French Satire, French Secularism

French satirical drawings.

French-American blog friend Vagabonde has written about January's grave events in Paris in a long and informative post. Here's an extract:

For centuries the authority of the Church in France was immense — they had total political and social control over the country.  It took a long time for the French to free themselves from the domination of the Church, and they now view all religious matters to be totally private.  My friend Peter of the blog Peter's Paris said 'laïcité [secularism] is a must for democracy! . . . Here, in France, we live together in a democratic state, not under any particular religion.  It's all about the defense of secularism and at the same time a struggle against religious fanaticism, of any religion. This includes, of course, the right to be non-religious!' (You can see his post here.)  This means that [political] candidates don't mention their religion when seeking office, don't swear on the Bible when taking office, and the President does not say 'So help me God' after taking the oath of office like in the US. It also means that atheists can hold office (seven US states still prohibit non-believers to hold office in their states). There is no 'In God we trust' on the money like on the dollar bills, no 'A nation under God' as in the US pledge of allegiance, and no 'In God we trust' as on the state of Georgia's motor vehicle license plates.  The separation is total — the French state is neutral.

Vagabonde's excellent mini-history of French secularism, the separation of church and state, and the French love of satire can be found here — I urge you to read it.

An equally interesting post from Vagabonde, On Voltaire and Tolerance, is here.

Viewpoint

Sign on the French GR 65.

What's going on here, then? Has a zealous and literal-minded bureaucrat been working overtime in the French Footpaths Department? Or could this be an artwork by David Shrigley? Or perhaps it's an unconscious piece of postmodernism influenced by semiotic theory? Or is it just a statement of the bleedin' obvious? I suppose in the end it all depends on your point of view . . .

(Click here for the daily Turnstone quote.)

A Grey Day In Paris

I do not know what I thought Paris would be like, but it was not that way. It rained nearly every day. ERNEST HEMINGWAY

Bordeaux To Paris

On the Monday I took a train from Bordeaux to Paris. This journey under grey skies brought me back to earth with a jolt. The landscape I passed through seemed tedious and ordinary, especially beyond Poitiers, and flat, featureless, arable fields stretched as far as the eye could see. Or perhaps I was just feeling a little tired and jaded after my long walk...

I arrived at Gare Montparnasse in the early evening. It was pouring with rain, and I walked for half an hour through the rain to the Hôtel de Nesle, a cheap, tiny, off-beat hotel near Place Saint-Michel. The next day I explored Paris, city of love and romance, but on this occasion I didn't find much of either. I think it was something to do with my mood, which had become dull and listless...     

The famous 13th-century stained glass windows of La Sainte-Chapelle.

La Sainte-Chapelle under grey Parisian skies.

The centre west portal of Notre-Dame. This stupendous example of Gothic art depicts the Last Judgment.

Notre-Dame de Paris. The cathedral's three rose windows — north, south and west (you can see the west one here) — are some of the great artistic masterpieces of Christianity.

Le Pont des Arts. Here couples pledge their undying love for each other by attaching a padlock to the railings and throwing the key into the river below. 

Near the Rue Mouffetard on the Left Bank.

The Pantheon.

The Pantheon is a mausoleum which contains the remains of distinguished French citizens. Here is the memorial to aviator and author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, who wrote The Little Prince.

Underneath the the Pantheon's central cupola.

The university of the Sorbonne.

The Sorbonne.

Place de la Sorbonne.

After two weeks' walking through remote, rural France, I soon found the grand buildings of Paris — those monumental symbols of wealth, power and privilege — rather oppressive. I began to feel unwell, and a cloud of lethargy and mild depression enveloped me...

Cahors To Bordeaux

On my last day of the trail, Saturday 19 May, I waited at the bus stop in Limogne for a bus to Cahors. No bus came. Instead a car arrived, and a blonde lady driver stepped out to greet me. 'The bus has broken down,' she announced. ' So I'm taking you!' Whether the bus had actually broken down, or whether the staff hadn't turned up because it was a French public holiday weekend, I never did determine.

However, I had no cause to complain: my 'private taxi' (I was the only passenger) took me in comfort and style on the forty minute journey to Cahors, and not only took me to Cahors but went the scenic route down the valley, then up over the tops, with stupendous views over endless forests cut by deep, limestone gorges. And all for the price of a few euros (the lady absolutely refused to accept a tip). And this charming 'bus driver' and I talked non-stop, so it was good for my French too. In short, as you can see, I was picked up by une femme inconnue on my last day of the trail, which doesn't happen all the time on pilgrimage, I assure you. A wonderful instance of how 'trail angels' can materialise even when the trail is over...

