Who Will Know the Bluenose in the Sun?

  

 

 

Last weekend Emily and I saw the “Tall Ships” as they sailed into Boston Harbor. In 1976, I witnessed the first Tall Ships celebration in Baltimore, but I can’t recall much. You’d think I’d remember something like that, but Popeye the Sailor Man, I’m not.  (Toot toot!)

When friends envied me for seeing the ships in Boston, I smiled. In all truth, they’re not all that interesting if you’re a landlubber. By the time they come into close view their sails are struck because, well, they use wind power and you can’t approach a harbor that way. We could have seen them in full sail had we been on one of the Harbor islands, but that would’ve entailed arising at a time officially known as “Stupid Early” to make the 2-hour drive to a parking garage, grab the subway to Haymarket, and sprint to the ferry landing.

Plus, having seen “schooner” races, we know that sailing ships move slowly. Even “clipper” ships don’t go faster than 22 knots, which is 25 mph for fellow landlubbers. In Massachusetts, we drive faster than that in school zones. (I don’t mean nearby the school; I mean in the hallways.) I put “schooner” and “clipper” in quotes because they’re all just “boats” to me. I don’t sail, don’t like being on boats, and when forced aboard I think of all the sea shanties that commemorate wrecks. I had nightmares for a week after reading Sebastian Junger’s The Perfect Storm. The thought of being hundreds of miles out to sea is that of pre-Columbian flat-earth mariners who marked the edge of the world with: “There be monsters.”

I’m not knocking those who enjoy sailing. I do wonder, though, why so many devotees have repeated the joke about the two best days of a sailor’s life: the day they buy a boat and the day they sell it. Whadda I know? I thought that a capstan was where you hung your beanie-copter and a barque something dogs do. But my eyes tell me it takes a lot of skill to sail a small craft, let alone one of those huge boats in the distance that made me grab Emily’s hand and cry, “We’ve only got half an hour to get out of here before the pirates land and commence pillaging.”

One ship, though, made me grin so hard my ears were hidden: Bluenose II. It’s a rebuild of the first Bluenose, which is legendary in Canadian history. It was a fishing schooner launched in 1917 from Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. It also raced and captured the first Fisherman’s Trophy by beating an American ship. Its crew held on to that trophy for the next 17 years, until engine-powered ships made sails obsolete. The Bluenose then plied the Grand Banks, a fish-rich region whose precise boundary between Canada and the U.S. remains under dispute.  

As you can imagine, anytime Canada bests the U.S. in anything, it’s a moment of pride. The Bluenose is commemorated on the Canadian dime, paintings, posters, stamps, legends, and a song written by Stan Rogers. He’s one of my all-time favorites. Bluenose I met a sorry fate. It was sold in 1942, was wrecked on a reef off Haiti in 1944, broke apart, and sank. No one died, but no one knows its exact location either, though many have tried to find it. Bluenose II was built in 1963, but had to be completely rebuilt between 2010-13. The steam-ferry and a catamaran between Bar Harbor, Maine, and Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, has sometimes borne the name M.V.* Bluenose, but few would confuse those boring boats with the real thing. (Even worse, the catamaran is infamous for its malfunctions.)

We were near the Charlestown section of Boston Harbor where Bluenose II put up its canvas to turn around. As it sailed by, people cheered and shouts of “We love Canada!” rung out. The crew was elated and began dancing and waving. It was a beautiful moment.  

Emily and I still dislike boats, though we’ve been on many.  We hope to get back to Prince Edward Island, but we will drive through New Brunswick–motto: “The Most Boring Province in All of Canada”– and drive across the Confederation Bridge. Apologies to all who love to sail, but being atop water makes me hum Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”

 

Rob Weir

* MV simply means motor vessel.

 

Highs and Lows of Traveling in Britain

London: "Walkie Talkie" on far left.

Canterbury

 

You’ll be reading a lot in this blog about our recent trip to England, so ‘s a brief overview. We were based in London, aside from a two-day stay in York, hence these thoughts are geographically skewed. I’ve spent more time in Scotland than in England and am more comfortable in the land of my ancestors, so this too colored my perceptions. (“If it’s nae Scottish, it’s crrrrapp,” as SNL once joked.)

It had been nearly 15 years since last we were in London and even longer since our previous visit to York. It is safe to say that a lot has changed! Change can be a mixed bag and one’s reaction to such things are often a matter of preference.

Highlights

Travel begins with people. We were not on a tour, but a definite highlight was seeing old friends. Valerie jetted over from Geneva and spent a day with us at the Victoria and Albert Museum at London. Chinwags, lunch, and warn beverages on a cool day in William Morris-styled tearooms lent a pleasant atmosphere to catching up.

We spent another day with Derek and Jenny who live just outside of London. We rendezvoused at Black Heath for a very long walk that began in the village and across the heath and Greenwich. Mist, open land, coffee and cakes at a garden house, a stroll through an instructional farm to visit critters, and a train into London’s upscale Docklands area. We gabbed, gabbed, gabbed and ended the day at a nice Indian restaurant.

We found English people unfailingly kind and polite. As older (yikes!) travelers, younger folks offered us seats on the Tube (subway), helped us work out ticket machines, and committed small acts of kindness. I’m no expert of Britain’s racist/anti-immigrant Reform Party, but London is the most multicultural city I’ve seen in recent years. There are interracial couples of all sorts and a noticeable lack of anger on the faces of English people of color. Brexit and Reform aside, their followers are spitting into the wind; immigrants are tightly woven into London culture.

The Sights:

1. If museums are a passion, London caters to so many tastes that we largely confined ourselves to art–Tate Britain, National Gallery, National Portrait Gallery, Tate Modern, the Tower of London–and the anthropological wonders of the British Museum.

