In Norwich, Norfolk’s Cultural Capital

Jul22

Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Norwich

Those who own cars know nothing about long-distance public transport. Amy blanked out on how I could get to Norwich from Gorleston by bus. Me? Having lived in the UK for so long without a car, I had become something of an expert on figuring it out. Drive me to the High Street, I said, and I’ll find the way.

Inquiries from a sweet girl at the bus-stop revealed all the answers. Yes, the X1 gets directly from Gorleston to Norwich. No, no need to change at Great Yarmouth. Yes, the buses come every half hour. Yes, I can pay the driver cash on the bus. And yes, the driver does give back change. Yesssss!!!

Fifteen minutes later, I was on the bus passing through North Norfolk. We drove through Great Yarmouth (a bustling town) and then through miles of flat country punctuated by windmills (influence of the Dutch across the North Sea, perhaps?) and flocks of sheep, black and white cows and beautiful sturdy brown horses. I even saw a family of swans–Mum, Dad and about a handful of grey chicks! Awwwww!

Once in Norwich where we arrived in 55 minutes, I asked at the Information place for a schedule so I could get back home peacefully (lone travelers never want to have just missed the last bus!) when I discovered that I could buy a ticket there for the Hop On Hop Off sight-seeing bus (just £8 and such a boon to the single traveler–especially one afflicted with plantar fascittis). Buy a ticket I did and in exactly five minutes, along it came. It is a good suggestion to stay on the bus for one entire loop to get the marvelous commentary which provides the history of the place and orients one to the location of the main attractions. It also allows you to decide what your order of priorities should be in terms of hopping off and hopping on again. Norwich is compact and very walkable but the advantage of buses like these is that they take you to vantage points, sometimes way out of the city for wonderful views–as this bus did. It climbed a steep hill to Mousehold Heath which offered a stunning overview of the city and its magnificent church spires–there is a church for every Sunday of the year and a pub for each day of the year in Norwich–go figure!

During Saxon times, Norwich was a bigger ‘city’ than London–both in acreage as well as population. It made it’s wealth through the wool trade (not surprising, really, as sheep farming still thrives as I saw in the miles of open countryside). It is a city of impressive structures (castles, cathedrals, churches, gabled houses, guildhalls, etc.) and a popular tourist attraction. Unfortunately, it was a tad too hot for me and I found myself tiring much too easily because the heat sapped my energy levels.

I decided to Hop Off at Elm Hill (because I am a fan of all things Tudor) and walked straight into the Church of St. George at Tombland. They probably don’t get enough visitors because one of the volunteers latched onto me and then gave me a walking tour of the church pointing out pieces of masonry that were significant as well as the oldest piece in the church–a lovely Norman font.

Through Elm Hill I walked, utterly charmed by its cobbles and the Britton Arms Cafe which Lonely Planet touts as a delightful place–and it is, except that it was that funny time of day when you’re not really ready for a cup of tea or a snack. I kept going, nipping in and out of antiques shops and admiring the gabled buildings and the exposed timber facades (did not see any pargetting, though, as one finds on the medieval structures in Suffolk).

Across the street, I entered the Anglican Cathedral through the Erpingham Gate right by the statue of Edith Cavell and found myself in an enormous Cathedral Close. Admission is by donation only and the cathedral’s highlights are a fan-vaulted ceiling with ‘bosses’ (wooden discs set in the ceiling that depict stories from the Bible). They are really much too high up for one to appreciate them fully. Also wonderful is the Depenser Reredos, a medieval alter-piece divided into five sections showing Christ’s Passion, Resurrection and Ascension that was hidden for years during the post-Reformation turmoil to keep it from being stolen or ruined. I saw the newly-refurbished library before eating a sandwich in the Refectory. Surprisingly, there weren’t many visitors to the Cathedral at all which made it a perfect time for quiet prayer and reflection. Then, a kindly old lady, a Norwich resident, told me about the Herb Garden and how I could reach it and within seconds, I found myself in a lavender-scented bower with hollyhocks taller than me elbowing their way through the paths for attention. Norfolk is famous for its lavender which seems to grow wild everywhere–England’s Provence?