In Cahors the weather turned, and the rain teemed down...   

The Pont Valentré in Cahors. This bridge over the river Lot is one of the finest medieval bridges in Europe.

I chose a slow way home from Cahors, and caught a train to Bordeaux, where I slept the night...

The view from my hotel bedroom in Bordeaux.

The Église Sainte-Croix in Bordeaux.

A moss-covered St George slays the dragon on the western façade of the Église Sainte-Croix.

 Detail of carved stonework from the west portico of the Église Sainte-Croix.

I befriend two university lecturers in a Bordeaux bistrot.

Bordeaux bistrot girls.

The Café du Levant near Bordeaux railway station.

Bordeaux railway station.

The End Of The Trail

Limogne marked the end of my trek, my two-week, 300 kilometre journey south-west from Le Puy through some of France's most stunning scenery. I'd walked almost half-way to the Spanish border. Before catching the bus to the railway station in Cahors, I wandered up into the woods above Limogne in search of this dolmen. It seemed the right thing to do. I'm not sure why.  

Dolmens are burial sites of immense antiquity. Most are five to six thousand years old, though some are much older. You can find them in Europe, Asia, India and the Middle East. Interestingly, Korea has the largest concentration of dolmens in the world, probably accounting for 40% of the world's total. 

These structures — which consist of several upright stones supporting a flat, horizontal capstone — were usually covered with earth and smaller stones, but in most cases this outer covering has worn away, leaving only the 'skeleton' of the tomb behind.

Here are my backpack and walking poles at the end of the trail. I left them resting against this tree as I examined the dolmen and pondered on time and space and distance, and on how my life had brought me here to this remote spot in rural France, and on love, and the pain and the ecstasy of love, and death, and other weighty matters. Then I took a few photos, shouldered my pack, grasped my walking poles, and set off back down the path to Limogne in the dappled sunlight.  

(Dolmen: circa 3500 BC. Backpack and walking poles: circa AD 2010.)

Gréalou To Limogne

Pond between Gréalou and Cajarc.

The small town of Cajarc huddles by the river Lot in a bowl of chalk cliffs.  This is Cajarc's attractive Tourist Information Office — situated in a converted former chapel.

A canalised section of the river Lot.

The village of Gaillac on the other side of the river.

The path becomes stonier and stonier.

Coquilles Saint-Jacques.

Between Cajarc and Limogne.

Lot

In Livinhac I crossed the river Lot, where I spent a happy time watching some huge frogs and listening to their loud, unearthly, grunting noises. Shortly after Livinhac I passed from the department of Aveyron into the department of Lot itself. This lovely scene is somewhere between Livinhac and Figeac...

On the way to Figeac.

The village of Faycelles, which lies just beyond Figeac, is a perfect gem. Most of its houses seem to have been renovated or restored. However, the lady who owned its bar-restaurant, La Forge, told me that the village was not what it used to be: it was harder and harder to make a living, and many shops and little businesses — such as the butcher's and other bars — had ceased trading.

It was lunchtime, and the sun was beating down, so I had a beer, and relaxed, and enjoyed the medley of 60s pop music pulsating from the bar. Unfortunately I became so relaxed that it was quite hard to start walking again...  

Faycelles.

But I had to carry on, as I'd booked a place in a chambre d'hôte called L'Atelier des Volets Bleus in Gréalou — which was still twelve and a half kilometres away. I stopped briefly to admire this superb view over the Lot valley...  

View over the valley of the Lot.

Two pilgrims with headscarves enjoy a picnic lunch. (You can see my walking poles resting against the base of the stone cross.)

A barn typical of the Lot.

Soon the trees closed in, and I walked for many kilometres through dense, deciduous woodland, along paths bordered by mossed, tumble-down stone walls...

Dense, deciduous woodland...

Mossed, tumble-down stone walls...

More of the same...

You come across a number of these small, round, drystone huts in the area. They are former shelters for shepherds, known as caselles...

A caselle or shepherd's hut.

Sainte-Brigitte

Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone / They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can't go on. LEONARD COHEN The Sisters Of Mercy

Janosch and Árpád.