2. Green spaces abound. Walking through St. James’s Park near Buckingham Palace was amazing. We were promptly greeted by a rather imperious white pelican, as well as magpies, moorhens, and parrots. I struck up a nice conversation with an elderly Chinese gentleman with a cloud of parrots around him. He told me he is retired and that he comes every day to feed his “friends.”

 

Feeding his friends!

 3. You can still find free house pubs serving cask ales. Be wary; not all are good.

4. An evening at Wilton’s Theatre for a singalong of Cockney, music hall, and selected pop/rock songs was a gas. Tom Carradine and his China Plates are a throwback in a positive way. Tom dresses in Victorian garb most of the time, sports a waxed mustache, and has a devoted following in a run-down venue whose condition parallels Preservation Hall in New Orleans.

5. We found (in order) Canterbury, York, and Oxford much more “charming” than London. Also, more historical and less frenetic.

  The Lows:

1. Once-familiar landmarks are now “buried” in London’s go-go building boom that pays very little attention to planning. Dizzying skyscraper complexes have Manhattanized London with insufficient attention paid to the surrounding area. The pickle-shaped “Gherkin” has been followed by the “Shard” (think Superman’s Fortress of Solitude on Ozempic), and a hulking skyscraper Londoners have dubbed “the Walkie-Talkie” and I think looks like a Bose speaker. I like bold design (though the reflections from the Gherkin have allegedly induced skin burns), but poor placement invites lampoon. The Docklands is impressive, but generic. Its web of private moorings makes mockery of where laborers and sailors once toiled. Gentrification and genericization abound. 

The "Gherkin"

 

 

 

 

 

 

From the South Bank bridge. Note how close the "Walkie Talkie" is Tower Bridge

 

 

 2. London has become unaffordable. A cup of coffee can set you back $7 when you do the conversion. A simple meat or veggie hand pie is ₤16-17 (as much as $23!). We were staying in Earls Court where each townhouse had cars such a Lamborghini, a BMW, a Rolls, or its ilk parked in the drive. Our rental was in a townhouse carved into postage stamp rooms. The galley kitchen was jammed into a hallway with cupboards that reached to the top of 12’ ceilings. The same was true of the shower, whose head would have made for a lovely fixture for someone 11’ tall.  

3. The class system is alive and well, though it is now an aristocracy of money rather than birth. Upscale stores such as Harrods and Liberty are absolutely disgusting is their worship of conspicuous consumption.  I looked at a light wool scarf in Harrods that would have set me back $600. London's main shopping district is strictly show-off stuff for the millionaires and tchotchkes from Marks and Sparks for the masses. I literally fled from Harrods.

4. There’s not much new in the theatre. Revivals everywhere, even off the Strand. 

How Not to Be an Ugly American

 

The Ugly American, a 1958 novel, coined a stereotype of U.S. travelers
whose arrogance raised hackles abroad. These days, pushy Germans, selfie-taking Japanese travelers, and Italians who mob instead of queuing have supplanted the Ugly American. Don’t revive him.

At the end of April, agit-prop artist Banksy struck again. The above statue arose overnight in London’s Waterloo Square. You don’t need a course in semiotics to read Banksy’s implied dig at Donald Trump and other autocrats. Note that the figure is blinded by the flag he waves and is about to step off into the void. You’re probably right to connect the gilded statue of Athena with Trump’s garish ballroom project that looks as if Croesus puked gold on the East Wing. Make what you will of the scaffolding!

I hope you’ve noticed that Off-Center Views has been silent the past few weeks. I’ve been in England, where Trumpism gets a cold reception. Even though the hard right threatens Europe–Le Pen in France, skinheads in Germany, the Reform Party in England, and anti-immigrant sentiment across the continent–Trump’s aggressive American triumphalism is lampooned. (We even have our own Arc de Triomphe set to be built!) As I saw it, America was largely ignored other than the sentiment that King Charles played Trump like a cheap accordion.

Oddly, though, Canadians and Europeans are often kind to American visitors. You probably won’t like the reason; they feel sorry for us. Once we were the envy of the world, but that ship has sailed. There are myriad reasons not to act like an Ugly American abroad, not the least of which is leaving home can make you feel more like a pauper than the pop stars among the top 10% who hold more than two-thirds America’s  wealth.

Park your preconceptions. Do you believe that the USA has the world’s highest standard of living? Not even close! We’re not in the same boat as the poorest of the globe’s 193 nations, but depending upon which index you consult, America is either #17 or as low as #23. Both Canada and Great Britain rank above us. Foreign leaders seek calm relations with America mostly because of our nuclear arsenal and the international reach of capitalism, not envy.

The U.S. gets low marks for health care, life expectancy, education, infrastructure, public safety, and environmental action. The contrast is visible when visiting Western Europe, Japan, Scandinavia, and parts of Canada and China. (Switzerland, The Netherlands, and Denmark tend to flip flop as # 1.) I’ve yet to visit Denmark or Japan, but I have traveled to the rest and the list seems fairly accurate. If you’re looking for Utopia, pick up a fantasy novel; higher-ranked nations have their struggles as well. It is nonetheless sobering to realize that contemporary America seems a lot like post-Colonial Britain. One thing every American should do when traveling is shut up, listen, and learn.

            For instance, many (if not most) Europeans are comfortable with socialism. Capitalism is an economic system, not a form of government. You’ve probably heard socialism as a swear word. It’s actually a spectrum of political practices; democratic socialism seeks to balance common social needs and pursuit of personal gain. Don’t confuse it with authoritarian socialism (like communism).

Be polite:  Don’t congregate in the middle of busy sidewalks or the exits of stores and transit stations. Take photos, but step away from foot traffic to do so. Do not hold cellphone conversations in inappropriate places and silence them anywhere that would interrupt decorum. Notice how food is consumed. Brits, for example, use knives and forks quite differently.