Next stop was the Castle, but I got waylaid en route by the seductions of an Edwardian closed shopping arcade called the Royal Arcade (lovely Art Nouveau tiles all over its walls and similar motifs on its floors). Inside was the Colman’s Mustard Shop and Museum as Jeremiah Colman who made his fortune with all the yellow dots of paste that people left on their plates initiated and ‘grew’ (as they say) his business in Norwich. Tasted a variety of mustards before I left without being tempted to buy anything. Saw more posh shops in the Royal Arcade before I wandered out on the streets to entwine my steps through Norwich Market–a colorful warren of stalls selling everything from food (bacon baps and fish n chips were some very British choices) to souvenirs.

Enough distraction, I chided myself, time for some serious sightseeing again. So I entered the Castle and spent the next hour viewing it’s excellent exhibition rooms on the ground floor–there was a wonderful collection of water colors and oils by John Croom who is considered one of England’s best landscape artists (a close rival of Constable), a superb collection of tea pots (the world’s largest) bequeathed to the museum by a private collector and quite significantly placed in the Twinings Tea Pot Gallery and a special exhibition entitled ‘From the Beatles to Bowie’ which featured a collection of black and white photographs of the pop icons of the 60s. I was thrilled to find one by John Pratt taken in 1963 featuring Cliff Richard at home with his mother Dorothy and sisters Jacqui and Joan in the new home in Nazeing, Essex, that he bought them after he struck it popular and rich. If all things come to pass as I hope they will and my book on Anglo-Indians in the UK is finally written and finds a publisher, I shall recommend this photograph for my book’s cover–provided I recieve permission, of course. I can dream, can’t it?

The Castle’s Keep is humongous–the largest in the UK and one of the best-preserved examples of a Norman castle. It has been recently refurbished (and rather well at that). The castle stands like a solid cube of Caen (French port) stone dominating the city and is visible from most points.
There is a lot to see and do in the inter-active exhibits inside the Keep but I had loads to see…and so I moved on.

I did find the time to nip into The Assembly House (one of the finest examples of Georgian architecture outside) with stunning plasterwork on its walls and ceiling inside (in the manner of Robert Adam), winking crystal chandeliers and lots of statuary. Most of the rooms have been converted into posh bars and tea rooms, but again, I had to move on to the nearby Forum (a recent glass structure that brings modern panache to an ancient city) and The Church of St. Peter Mancroft opposite that has a magnificent timber ceiling. As I wound my way through the city, I was simply amazed at how many churches there are–all made of the black flint stone so plentifully quarried in this region.

Time to hop on to the bus again and go to the Shrine of St. Julian of Norwich that my friend Bishop Michael told me I must not miss. I found it up a small hill and was stunned when I discovered how tiny it is. St. Julian (also known as Juliana) was a medieval mystic who saw visions of the Lord. She cloistered herself in a tiny cell adjoining the church and spent the rest of her life meditating upon those visions and writing down ‘The Revelations of Divine Love’ which is considered the first book written by a woman in English in England. Michael told me that she had two windows in her cell from which she looked out at the sick and the forlorn who came flocking to meet her. Her cell became a famous center of medieval pilgrimage. Even today, the quiet serenity of the spot is striking. I got in stride with a very pretty nun as fat raindrops suddenly fell from out of deep blue skies–‘Where are they coming from?’ asked the nun, perplexed.

By then it was almost 5.00 pm and I badly needed a pick me up I found a cuppa in the cafe at M&S where I settled down with a slice of White Chocolate, Raspberry and Coconut Cake which sounds far better than it was! I was amazed at how much I’d managed to cover and was disappointed that I could not find the time to squeeze in the Roman Catholic Church and the Plantation Garden behind it as well as the Sainsbury Center for Visual Art…but Amy has promised to take me there tomorrow after we tour the Broads.

Back home, we fixed a vegetable frittata and ate some good English bacon and baked beans for dinner before we gabbed about our respective day and went to bed.

Along the Pilgrim’s Way in Walsingham.

Jul21

Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Walsingham, Norfolk

One of my primary objectives in returning to the UK was to make a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Our Lady in Walsingham, one of the most fervent Catholic pockets in England. After a muesli breakfast (how great to feast again on Tesco’s Finest Fruit and Nut Muesli with Total Greek yogurt and a touch of honey), we set out with Amy behind the wheel across Norfolk to arrive at Walsingham where the famous Shrine is located.

