead of buying a super duper automatic lens from Canon. So like any self-respecting poor photographer I went onto Amazon and found a manual lens for my Fujifilm XT2 (like the famous X100F except I can change lenses) for 169€ which is slightly cheaper and a slightly more reasonable purchase, and my dear wife didn’t bat an eyelid! Not batting and eyelid is a very desirable reaction!!!
I will go out this afternoon to test this new toy and get back to you with some pictures!
To start with, I’d planned on going to one of the Loire Valley castles yesterday, but due to brain fog I thought it better to just go to bed. So I did. This morning there was no sign of fog, outside or in my brain.
I thought I would go to the Chateau de Plessis Bourée as I do like a drink, and bourée means drunk in French. I do have a family reputation as a drinker to keep up. So off I went. It’s a beautiful place and that day it was a very beautiful place, but also a very shut beautiful place. It seems the Plan B will have to do, which is the Chateau de Plessis Macé, which is slightly more sober. Boring…
I’m actually writing this in the car as I wanted to get that drinking joke out of my mind and onto paper, or screen…
All I have to do now is to drive 19km and I’ll be at party pooper castle! It had bloody well be open or I’ll be very upset and have to go straight to the pub. And with all these new restrictions means I have to get a couple in before chucking out time at 10pm. It sounds like English pubs on a Sunday when I was growing up.
Right off I go. Talk to you later Dear Reader.
I have arrived in one piece and I assume that the Plessis Bourée was nursing a hangover after a particularly good night earning its name once again. Macé looks slightly more open, or at worse, less shut. We shall see! The excitement is killing you isn’t it. Seated there on the edge of your seat wondering if I’ll be successful on this trip. It is with trepidation that I shall open the car door. Maybe more with the handle…. poor trepidation.
I decided against taking the guided tour. I did the “visite libre” and handed over my name, phone number etc. in case of Covid contact. Therefore, as the cheap skate that I am, I only visited the outsides. I still managed to get a couple of nice photos and was able to visit the Chapel.
I’ll put up the boring stuff like links etc., addresses, prices when I finish the article later on. For the moment, you’ll have to do with this!
Now for the boring stuff, or maybe even interesting stuff, depending on whether or not you enjoy history. A Plessis is a fort built on a hill surrounded by bushes as a defence, and the word Macé comes the Latin word for Mathew, Mattheus. The original fort was built in the 11th century buy Raynaud the first and was a wooden tower, in the 12th century the wood was replaced by stone. It always pays to invest in construction. It defended Angers from the Dukes of Brittany. We nicked it during the Hundred Year’s War, as it was pretty much abandoned. It also allowed us a little pied-à-terre from which to nick local natural resources. This is wine country and who doesn’t like a drink eh? We were mercilessly pushed out of France, and the Plessis was taken over by Louis de Beaumont who built the castle that we see today. 1678, the Castle is bought by the Bautrau de Serrant family, and in 1749 by the Walsh family (which doesn’t sound very French to me, just saying). In 1868 the Countess Sophie Walsh de Serrant (OK so maybe they were French after all), took up residence in the Castle and launched a huge construction project in the actual Logis. 1907, the Archives de France director, Charles Victor Langlois (Charles Victor the Englishman, Langlois is the medieval French for Englishman, oh the irony) acquired the Castle. As in most of France during the Second World War, the Germans occupied the Castle, as they did the rest of France. Yes, there’s something Vichy about the French, as Noel Coward once said. 1967 Philippe Langlois-Berthelot gifted the Castle to the Maine et Loire Department, possibly to avoid paying taxes (again, nothing sure, but follow the money…). 1980 the “Commons” builing was renovated as function rooms. You have to make money somehow, and who wouldn’t to have a reception in a beautiful castle? 1987, the artistic director of the Anjou Festival, Jean-Claude Brialy, a French and very butch luvvie, presented the infamous Barber of Seville by Beaumarchais. Skip forward to 2020, the photographer Ian J Myers visited the Castle because the other one he wanted to visit was shut, and he was buggered if he was going to leave the area without taking a couple of photos for posterity and his blog!
You, Dear Reader are now up to date. All that is left for me to do is to edit the photos and present them to you. I had originally planned to visit a few of the Loire Castles but then Lockdown happened, again! I’ll change plans and see what I come up with for future articles!
At work lately we’ve been having four day weeks and it’s wonderful! There are slightly fewer orders coming in but that’s OK. There’s enough to keep everything rolling by. And who doesn’t love having a day off? Those who said not me, are either liars or simply mistaken.
So that Friday I decided that I wanted to stay away from the house and get my booty off somewhere to take photos. But where? While I was edging closer to be a full time professional musician I did a spot of teaching in a place called Vihiers. It’s miles away, but still a nice drive out. I stopped edging towards music, and photography has taken over. One of my pupils talked about the Abbaye de Fontevraud. I looked it up on the Internet and started learning about it.
I’m half English and part of that is being real with the French. They need this. During and before the Hundred Years War, this area of France was English, and our King was their King. Those of you who aren’t English might have heard of Robin Hood, who looked just like Kevin Kostner and had a mate who looked strangely like Morgan Freeman. There was the Evil Prince John who became King when Richard the Lionheart (who looked really badass and you could mistake him for Sean Connery) went off on a Crusade to show just how badass he really was. Their mother was Eleanor of Aquitaine. Eleanor, her Husband Henry Plantagenet, their son Richard (the famous badass), and Isabelle d’Angouleme who was married to John. Her bad… We all make mistakes.
So this is kind of crazy for me who enjoys history and discovers more of the Anjou region which is just down the road from the Vendée. On the way I recognised a place where I used to buy foie gras when we first moved here. I called in on the off chance of being able to make a purchase and take something good home for my family. It’s changed a bit since 15 years ago, and offers different products. I left some money there and felt happy about buying something directly from the producer that was made on site etc. And it tasted really good too.
Sooooo… I turn up in the Village of Fontevraud l’Abbaye and I even managed to find the said Abbaye. 11€ for the entrance ticket, which seemed reasonable.
A bit of history here for those who can’t be bothered to click and have a read. Basically, the abbey was founded 1101 by the itinerant preacher Robert of Arbrissel. It developed and flourished during the Plantagenet era, went downhill after the Plantagenets were no more, however by the Hundred Years War things were going downhill, and during an inspection in 1460, the abbey was found to be barely inhabited. Fast forward to 1457 reforms were introduced by the then abbesse Marie of Bretagne. Louis the XI gave the place his blessing and the place started to really try to get back on its feet again, but without a huge amount of success. In 1491 there came Renée who was from the French Royal family (the Bourbons, french royals and not the rather tasty biscuits or whiskey). I’m not going to translate the whole of the French wikipedia article but you get the gist right? Things got better, and by the time the French decided that Royalty wasn’t for them during the French Revolution, things were OK!
However as the revolutionaries weren’t into Royalty and because of the so called “Enlightenment” philosophies, they weren’t into religion in a big way either. That continues to this very day. I promise not to get political! They basically get rid of the nuns, and by 1804, Napolean, yes him again, decided to make the place a prison, and it remained so until 1963.
When I went there I wanted to feel the Royal side with Richard the Lionheart and feel the medieval legends in the walls. But I’ll risk being contraversial, and say that I felt more the “prison vibe” and it might be because of the less than sunny autumnal weather, but I could feel the buildings being a place of great suffering. Quite ominous in fact.
Since 1975 it was converted from a prison into a Cultural Centre for the Region. You can see a few “colour” photos of the latest art installation which was very impressive.