Respect local customs: Do some homework before you arrive, like learning the metric system!  Making fun of nations that drive on the left isn’t going to get them to change. Likewise, you should walk or stand on the left unless signs indicate otherwise (like on escalators). If you rent a car in New Zealand and stop at a red light, you invite wrath if you take off as soon as the light changes. Local custom holds that vehicles with difficult cross-traffic turns have priority. If you visit a mosque or temple, remove your shoes and women should cover their heads with a scarf. Buddhists ask for quiet, shoes, hats, and sunglasses removal. Be quiet and never point the soles of your feet at a monk, altar, or statue of Buddah. Always wear modest clothing in religious buildings, including cathedrals. No shorts of dresses shorter than shorts!

Have fun but know the rules: Don’t dream of using drugs in the 33 nations that carry a potential death sentence for drug busts. At best, violators get lengthy jail sentences. Brittney Griner got 9 years for having a vape pen in Russia. She got home in a spy/prisoner exchange after 10 months. You’re not a WNBA star; you’ll fare even worse! In Malaysia, public spitting could cost you $1,000. In some places, graffiti, drinking alcohol, theft, or overstaying your visa could result in a public caning. (A handful of Americans have endured that.)

It’s not America: LGBTQ+ are hot-button issues in the U.S. but in some places they are very illegal–most of Africa for starters–so avoid public displays of affection and use restrooms that won’t raise alarms.  It all boils down to “when in Rome (or London, or Nairobi, or…) do as the locals do.”

Be cognizant of political realities: Until you personally break the ice, expect anti-Americanism. I usually carry something with visible emblems of New Zealand, Switzerland or Scotland. Diehard nationalists would deride me for this, but who needs uninvited hassles? Until you know people, you don’t know what their attitudes are. Don’t be like the loud-mouthed Texan I encountered in New Zealand who vehemently expressed his disbelief in global warning. It didn’t play well in a nation with a giant hole in the ozone layer over the South Island. When I was a Fulbright scholar our pre-departure training included a reminder that we were de facto American ambassadors. The same is true of U.S. tourists. 

Rob Weir

Lascaux: Amazing and Frustrating

 

 

 

Perhaps you’ve heard this story before. In 1940, 18-year-old Marcel Ravidat was walking his dog near the village of Montignac, France. The pooch found an uprooted tree that proved to be the entrance to a cave. Ravidat returned with three teen-aged
friends and scrambled some fifty feet underground into a chamber filled with ancient art.  That alone wasn’t all that remarkable; the Dordogne Valley was filled with caves and quite a few of them have prehistoric paintings on their walls and ceilings. We explored such a remarkable small cave in Cougnac the previous week. But the cave in Lascaux surpassed anything found before. There were more than 600 paintings and etchings made 17,000-22,000 years ago. Most were of animals–aurochs, bison, bovines, large cats, deer, horses, rhinos–plus several mysterious figures, including indecipherable geometric designs and a human figure with a bird-like head and an erect phallus.

 

Lascaux was open to the public from 1948 to 1963, when it was closed to the public because the breath of visitors caused mold and other visible damage to the paintings. UNESCO listed it as a world heritage site in 1979, which prompted the French government to display a travelling replica of one hall, which was dubbed Lascaux II. Lascaux III expanded upon Lascaux II, but in 2016 Lascaux IV opened on site, a full 3-D recreation of the entire cave. No, you can’t see exactly what Ravidat and his friends saw in 1940, but the recreation is so well done that you can imagine their amazement. It looks and feels like a cave, unless you accidentally brush a stalagmite and feel its synthetic surface. It’s a great way to preserve the original cave from further damage and is better lighted than “authentic” caves.

 

That’s the good news; now for the bad. Lascaux is a guided tour that is designed to give visitors information in their native languages. It’s also designed to shuffle as many people as possible through the cave as quickly as possible. Read: No dawdling. You are then ushered into a corridor with four theaters spotlighting various aspects of Lascaux from discovery to preservation to ongoing scientific studies. The films are well done, but chances are that if you are with a tour group you won’t get to see more than ¾ of one of them before your guide hustles you into a gift shop selling all manner of tchotchkes such as horse stuffies and coloring books to keychains, picture books, postcards, and garish t-shirts. Frankly, I found the touring experience so frustrating and distasteful that I began to identify with cave paintings of herds of buffalo.

 

At the end of the proverbial day you will come away with more appreciation for the skill of ancient artists, but probably no wiser on what it all meant. For instance, one theory that is mostly discredited by the visual evidence is that the ancients used the images as a form of imitative magic; that is, hunters threw spears at them in hopes that a magic force (called mana) would inhabit those spears in a real hunt. A relative lack of chipping on the rocks makes that less likely. Those figures strongly suggest that the art is the point. But the why is left up in the air. Why Lascaux? Was it a ritual or religious center? What’s the current theory on who made these images? Explanations of “early man” tell us little. Does that mean homo sapiens or Neanderthal sapiens? (The latter is probably more likely, but not a particularly strong marketing piece!) Could Lascaux have been little more than an ancient art gallery? A school for making art?

 

I suppose that, for me, I wondered why there was so much effort to effort to convince us of the quality of the art. We can see that it is expertly done given the imprecision of available tools. What’s wrong with admitting that Lascaux remains cloaked in mystery? Or at least highlighting competing theories. There are other ancient sites–Skara Brae and Stonehenge come to mind–where ambiguity and uncertainty are embraced. I think also of the pyramids of Giza, where periodic new finds put the sites back in the news. In short, Lascaux IV is a nice job of re-creation, but falls short in presentation. If I ever return to the Périgord, I shall seek out smaller caves to avoid both the crowds and what feels perilously close to Disneyfication of ancient history.