What a charming little village it turned out to be! And what a swell backdrop for a reunion with my dear friends, Bishop Michael and wife Cynthia Colclough who drove from Hunstanton to meet me. One really cheery cuppa later, in a cute local tea room, where we caught up on everything that’s happened in our lives in the past 2 months since I last saw them in Southport, and we were ready to launch upon our pilgrimage. Michael was an able guide (he’s been leading pilgrims to Walsingham for years–it was, in fact, how he met Cynthia eons ago–she was a Catholic pilgrim on one of his Anglican retreats) as he led us to the Russian Orthodox Church dedicated to St. Seraphim and then to the Roman Catholic Church of the Assumption which is the local Catholic parish. He led us in prayer at the first venue and in the Angelus when the bells rang, mid-morning, at the second.

The next stop was the Anglican Church at Walsingham, set in beautiful perennial gardens with an olive tree allee before we entered the Lady Chapel where at 12. 30 pm, he said a special private mass just for us–I have never felt more privileged! Just imagine the joy of being in this ancient place where medieval Lady Richeldis had a vision telling her to build a shrine dedicated to the Holy Family in the year 1042. She obeyed and the spot became a place of Christian pilgrimage. known as ‘England’s Nazareth’. Imagine again…this happened before the Norman Conquest of England (1066)! How many pilgrim feet have trod these grounds, I wondered, over the centuries–from one millennium to the next! Six kings of England had made the pilgrimage to this spot including Henry VIII whose faith was so enormous that the Vatican gave him the title of the Defender of the Faith–until he razed the church and the adjoining abbey to the ground in 1538 during the Dissolution of the Monasteries. The church remained in ruins until the early 20th century when it was rebuilt to function again as a center for pilgrimage. Michael himself has been coming to this spot since the age of ten!

Michael had asked us to write down our own special intentions which he brought up to the altar and read during Mass–it was deeply moving. I thanked him, of course, as Amy dissolved into tears. She was so touched by the Holy Spirit and so grateful that she had dedicated the day to spiritual renewal with me.

Lunch was a buffet affair at the Refectory which was filled with almost 200 Welsh pilgrims who had taken over the place. We ate Chicken in a White Sauce with Leeks and Potatoes and Red Cabbage and Corn with a small Bakewell Tart for dessert. And I thought pilgrims were only fed bread and water! Just kidding! After lunch, we lingered for a while in the gardens where I returned Llew’s call–my phone had actually rung during Mass but I quickly silenced it! He caught up with the Colcloughs on the phone before we continued our pilgrimage.

Next stop was the Sprinkling at 2. 30pm where a wonderful aged priest led us in prayer, explained the significance of the Holy Well that had been found during the modern renovations of the church in the early 20th century. Many miracles and much healing has been known to take place, explained Cynthia, through the power of the holy water. The priest gave each one of us a ladle from which we drank of the water before he placed the rest in our fists so we could anoint ourselves and parts of our bodies that needed healing. Cynthia and Michael also filled bottles of water for Amy and me and sent us home with them.

Into the car we went, to the next stop on the Mile Long Pilgrim’s Way to the Slipper Chapel. This was the spot at which pilgrims left their slippers so that they could walk the last mile to Richeldis’ shrine barefooted. Modern-day pilgrims (mainly from Wales) were on their own feet (but with footwear on) as our cars followed the narrow winding pathway to the ancient church. This spot too, deeply active during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, fell into disuse after the Reformation. However, in 1934, it was re-dedicated as the National Catholic Shrine of the UK and once again, became an active center of Catholic pilgrimage. We prayed and lit candles at the old shrine–beautifully refurbished–before we entered the modern church (which reminded me very much of the churches in Canada in terms of architectural design) where we arrived just in time for Benediction and Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament at the special service being conducted for the Welsh pilgrims. So there we were, Amy and I, and the Colcloughs, joining in a special prayer for Wales!

By then, it was almost 4 pm. Our entire day of Christian worship had passed by in a jiffy but it was easily one of the most fulfilling days of my life. The serenity and calm of the space, the setting (in the midst of the North Norfolk countryside) where wild flowers (Queen Anne’s Lace and vivid red poppies) lined the narrow roads was rejuvenating. I imagined medieval pilgrims (a la Chaucer’s motley lot) making their way on foot and on horseback through those winding lanes. My Dad would be delighted to know that I found a leaflet in The Shrine Shop that taught me how to say the Rosary–in Bombay, he always leads and we follow…but I have never learned the Mysteries of the Rosary or on which days you recite them. Hopefully, I will now walk along Southport Beach and recite my rosary.