Opposite the Église Saint-Roch in the village of Saint-Roch, a few sweaty uphill kilometres beyond Decazeville, you will find a pretty little gîte called Sentinelle. The Chemin de Saint-Jacques brought me here late in the afternoon of Tuesday 15 May. Two Hungarian pilgrims, Janosch and Árpád, had already stashed their backpacks behind the door. We chatted and joked and swapped stories, and I decided to spend the night there rather than carry on to Livinhac as I'd originally planned. Brigitte, the feisty hospitalière, one-time nurse and fervent Catholic, breezed in. She bid us take off our boots. She showed us the shower, the toilet, the small bedroom crammed with mattresses. She said she would cook a meal for us later, but first there was church.

Other pilgrims arrive, and the dynamic Brigitte busies herself massaging sore limbs and cutting up cauliflower and trying to remember our names. Then a ragged bunch of us cross the road to have our créanciales stamped and to celebrate Mass. The priest is old and shaky and apparently the survivor of two recent heart attacks. Brigitte helps him find his glasses and the right place in the Order of Service. She is his aid and supporter. The choir sings the Kyrie, the Sanctus, the Agnus Dei. The choir — well, I mean the choir of Brigitte: she's on her own, toute seule, with her sweet, quavering, descant voice, battling the sins of the world like a female Saint George, her eyes piercing yet other-worldly. Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy... We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth... Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world: grant us peace... She believes; she has no doubts. Slim and petite, she is strong and invincible with faith. She is the backbone of the gîte, the church, of the tiny settlement of Saint-Roch. 

And she is kind. And attentive. And interested in all these crazy pilgrims with their crazy stories about China and India and South America. And she serves delicious food tasting of her own garden: vegetable soup, and quiche, and carrots, and cauliflower, and potatoes — all subtly flavoured and spiced — and chocolate tart. And wine, though not a lot. And when other pilgrims roll in, tired and hungry, they are fed and watered; and somehow she produces another mattress from out of nowhere, or finds a sofa for them, or a comfortable corner of the floor.

And when we leave the next morning, after coffee and bread and home-made jam, she wishes us Bonne Route and kisses us and waves till we are out of sight, and the priest waves too from the window of his house by the church, though I'm not sure he can see us very well, as Brigitte is not there to find his spectacles.

I doubt if any of us will ever forget Brigitte...

(You can read more about Brigitte here.)

Birds, Beasts And Flowers

I hardly came across any mammals on the Chemin except for the domestic kind, but wild flowers, birds and insects were abundant. Although many of the species I saw were familiar to me from the UK, there seemed to be a much greater diversity and distribution here in south-west France.

Birds of prey included buzzard, kite, kestrel, sparrow hawk and possibly an eagle. And the call of the cuckoo was the musical backdrop to the whole fortnight. Some more unusual birds I spotted were redstarts and shrikes — redstarts are only locally common in Britain, and shrikes very rare indeed. (Shrikes are also known as 'butcher birds' because of their habit of catching insects and small vertebrates, then impaling their bodies on thorns.)

Shrike.

The 'chirping' of crickets could be heard most days. This loud, rasping wall of sound is produced by the males when they rub one wing against the other to attract the females, a behaviour which is called 'stridulation'. I'm pretty certain they were crickets, and even saw one basking on a wall near Saint-Alban-sur-Limagnole. However, checking the natural history websites, it seems crickets tend to 'stridulate' at night rather than in the daytime. What's going on here?

Cricket.

Buttercup, dandelion, ragged-robin, cuckoo flower, wild daffodil, white narcissus, bugle, spurge, tormentil, wood anemone, cowslip, wild strawberry, dog rose, stitchwort, campion, scabious, poppy, St John's wort, speedwell, yellow archangel, lungwort, vetch, clover, marsh marigold, violet, wild pansy, herb robert, oxeye daisy, peony, butterbur, honesty, selfheal, comfrey, broom, bird's-foot-trefoil, scarlet pimpernel, cow parsley...

... were just some of the flowers I found growing along the path. Lungwort (pulmonaria) is unbelievably common, whereas in England this tends to be mainly a garden flower. (Lungwort is so called because its spotted leaves were thought to resemble diseased lungs, and it was therefore used to treat pulmonary infections in the days of sympathetic magic. You can find a post I wrote on sympathetic magic here.) I also saw several different types of orchid, including the rare bee orchid, and later identified with delight herb Paris and pasque flower — both firsts for me.

Lungwort.

Pasque flower.

Herb Paris.

Bee orchid.

(All images from Wikimedia Commons)