 

Rob Weir

Domme: Small Village with a Big View

 

 

 

Domme, France

More Photos on my Facebook Page

 

Among the numerous eye-opening lessons learned when traveling is that places that are mere dots on a detailed map were once the center of very big historical events. This was certainly a takeaway from a visit to Domme. I suspect that most tours don’t even stop there, as its population is a mere 901. We were there to say goodbye to our tour guide, Bruno, who is among the few who live in the village.

 

Domme was founded by the French king Philip the Bold in1281 because of its defensive possibilities. It sits more than 800 feet above sea level and lords several hundred feet higher than the Dordogne River. It’s spectacular location earned Domme its title as “the Acropolis of the Périgord.” The village is perched atop a limestone cliff and even today the route to the top is so winding that most visitors take a special shuttle that fits through the narrow city gates. As I’ve emphasized in previous posts, the fate of many Périgord settlements were shaped by the loyalties of its strongest nobles. When Eleanor of Aquitaine’s marriage to the French king was annulled in 1152, the region came under the control of England. Battles took place between the two kingdoms during the Hundred Years War (1337-1453) but Domme, though, briefly occupied by English troops, was unscathed.

 

Actually, Domme’s major upheaval was sealed a century before it was built! During the Crusades (1085-1291) to liberate the Holy Lands from “infidels” (Muslims), Christian soldiers actually did gain control of the Levant (today’s Israel, Palestine Lebanon, Jordan, and Syria). But how were Christian pilgrims to get there safely? A series of Christian military orders were founded, the most famous being the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, better known as the Knights Templar.* They became the guardians of lands captured by Christian Crusaders and the protector of travelers. 

 

An important history lesson is that over time, many things that were once popular fall out of fashion and into revilement. By the late 13^th century, the Crusaders lost control of the Holy Lands; Saladin was such a brilliant leader that Richard the Lionhearted befriended his erstwhile Muslim enemy. Several popes, the most important being Clement V, wearied of the unconventional beliefs of the Templars (such as their support for the poor and renunciation of riches at a time in which the Vatican was becoming rich), accused the order of idolatry and corruption, and tried to merge them with the Knights Hospitallers. When the Templars balked, many were arrested. Domme went from strategic outpost to a prison whose graffiti persists as symbols etched onto stone walls. Clement V dissolved the Knights Templar in 1312, and numerous recalcitrant Templars were burned at the stake in Domme and elsewhere.

 

You’d never know about all of this hullaballoo and tragedy as you walk through Domme today. It is the quintessential “quiet village.” The reason to visit is that it has the proverbial million dollar (okay, Euro) view. It has a terrace that bespeaks its original intention of being able to see up and down the Dordogne River Valley. No raiders were in sight, unless distant cows grow disgruntled. Of course, being that it’s the Périgord, there are distant chateaux, tidy farmlands, and a vineyard or two. You can walk Domme’s main street in a New York minute and the main square has the townhall, an ice cream shop, a retailer of fois gras, and a statue of the valiant geese who gave their livers in the service of gastronomy. But what a view! It’s imprinted upon my brain.

 

As we left on the small shuttle that fits through the gates, I looked carefully. There were no Templars in plain view, but you never know. Most of the Templars shaved their telltale long beards and faded into the countryside. No one expects the Knights Templar!

 

Rob Weir  

 

* The Templars are gone but the name persists. London’s Temple Bar refers to the “bar(red)” gates into the City of London, and Temple Bank tube stations will take you to what is literally a major banking district, though the name probably comes from where an ancient temple to Mithras once stood.

Cruising the River and Meandering in the Garden

 

(More pictures will appear on my Saturday Facebook page.)

 

I’m getting down to the last few sites from my October trip to France. I was happy we signed onto a National Trust tour to get such expert specialists to enlighten us. Towards the end of any tour, though, companies usually scale back the activities. Those days usually involve something that most people will like plus something that appeals to some but not others.

 

Our something-for-all activity was a cruise down the Dordogne River at Beynac. Why there? The Dordogne is a demarcation river for the region, much the same way that towns near me identify as being in the Connecticut River Valley even if they are miles from the river. As rivers go, the Dordogne falls into the category of being more scenic than mighty. There are parts of it that are shallow or narrow or rocky, or some combination thereof. There is also a vast difference between a river such as the wide Garonne and the more humble Dordogne. The vessel used to transport Eleanor of Aquitaine to Beynac, coal, wood, food, and other agricultural products, would have been a flat-bottomed  gabare. Fishermen used it as well, and not coincidentally, that’s what still used to take goods downriver and the show tourists around. Flat-bottomed boats, of course, have very little draft, perfect for unpredictable water flows.

 

There were wide sections on our cruise, but the main attraction is that is a good way to appreciate how towns, shops, and homes hug the river. The castle at Beynac literally looms over the villages. It is not, however, the only seat of power in the region. We floated past several chateaux of those friendly to or bitterly against Eleanor and Richard, especially after Eleanor’s marriage to the Capetian French king was annulled and she became a member of the English Plantagenet family. Luckily for Eleanor’s opponents, not many had the moxie to take up arms against her or her son Richard lest they pay with their heads on a chopping block.

 

I enjoyed the cruise quite a lot. Large fish (catfish, pike, and varieties of zander) leapt from the stream or could be viewed swimming in the clear Dordogne waters. The sun felt so warm that most of us shed our jackets. The wise ones used thin scarves to prevent the sun from burning our necks.