It was time to get into Amy’s car and follow the Colcloughs to Wells-Next-The-Sea, a seaside village on a North Norfolk inlet that leads to the North Sea. We were there in less than 12 minutes past lovely calming countryside and fallow fields. England seems not to have had enough rain–everything looks brown and dry unlike the lush green fields I remember from many summer country holidays. Past the busy street we went to get to the waterfront where we enjoyed watching little boys crabbing–they had loads of crabs squirming in their pails–the bait they used, they informed me, was smoky bacon (yummy!) and bits of live whelk! Past the ice-cream and fish n chip shops we walked before I nipped into one for a magnet to add to our collection! It was a slice of English summer life that I observed while seated on the quay–colorful boats bobbed on the waters, people walked with bulging picnic bags towards their waiting vessels. To simply people-watch was a delight on a day that had been gifted to us from heaven–it was simply gorgeous.

Our return south to Gorleston took us along the coast to Cromer where we passed by village after village whose walls and houses were constructed of the typical Norfolk flint stone–each had a truly distinctive appearance. Flowers spilled out of hanging baskets and containers in village front gardens where the gravel was also composed of flint stone. Fred and Wilma would have felt very much at home in North Norfolk!

I told Amy I would treat her to dinner in Norwich and Lonely Planet recommended St. Benedict’s Restaurant on St. Benedict’s Road. We took a month of Sundays to find the street (as Amy is unfamiliar with Norwich) and the one-way system in England’s larger cities and towns would be the death of any driver! Still, when we finally got there, we settled down to drinks (pear juice for Amy, Bulmer’s cider for me) before we decided to have the 3-course prix fixe menu. In a very modern, very chic space, we feasted on Crab, Avocado and Beetroot Salad (divine…plus I couldn’t leave Norfolk without tasting some of it’s famed seafood), Grilled Swordfish with Potato Gnocchi and Balsamic Onions and an even more divine Gooseberry Fool. I simply had to taste English gooseberries (they are tart and had almost disappeared from English supermarkets as I was told picking them had proven to be too time-consuming and laborious, but they seem to be making a come back). The fool was layered in a small glass jar with stewed whole gooseberries and crumbled ginger nut biscuits–lovely combination of tart and spice made the dessert (sorry, pudding) unforgettable! We were stuffed when we left about 9. 30 pm and returned home to Gorleston close to 11. oo pm. I fell asleep in the car on the way back as jet lag got the better of me.

Tomorrow I hope to explore Norwich…and its many churches, castle and cathedral…and, of course, I hope, its thrift stores!

In Norfolk Now!

Jul20

Monday, July 19, 2010,
London-Norfolk

Though much remains the same, much has changed. My cell phone number, for instance. Though phone was fully charged and voucher was purchased first thing this morning at the corner Sainsbury that I remembered so well, I could not top up. Turns out your SIM card expires if not used for 3 months. Had to purchase new SIM card but could only do that once I arrived in Norfolk…Bummer!

One more thing has changed–the No 8 bus from right outside my building on High Holborn, no longer plies to Victoria. I let a few of them pass right by me each going only as far as Oxford Circus before it occurred to me to ask the driver if the route had changed–it had! Double Bummer!

Then discovered I hadn’t enough money left on my Oystercard. I usually top that up at the Tube station at Heathrow…but since I enjoyed the luxury of a cab ride this time, I hadn’t the chance to do that..Triple Bummer! So off I went to the Chancery Lane Tube ticket window to top up my Oystercard before hauling my backpack and my butt into a Tube that was bursting at the seams with early morning commuters–it was hellish! Made the change at Oxford Street and took the Victoria Line to arrive at the coach station by the very skin of my teeth…though I’d left an hour earlier from Holborn!!! Good job I’d purchased a breakfast sandwich and a drink from Sainsbury while getting the Lebara top up voucher..or else I’d have been sitting and starving on the coach all the way to Norfolk! Phew!

Lovely ride again through Central London and the East End before we finally hit the motorway–it took a good hour to get out of London’s precincts! Atlas was very useful in helping me track my route. Was pleased to pass right by Epping Forest (had heard so much about it).

Made it to Norfolk with five minutes to spare. Amy, my friend from our childhood days in Bombay, was waiting to pick me up very far from the coach station as her car wasn’t allowed in. And with my old cell phone number dead, she couldn’t reach me–such moments of tension for both of us! After waiting for 10 minutes, I became pro-active and asked questions: where would someone wait if she were coming by car to pick me up, etc? We finally connected…Phew!

Drove briefly through Norwich before we headed straight for Great Yarmouth on the East Norfolk coast where she lives in a tiny beach-side hamlet called Gorleston-on-Sea (it’s pronounced Gaul-ston). Chatted nineteen to the dozen in her car before we arrived at her home–lovely view of the sea from her house (she is a real estate agent, so bagged the prize house on the block). One grand tour of house (very tiny but very English in decor) and garden (fresh strawberries ripening on the bushes!) later, we set out to sort out the issue of my phone.

I finally found a new Lebara SIM card on the waterfront at Great Yarmouth which is your typical English beach-side holiday hot spot with the works–horse buggies lined up to give rides, fish n chips, ice-cream, evening teas, amusement arcades (some really gigantic ugly tacky ones), a nice beach promenade though I did not see any donkeys on the beach–wondered if they’d been banned by animal activists…or maybe I simply couldn’t see them from the car as we zipped by.

Could not spend too much time there as we had priorities–like reassuring my parents and Chriselle in Bombay that I’d arrived safely in the UK. What relief when my phone was working again and I could reach out to the world. Sent my new phone number via email (after we got back home to Amy’s) to Llew (who promptly called me!) and Chriselle who was out having dinner with friends in Bombay.

Amy is one of those people who goes to a butcher for her meat, a fishmonger for her fish, a greengrocer for her produce, etc. She is known here by name as Mrs. Darby and everywhere we went she was recognized and hugged. And I thought Southport was a small place! She is also a health freak–we bought whole wheat pita pockets which we stuffed with ham for lunch. Dinner was pork vindaloo (recipe from a Sainsbury cookbook) was like no vindaloo I’d ever eaten. The fresh veggies stir fry Amy made for dinner was good with fresh strawberries for dessert and a huge helping of M&S Toffee and Pecan Meringue Roulade–a rather scrumptious dessert that I discovered late into my London stay and made certain I bought while we were still in Norwich in the morning! I’m really looking forward to eating all my best-remembered foods…

In the evening, we took a walk along Gorleston Beach which is a nice combination of pebbles and sand. I realized that I’d seen the entire Norfolk coast from our aircraft during descent into Heathrow as we’d crossed the North Sea from Holland. I also saw the Mouth of the Thames and the distinct Lowestoft Wind Turbine which was unmistakeable from the air and is only a few miles from where Amy lives. She informs me that it is called Gulliver.

It was a good quiet start to my UK stay. Tomorrow we will drive up to the North Norfolk coast where my Anglican bishop friend is saying the noon mass at the famous shrine of our Lady at Walsingham. I am going there on pilgrimage. After many years, I have some asking to do–and not just the thanking I have done for so long! So many people asked me to pray for them while I was in India (ageing parents, ageing aunts, sick cousins, troubled friends), I hope I will remember them all…

Jet lag hit me at 8 pm when it was well past midnight in India. I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow…

Here I Go Again!

Jul20

Sunday, July 18, 2010, London

Talk about feeling that sense of deja-vu all over again! With a slight twist…in that I arrived into Heathrow’s ‘new’ Terminal Five for the first time. The cabbie sent to pick me up by thoughtful friends was nowhere in sight nor was there a placard with my name on it. Turns out he was running late and left the card in his car. Thankfully, we connected without too much stress.

Nice ride through Central London took me through well-loved old landmarks (UCL Hospital in Euston where I’d had physiotherapy for PF…). Lovely reunion with my former next-door neighbors Tim and Barbara–felt funny to walk right past my flat to ring their door bell instead. So many happy memories…

One year after my departure from London, Holborn was still slumbering (it being a weekend evening!) Huge serving of very spicy and very delicious pasta for dinner at Pizza Express before I went to bed…absolutely delighted to be back in London where I become a different person (nicer, somehow, I think–must have to do with the English penchant for politeness).

Went to bed about 10. 30 pm local time after making sure I charged my cell phone and set Barbara’s alarm clock for my dawn departure by coach to Norfolk. Browsing for reading material in bedside bookcase, I found UK and Ireland Road Atlas (I LOVE maps) so had a sense of where I’ll be spending the next few days. Borrowed atlas so I could chart my coach route through the countryside.

Surprisingly, though it was the wee hours of the morning in Bombay, I was still full of beans and did not fall asleep right away!

So good to be back in England again–somehow it feels as if I never left at all!