 

Speaking entirely for myself, I could have done without the visit to the gardens of Eyrignac. Some people love to wander through formal gardens, but I find they raise my working-class hackles. The only thing remotely French about Eyrignac was Sophie, our very enthusiastic expert guide. Sophie is 30, but she’s a teen in temperament. That gal loves plants and her favorite phrase was “ooo-la-la.” She made things more fun than they otherwise would have been. After all, we were there in October, so it wasn’t like we were bombarded by color. We were shown a formal Italian garden that dates from  the 18^th century. The manor house was also 18^th century, though it was made of the ubiquitous gold stone of the region. There were a handful of water features, but the big draw was a saw-tooth arrangement of boxwood hedges.

 

I would have been more impressed it they had sculpted them into topiary, but to my eye it was little more than parallel hedges where one block of green poked out, the next was indented, and so it goes. I again confess that formal gardens are just my thing and my idea of flower garden is one where seeds or bulbs are stuffed into the ground, somehow resist my ineptitude, and pop up when they’re supposed to. I could but nod and smile when the serious gardeners of the group said something about Eyrignac in English that was the equivalent of ooo-la-la. I snapped some photos, but was happy to get back to Sarlat for dinner and a nighttime stroll through its medieval sector. I guess the moral is never hire a historian as your gardener!

 

Rob Weir

 

History and Myth at Rocamadour

 

 

Rocamadour is a tiny place, but one full of wonder. It perennially shows up on lists of the most beautiful villages in France. It is indeed a village–just 604 residents–but it has a dramatic setting and a rich history. In some ways it’s more like a small Italian town in Tuscany in that part of it occupies a hilltop. Quite an imposing one. Tour buses wend their way to a small parking lot at the summit. From there you can walk through a parklet devoted to the 14 Stations of the Cross devoted to the life and passion of Christ. Even if you’re a scowling heathen you can appreciate the devotion and artwork of believers.

 

The view from the top is enough to inspire religious fervor. Rocamadour is crowned by a 12^th century château. That building isn’t open to view, but you can walk about the defensive ramparts. One wonders how often they needed to rely upon them as this part of Rocamadour is built into the cleft of a limestone cliff that sits nearly 500 feet above the Alzou, a tributary of the Dordogne River. If you time your trip correctly you can view the Alzou Valley cloaked in fog in the morning and appreciate the panorama when it burns off by the afternoon.

 

If you’re not a mountain goat you can take a lift to the bottom, but I recommend you strap on your knee braces and brave the 216 stairs of Le Grand Escalier as there are important things to see on the journey down. Plus, you can take solace the medieval pilgrims climbed up those stairs on their knees. Despite its small population Rocamadour holds an oversized importance in French medieval history. Its name derives from Saint Amadour–the name is linked linguistically to amor, French for love–who might or might not deserve sainthood depending on what variety of Catholic you ask. He was either a devout hermit from sometime in the first century AD, or a complete invention. What we know for sure is that in 1162 an unmarked grave was found near the entrance to the 12^th century Our Lady (Notre Dame) Chapel that looked quite old, though the body therein had not deteriorated. It was declared to be the body of Amadour who was venerated as a saint. (FYI, the 1969 Vatican II council removed some 200 saints’ feast days from the calendar as it could not be verified they actually existed. Try telling that to someone wearing a St. Christopher medal!)

 

Whether Amadour existed or not is just one of Rocamadour’s mysteries. Pilgrims have been coming there since the 10^th century because of miracles–I warned you in an earlier post it would come up again–associated with its version of the Black Madonna (above). In this case, it is a statue inside the church carved from walnut of Mary and the infant Jesus. Rocamadour was also on the road to Compostella and a veritable parade of medieval luminaries: kings, queens (including Eleanor of Aquitaine), and holy men.

 

Both St. Dominic and St. Bernard of Clairvaux visited and wasn’t often the founder of the Dominicans and reformer of the Benedictines and founder of the Knights Templar set up shop in the same place. The Black Virgin carving is said to be over a thousand years old. Who carved it? Some say Zacchaeus, a tax collector disciple of Jesus. His wife was Veronica who supposedly wiped Jesus’ face on his route to his crucifixion and left his facial imprint on the cloth. You might recognize that as the famed Veronica’s Veil. Still others claim the Black Madonna was carved by Amadour, whom Mary commanded to live as a hermit. Why a Black Virgin? No one is quite sure. Is it because Mary and Jesus were darker-skinned Semites, soot from candles, the age of the artifact, or…? Will someone please call Sherlock Holmes?

 

As if all of this weren’t enough, Rocamadour is also connected to Charlemagne (748-814 AD). There are few medieval literary works more famous than the epic poem La Chanson de Roland, which appeared in the 11^th century. It tells of a trap set by enemies at the Roncevaux Pass in 778 AD. An advance guard led by Roland held the pass long enough for Roland to blow a horn warning Charlemagne of danger. History or myth?  Were the attackers Basques, Saracen Muslims from Arabia, or from Spain? Who wrote the poem? Sense a theme here? To add another romantic flourish, visitors are shown cleft in the rock from which iron protrudes. It’s said that an angel gave Roland a sword called Durandal, said to be the sharpest blade in existence. Roland was able to hold off scores of Saracens until Charlemagne counterattacked. Imagine Western history had Charlemagne died at the age of 20.

 

Whew! If you make it down to the main street of the village after all that, it’s lined with small shops, artisan ware, restaurants, and places to sample fois de gras (non, merci), its famed goat cheese (oui, s’il vous plait), and wine (encore, encore!). Then it’s time to board the toy-like Quercy Rocamadour train, which just barely fits through the town gate to be shuttled back to the top.

 

Rob Weir

 

Southcentral Pennsylvania versus Western Massachusetts

Scrapple. 

 

The official bug of New England.