Au Revoir France! Last Day in London…and Arrival Home in the USA

Jul30

Thursday, July 30, 2009
Paris and London

Our very last day in Paris had arrived—where had our holiday gone? Awaking to a continental breakfast (cereal and French roast coffee), Llew and I set out to cover the last bits and pieces of Paris that we had not yet seen.

The Dome Church of Les Invalides:
Our first stop was the domed Church of Les Invalides where, Jack informed us, his daughter Julia had been baptized. This church is part of the much larger complex called the Musee de L’Armee and its extremely decorative dome is easily visible from many parts of the city to whose skyline it adds a definite glow. This is also the church in which Napoleon’s remains were interred after his death under exile on the island of Elba. The tomb is grand but can only be viewed with a hefty ticket which includes entrance to the vast museum complex (16 euros). Since we did not have the time for such an extensive visit, we contented ourselves with a peak into the highly ornate Baroque altar of the church, encircled the beautiful gardens outside that offered peeks of the tip of the Effiel Tower and then walked a very long walk to what Lonely Planet describes as the best chocolatier in Paris.

At Cacao et Chocolat:
The walk was just perfect and I realized afresh (as I did in London so often) that for me one of the greatest pleasures of traveling is walking through random streets of a city to absorb the daily life of the people far from the tourist hordes. As we passed by small neighborhood parks, enticing antiques shops and then the huge department store called Le Bon Marche (into which we stepped to take in its unique architecture that reminded us very much of the old Taj Mahal Hotel in Bombay), we finally arrived in the area just past St. Germaine de Pres and the Latin Quarter and found Cacao et Chocolat, a very small and very exclusive artisinal boutique whose aroma was deeply appetizing.

Now Llew and I are both chocoholics; so for us arriving at this destination was a bit like arriving at the Gates of Paradise. After our long and very stimulating walk, our appetites had been whetted for some good European chocolate. I informed the very cheerful and friendly salesman that we had come in search of his shop from the recommendation in Lonely Planet. I asked him what he would recommend for seasoned chocolate lovers and he suggested a cup of their signature Hot Chocolate which we could enjoy at their tasting ‘bar’.

Yessss! This was Paradise indeed. The menu was handed over to us to peruse and I, having drunk the exquisite hot chocolate with chilli at Fassbinder and Rausch in Berlin (another great international chocolatier), decided to try the Hot Chocolate Epicee–with mixed spices (cinnamon, star anise, nutmeg, among others) while Llew decided to play it safe and go for the plain version (apparently the most popular of the lot). All the while, as we sipped this elixir of the gods, the salesman kept plying us with chocolate to taste from their flavors of the past and present months to the truffles for which they are known to the tiny dark and milk chocolate Florentines that we kept popping in our mouths to attain chocolate nirvana! We walked away from the shop, a good hour later, fully fortified for some more sight seeing and with a bag of dark chocolate studded with toasted hazelnuts in our firm grip. I have discovered that in my year-long travels I have stock piled chocolate from every capital city in Europe and a large part of our baggage back home to the US will consist of these irresistible gourmet treasures that I have purchased from master chocolatiers.

Off to see the Pantheon:
Then, we were off in the metro once again, to see the Pantheon, another one of Paris’s landmarks, also characterized by a gigantic dome. We arrived at the splendid Neo-Classical structure, the great handiwork of Jacques-Germaine Sufflot, who wished to recreate the grandeur of ancient Greece and Rome through this structure that was intended originally as a shrine to Paris’ patron saint, Genevieve.

It was King Louis XV who had vowed that if he ever recovered from a debilitating illness, he would build a magnificent church to Saint Genevieve but the church soon morphed into a place of honored burial for some of France’s most revered thinkers, writers and philosophers, architects of the French Revolution and of the intellectual thought and ideas for which the city became renowned. The monuments, down in the Crypt, tell the story of the vast influence that these figures have had on the history of the city—they include such names as those of Voltaire, Rousseau, Victor Hugo, Émile Zola, Jean Moulin, Marie Skłodowska-Curie, Louis Braille, Jean Jaurès and Soufflot, its architect.

Llew and I were really lucky to discover (after he bought his ticket for 6 euros as my Met ID card let me in for free) that there was a guided tour that would be starting soon. This would take us up the 268 steps to the very Dome for 360 degree views of Paris on what was a spectacular day. So, you see how we lucked out? Though I did not get up to the Tour Effiel (which would only have taken me to the first level anyway), here we were at the Pantheon able to avail of the exact same thrills—only from a different vantage point.