 

I will take a break from October’s trip to France for a digression to last week’s trip to Southcentral Pennsylvania. I’ll spare you the details, but circumstances led us to consider whether we’d ever move back to Pennsylvania. I didn’t think so, as we’ve spent the past 47 years as New Englanders. We’ve also spent a lot of time in Pennsylvania because we had many (and still have a few) relatives in the Keystone State. The semi-scientific way was to consider the two (sort of) objectively. For comparison’s sake, PA means Southcentral Pennsylvania from greater Harrisburg/Lancaster to the Maryland line and MA means Massachusetts west of Worcester to the Berkshires.

 

1. Scenery

 

Both states have beautiful areas and depressing spots. Although I am enamored of the Connecticut River Valley, PA has a lot of active farms that afford sweeping vistas. As a result it feels less cramped than Western MA towns that run into each other and close-to-the-road forests.

 

Winner: PA

 

2. Susquehanna or Connecticut River

 

At 444 miles the Susquehanna is the longest river east of the Mississippi; the Connecticut is the longest in New England at 407 miles. The Susquehanna dumps into Chesapeake Bay and the Connecticut into Long Island Sound. The Susquehanna is deeper as well (>200’ at its greatest depth vs. about 130’ for the Connecticut) but because the Susquehanna also has numerous shallow sections, most of it is not navigable. The Connecticut has been a working river for boats, water power, and fishing.

 

Winner: Toss-up. What’s your watery pleasure?

 

3.  Boston or Philadelphia

 

In Benjamin Franklin’s time Philly would have won by a landslide. I regret to inform you that Ben has been moldering in the ground since 1790. Boston has been called the American Athens for its vibrant intellectual life that includes more colleges than any other U.S. city. Western MA isn’t far behind. The Five Colleges (UMass, Amherst, Smith, Mt. Holyoke, Hampshire) have more than 30,000 students and adjacent Springfield 13,000 more. If you extend it to Hartford, CT (26 miles) it balloons to 170,000. Young people make the area more vibrant and (to some extent) recession-proof. Of course, all cities have urban challenges such as crime, but Boston is much safer than Philly and Springfield/Holyoke is safer than Harrisburg.

 

Winner: MA by a sizable margin.

 

 

4. Cultural Life:

 

Both Philly and Boston have cultural opportunities and, as a fan of art, their respective museums of fine arts are wonderful. However, Western MA has tons more art museums (the Clark, the Springfield Quadrangle, and the Norman Rockwell to mention just three). It is a center for independent music, folk and jazz clubs, theatre, classical music, and high-end galleries.

 

Winner: MA

 

5. Friendliness:

 

PA by a mile.  As an old joke goes, “It’s untrue that New Englanders aren’t friendly. We’d tell you if your feet were on fire. If’n you asked.” We make friends slowly and selectively. Once you are a friend, we are very loyal and go out of our way to make sure your tootsies aren’t aflame, but until then you’re on your own.

 

Winner: PA

 

6.  Tolerance and religion:

 

The corollary to #5 is that Pennsylvanians are much more likely to be judgmental. Folks in MA tend toward an MYOB (mind your own business) attitude. Gay, straight, trans, socialist, pro-choice …. Far fewer care in MA. I’ve interviewed conservatives up this way who have told me, “They don’t bother me and I don’t bother them.”

 

In MA, the first comment upon meeting someone is either, “Tell me about yourself,” or “What do you do?” In PA it’s “What church do you go to?” Not all of PA is like that, but there’s an old saw about PA that says it’s Philly in the east, Pittsburgh in the west, and Alabama in the middle. I grew up in the Alabama part, home of anti-choice activists. Heaven help you if try to proselytize in MA. At best you’ll get an “I’m not interested.” From there is goes downhill to “MYO F-in’ B,” or a door slammed in your face. Also, PA has tons of non-aligned churches; MA runs the gamut from Congregationalists and Quakers to Buddhists and Wiccans.

 

Winner: MA

 

7.  Politics and sports:  

 

That’s not to say MA citizens don’t get riled. In Western MA politics are as much a contact sport as ice hockey. MA is a deep blue state in which the GOP almost disappears. If we elect a GOP governor it’s because the occasional Democrat is so loathsome we hold our noses and vote against them. We also tend to follow politics as deeply as Pennsylvanians follow sports like football.

 

In Western MA we have a weird relationship to sports. UMass football is the worst program in America. The Patriots get some notice, but the Red Sox are a religion. It’s odd, though, because Western MA hates most things about Boston except the Sox, Pats, Bruins, and Celtics. I’m a Yankees fan, so I’ve learned to hold my tongue. That said, I’m a democratic socialist and the place in PA where I once lived is so Republican it went well over 80% for Trump.

 

Winner: MA.  

 

8.  Transportation:

 

MA has pretty decent public transport, whereas Southcentral PA has nearly none beyond Amtrak and you have to go to Harrisburg to get that. It’s a good thing we have public transport because there’s a reason why MA drivers are called “Massholes.” We are the worst! If you’re ever driving in MA and see a car or two or three to your left or right, don’t wonder if they are going to pull out in front of you. They will! Do not fall for the deception that stopped vehicles have yielded the right of way. They are merely doing Massmath and calculating how close you can get to them to generate the most anger before they pull out and you have to stand on the brakes to avoid a crash. If you have the temerity to blow your horn, they will flash the middle digit.

 

Winner: PA despite walls of trucks and slow traffic around Allentown, Easton, Harrisburg, Lancaster, Reading, and rinky-dink places you’ve never heard of.

 

9.  Beaches:

 

Winner: MA because a beach in PA is called New Jersey, whereas MA has the North Shore, the South Shore, and The Cape. (We never say, “Cape Cod;” it’s always “The Cape.”

 

10. Food and Beverages:

 

Call it MA gourmet vs. PA gourmand. PA food is heavy, starchy, and supersized. Many people in MA grow herb gardens; in PA the only spices are salt, pepper, and maybe cinnamon. They also eat things like scrapple, mincemeat, and hog maw. Don’t ask; you don’t want to know! New Englanders have fresh seafood; Pennsylvanians rubbery facsimiles from Red Lobster. (They don’t even have the grace to pronounce it properly. It's “lobstah.”)