Of course, we joined the tour right away and began our steep ascent to the top. We stopped en route at two different levels to take in the extraordinary mosaics and the staggering dimensions of the interior—the lofty nave, the Corinthian columns, the many beautiful frescoes depicting the life of St. Genevieve that covered the walls and ceiling. It was really astounding.

And then there we were—on the roof—easily able to spot the many Parisian landmarks that we had visited ourselves over the past few days. There was Notre-Dame dominating the Ile de la Cite with the spire of Sainte Chappelle very close to it. There was the towering mountain on which stood the Church of Sacre Coeur at Montmartre. There was part of the great arch that defines the new area known as La Defense. There was the great expanse of green that singled out Pere Lachaise Cemetery which was to be the next stop on our sight seeing tour of the day. And there, of course was the Dome of Les Invalides Church and the Tour Effiel. What a fabulous time we had taking in the uniform construction of the city that grew and grew over the centuries under the loving hands of some of the world’s most talented architects. It was such a thrilling experience to see these vistas spread out before us and though we were running short of memory space in our camera, we managed to make room for a few stunning shots.

Once we got down again to base level, we began our exploration of the interior with its monumental memorials to such French sons as Diderot and then we descended into the Crypt, quite taken by the architectural elements that lay beneath holding up this colossal structure.

At Pere Lachaise Cemetery:
Then, we were off again…this time taking the metro to faraway Pere Lachaise Cemetery where so many well-known persons associated with the city lie buried. I was quite amazed by the vast size of this cemetery which continues to be used as a place of burial. Though there are detailed maps available at the entrance that lead visitors to the tomb stones of those legendary figures whose final resting places they might most wish to see, we did not have one with us and used the rather sketchy version available in my DK Eye Witness Guide Book. We also realized quickly enough that we could not afford the time to linger too long in the cemetery and would have to be choosy about which graves we would visit.

For the next hours, we climbed the many stairs that took us further and further up the hill upon which the cemetery is spread out, seeing along the way, the monuments that remember such famous French writers as Balzac and such controversial English writers as Oscar Wilde (whose tomb carries a beautiful piece of sculpture by Jacob Epstein—alas, so badly defaced by the anti-gay visitors to his grave) and the more contemporary Jim Morrison of The Doors fame whose tombstone records his full name as being James Douglas Morrison. The funerary sculpture that dates from the 1700s to the present date made very interesting viewing for it taught us a tremendous amount about changing trends in mortuary design. We did have a very interesting couple of hours in this space and were very tired when we finally decided to leave so as not to miss our Eurostar train later that evening.

Return Home to London:
We found a nice boulangerie along the way that allowed us to grab sandwiches which we then ate on the metro on our return to the Champs Elysses. There, we said our goodbyes and many Thank-yous to Julia and grabbed our bags and left for the last ride in the metro to the Gare du Nord where we were scheduled to board the 7. 19 pm train back to London.

Everything went smoothly as we passed through Customs and Immigration and boarded our train. We watched the French countryside whoosh past us as we sipped a glass of red wine and nibbled at crisps and then we were under the English Channel and emerging in Kent in England. Before we could say Eurostar, our train was pulling into St. Pancras International while there was still ample daylight left in London.

On the 63 bus heading home to Farringdon, we found it hard to believe that our dream vacation in London and France had come to an end. It would be memorable for several reasons and we were astonished when we thought about how much we had packed into it—from seeing Helen Mirren on stage to watching the birth of a new calf, from becoming acquainted with computer technology in modern dairy farming to making an emergency visit to a French hospital, from admiring the medieval ingenuity of female embroiderers at Bayeux to walking in the footsteps of unnamed American heroes on the battle-ravaged beaches of Normandy, from being dazzled by the spectacle of the Lido to sipping tea and nibbling pastries at Laduree, we had done so much on this trip.

At Sainsbury, I finally managed to top up cell phone minutes, bought milk for our last breakfast in London and then turned the key into the Farringdon loft where we ate a dinner based on leftovers in the fridge. We then turned our attention to the pressing task of concluding our packing for the USA to which, unbelievably, we would be headed the next afternoon.

Friday, July 31, 2009
London

Where our morning slipped to I have not a clue! All I knew was that I awoke by 6. 30 am being too keyed up to sleep any longer. It was the last time I would be awaking in London (for a very long time) and I savored the sensation for a bit before deciding I needed to get going.