 

PA coffee is an abomination to God and humankind. It resembles coffee only in that it’s brown. MA has cafes that grind freshly roasted beans and skillful baristas who serve works of art.

 

PA “beer” means Rolling Rock, Iron City, or Budweiser. MA mainstream beer is Sam Adams, but it seems as if every town and hamlet has at least one microbrewery. I enjoy trying stuff that doesn’t have to be chilled to Arctic levels to mask their lack of taste. 

 

MA has Herrell's ice cream; PA has Turkey Hill. What does a fowl know about ice cream?  

 

PA does have much better fresh fruit. I’m amused when people up here get excited about local peaches that are about the size of what is removed to create a steer. MA cherries aren’t much better. But MA veg is superior. Butter and sugar corn is delish; PA yellow corn is starch on a stick. Hadley asparagus is the best on the planet and we know that green vegetables should be, well… green, not pressure-cooked gray. We also love arugula, which some in PA think is a type of Chevrolet.

 

Winner: MA

 

11.  Taxes

 

MA has been nicknamed “Taxachusetts,” which isn’t actually true. PA residents also hate taxes. Show of hands for anyone who just loves to pay taxes.

 

Winner: Toss-up. If you want services and schools, ya’ gotta pay for ‘em. We just make ourselves feel better if we vent about them.

 

12. World views:

 

I’ll be partly charitable on this. In PA, folks  think the key to happiness is family and owning stuff. In MA we are happiest when we are with friends and are doing stuff. 

 

However, Pennsylvanians simply don’t get irony. Faced with irony the faces are either blank because they don’t get it, or because they confuse irony with sarcasm. Not so. Sarcasm is a reflexive act; irony is premeditated, conscious, and intellectual. It is intended to be humorous commentary on the gap between what is commonly believed and reality.

 

Winner: MA because I simply don’t know how one can live without irony!  

 

If you do the tally, you’ll know why I call myself a New Englander. No irony intended. Had I added a weather category, PA might have won, though with climate change that’s less true than it used to be. You can call that tragic irony.

 

Rob Weir

 

Les Eyzies-de-Tayac-Sireuil is a Lesson in Human Evolution

The fog was just lifting when we arrived

{See my Facebook page tomorrow for lots of pictures}
 

Les Eyzies-de-Tayac-Sireuil is often called the “Capital of Prehistory” and I wouldn’t question it. In and around the village are numerous caves with etchings and paintings from the so-called “Stone Age,” which is the longest period of human-like and early humans. It only stretches from circa (about) 3.4 million years ago to circa 4000 -2000 B.C.E. That’s a mere 99% of the time humans and their ilk have been on the planet. Most of what we think we know of the Stone Age (Paleolithic) era is inferred from visual evidence such as stone and bone tools, skeletal remains, rock carvings, examination of habitats, and painted cave walls. The Stone Age isn’t an entirely accurate term as some gold- and copper-working dates from the late Stone Age.

 

To try to get a grip on things, archaeologists subdivide the Stone Age. Insofar as we can tell at present, during the middle and later Paleolithic periods, homo sapiens evolved and became the dominant fully human inhabitants of the area, though that has been challenged. We continue to think the homo sapiens gave us the Bronze Age, the Iron Age, and the settled villages, domestication of animals, and farming of the Neolithic periods, but don’t be too sure. Among the many fascinating things on view at the National Museum of Prehistory in Les Eyzies is enough surviving bone to challenge the view that homo sapiens are unique. The area in and around Les Eyzies is pocked with so many once-inhabited caves that is was nicknamed “Troglodyte Village.”

 

There’s no such species as a troglodyte, but the story of humankind is often told as if there were. Ape-like australopithecines (and older) beings were assumed to inhabit the caves. They probably did, as did Neanderthals and homo sapiens. The part that stuns most folks today is the evidence that at least one line of Neanderthal needs to be reclassified as homo sapiens. (The jury is still out on the recently discovered hominids known as denisovans.) It’s pretty much a given that homo sapiens and Neanderthals interbred. Another mind-blowing discovery at the Prehistory Museum is that many Neanderthals differed from Cro-Magnons (long thought to be the first homo sapiens) only in that they were slightly smaller but more muscular. You can find modeled reconstructions of various humans and human ancestors in the museum, as well as now-extinct giant elk and wooly mammoths.

 

The museum alone makes Les Eyzies a busy place for a village of just 852 residents. It also makes one think, as it is housed in Château Tayac, a castle-like building that was constructed in the 12^th-16^th centuries in and around massive cliffs. Call it an advanced cave dwelling.

 

The village has a few shops but the word quaint comes to mind. It sits in a small valley near the junction of the Vézère and Beune Rivers. Local fully evolved French citizens farm and tend vines in Les Eyzies,  but tourism rules big time. Numerous archaeological sites important to human prehistory are on view and the famed Lascaux cave paintings are nearby. We visited a cave in Cougnac during the same visit.

 

By the way, troglodyte simply means cave dweller. If you visit Spain or Greece, you’ll learn that troglodytes are still among us. After all, why go to all the trouble of building a new structure if there’s a cave nearby that’s warm in the winter and cool in the hot summers. All you need to do is make sure it’s not currently occupied by bears! And, yes, there are bears in the Dordogne.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

Sarlat-la-Canéda

Duck Dinner in Sarlat. Wine not pictured!

If you visit the southern section of the Dordogne–aka/ the Périgord or southern Aquitaine–chances are good you will end up staying at Sarlat-la-Canéda, not because it’s the most beautiful village–though it is very lovely–or the largest, but simply because it is an excellent base for exploring nearby sites of interest to tourists foreign and French. As such, it has more places to stay, numerous restaurants, and shops to cater to visitors. The town of Périgueux has nearly 30,000 residents but it takes 50 minutes to get to Lascaux from there, but less than a half hour from Sarlat. As realtors would put it, it's all about location, location, location.

 

A word on French jurisdictions. France is divided into regions, départments with an administrative prefecture, and communes (municipalities). The Dordogne is located in the Nouvelle Aquitaine region whose capitol is Bordeaux, is comparable to a U.S. state.  Périgueux départment prefecture (sort of like a county seat ) is one of five in the region, and greater Sarlat is the commune town for Périgord Nord (north). You’ll find Canéda on maps, but that small village has pretty much been absorbed by Sarlat.

 

Sarlat is relatively small–around 8,800 people–but its history dates back to at least the 9^th century when a Benedictine abbey was built there. Like many places in the area its golden stone construction has its roots in the Middle Ages. For such a small place it has 77 protected monuments, the latter term with a broader meaning than a single statue or memorial. Buildings, gardens, bridges, and entire sections of a town can be designated as a protected monument, as indeed can anything else deemed of historical value or important to French heritage and culture. Sarlat’s level of preservation has made it attractive to film directors such as Luc Besson, Peter Hyams, and Ridley Scott.

 

Sarlat is also visited because of its production of foie gras, pâté, duck confit, walnut concoctions, wine, cheese, and truffles. I’m not a fan of duck liver (or any other kind), but I can recommend all things walnut, the cheese, the wine, and the atmosphere. Market days are a big deal in Sarlat with its main square ( Place la Liberté) crowded with stalls, umbrellas, and people. Other protected monuments of note include the home of poet/humanist Étienne de La Boétie, Gisson mansion, the Place du Peyru, the cathedral, the bishop’s palace, and the Lantern of the Dead. Overall, Sarlat is a great place to hang out and soak up the atmosphere: cobblestone streets, unique facades, food, and great wine.

 

Note: My Facebook page will have more pictures of Sarlat tomorrow.

 

Rob Weir

 

 

 

 

Saint-Émilion: A Place to Imagine the Middle Ages

Saint-Émilion

Go to my Facebook feed to see more photos

 

 

 

If you know red wines, you know Saint-Émilion. It is among the top-rated wines in the Bordeaux appellation (region), which has over 9,000 châteaux. There are 84 vineyards and producers in the village of Saint-Émilion. Given that the entire village has fewer than 1,700 residents, it’s easy to imagine that, aside from some shopkeepers and the ordained, everyone else must be a vintner.

 

I used to think that there is no such thing as a bad Saint-Émilion wine. That’s still a near 100% case, but we visited an organic vineyard whose wine we disliked. The workers were enthusiastic and idealistic, but the three wines of ascending price we tasted were so uninspiring that I’ve seldom seen so many trips to the dump bucket. Organic wines seldom use sulfur dioxide (SO2), which kills foul-smelling microbes, so many people (me included) think organic wine tastes sour. It’s also often cloudy and unless decanted and swirled can be like drinking unpasteurized milk. Organic foods are often preferrable and safer, but that’s not always the case. We smiled politely to our hosts, set out to explore the village, and felt envious of all the non-organic vineyards we walked by. (Organic wine also tastes sour because grapes are usually harvested earlier and their sugar content is lower.)

 

Our imbibing disappointment was more than compensated by the fascinating village. Like so many small towns in France its very name of Saint-Émilion indicates it was once a pilgrimage site on the Compostela Trail. It is a medieval village if you overlook modern touches like electricity. (It is more authentically so by observing parts of the original walls and buildings that have crumbled.) Émilion fled his hometown of Vannes because some of his views were tinged with beliefs from one of the many 8th century heresies. Bad on the church! He hid out in one of the many underground caves–we toured one–and miracles were attributed to the refugee monk. One occurred when Émilion was stopped by officials who accused him of feeding heretics and rebels. He was and had loaves of bread hiding under his robe. When asked what was under his robe, our good saint fibbed and said it was wood to heat the homes of poor villagers. When officials opened his robe, piles of wood fell out. Got it? Jesus turned water to wine and Saint-Émilion turned bread into wood!

 

We wish he had turned the weather to sunshine, as Saint-Émilion was the only place it rained during our entire trip, though it’s a charming place in any weather. Émilion was originally a baker and the village is known for its macaroons, which are more cakey than macarons. There are a good number of shops, cafes, and (of course) wine sellers. Most of the ambiance, though, comes from the sheer age of Saint-Émilion. You can squint and imagine it as it might have been in the 12^th century when its church was (probably) built. The village is relatively flat, but the church sits on higher ground and is nearly dead center of the village. It has undergone renovations, but you can see remnants of its original paint, frescos, and stonework. As is the case of many medieval churches, the one in Saint-Émilion contains relics of its patron saint.

 

Relics were a big deal in the Middle Ages. Believers thought that being prayerful in the presence of them could lead the saint to be an intercessor with God and grant their wishes. The problem–one Martin Luther sized upon during the Protestant Reformation–was that many of the relics were fakes and few can be authenticated. It was said there were enough pieces of the “True Cross” of Jesus to build a fleet of ships and a bridge as well. One church claimed to have some of Jesus’ teeth, which contradicted the belief in his bodily resurrection and ascension into Heaven. When that point was argued with the bishop, he quickly asserted they were Christ’s baby teeth! The relics mess was “rectified” during the Catholic Counter Reformation by saying that even if a relic was fradulent, grace came from the fervency with which the petitioner believed them to be true!

 

Excuse my discursion, but places like Saint-Émilion give us insight into earlier times and beliefs. I later communed with a glass of decent Saint-Émilion, organics be damned!

 

Rob Weir