Anyone seeing the state of our room that morning would never have dreamed that just a few hours later we could possibly have packed everything away and left our room and en suite bathroom in pristine condition. But bit by bit, suitcase by suitcase, weighing each item carefully as we added it to our bags and managing somehow to pack well the many breakable china and glass items I had purchased from the many charity shops and antiques stores I had scoured in the UK, we worked together to get everything in.

About half way through the morning, I realized that there was no way all my ‘stuff’ would fit into our four suitcase allowance. “That’s it”, I said to Llew. “We’re going to the Post Office and mailing all this off”. Thankfully, I had retained a few good boxes and I piled them with the last-minute things we had used such as our bed linen and down pillows as well as a number of books as Llew helped me tape them down. I also had the foresight to save a few of the address labels I had printed out weeks ago when I had mailed off my other stuff.

So there we were, on our hands and knees, assembling these boxes together. Meanwhile, I was juggling phone calls to the shippers to get shipping estimates, to the cab driver to order us a cab at 12. 30 and a host of other things that needed to be all tied up. We did manage to find the time to eat breakfast (toast with peanut butter and coffee). I cleaned the fridge and freezer and left notes for Loulou and Paul and then at 12. 25 pm, Llew began to stack all our baggage in the elevator to take it downstairs. What a huge help he was to me and how grateful I was to have him there to get me through the scramble at the eleventh hour to make everything fall into place. And we managed to do all this without a single impatient word to each other!!! Now that was an achievement!

In fact, what saved the day for me was that I had forgotten to put my writst watch back one hour after returning from Paris late last night. So at one point, when I thought it was 10.00 am, it was actually 9.00 am–omigawd! How thrilled I was to have that extra hour and how smoothly everything went from that point on. What an extra hour can do in a stress-fraught life, I thought!

We had a bit of a rucous with the cab, however, for the large-sized vehicle we had ordered to get all our baggage to Heathrow did not show up and when we called the cab company, it appears that there was a screw-up at the station. However, magically, another mini-cab happened to be cruising down our street (yes, just like that!)) and John, the driver, sensing our distress, stopped to inquire if he could assist. Next thing you know, he was piling our baggage into his shiny grey BMW and taking us to Heathrow by a most unusual route past Pall Mall and Buckingham Palace and then on to Kensington past the V&A and the Museum of Natural History. I cannot even begin to tell you how badly I wanted to weep for I had major withdrawal symptoms from this city that I have always loved but which, during this one unforgettable year in my life, had actually been my HOME!

Then, we were at Heathrow and being dropped off at Terminal 4 where we made the discovery that my Delta Airlines flight left from there while Llew’s American Airlines flight left from Terminal 3! We said our goodbyes knowing we would next hook up at Kennedy airport and he left to take the Airtrain to his terminal.

I went through security in five mintues and then was left with three whole hours to do some duty free shopping–except that Terminal 4 has a pathetic duty free area and within ten minutes I had seen all there was to see and, feeling deeply frustrated, found a free port that allowed me to use my laptop which was in my hand baggage. So I settled myself down and began hammering away at my keyboard and got a whole lot of writing done until my gate was announced and I took off!

London was bathed in golden sunlight as I took my last airborne looks at it. Then, we were soaring higher and higher into the clouds and land became invisible. I began chatting with my companion, a student of Art History at London’s Goldsmith College named Leigh, who was so excited that he was going to New York for the first time in his life. He proved to be good company through most of the flight during which I watched four movies! Yes, can you believe it?
Having watched just one movie (Slumdog Millionnaire) for the entire year that I spent in London, I saw four movies on my way out–as if making up for my long film famine–Second Chance Harvey (with Emma Thompson and Dustin Hoffman), Duplicity (with Clive Owen and Julia Roberts), New Girl in Town (with Rene Zellweiger and Harry Connick Jr.) and He’s Just Not That Into You (with everyone in Hollywood under the age of thirty–make that forty as I heard that Jennifer Anniston just turned 40).

Well, at JFK, darkness had fallen already at 8. 30 pm (9. 30 by the time I cleared Immigration, picked up my baggage and reconnected with Llew. And yes, the Immigration Officer did actually say to me “Welcome Back!”). Llew arrived about ten minutes later to the Passenger Pick-Up area in the rented car that he had picked up a half hour earlier (as his flight had landed before mine),

And then we were on the Van Wyck Expressway headed for the Whitestone Bridge and for Connecticut–and everything looked so familiar and yet so strange. All the highways seemed to have expanded during my absence and I thought to myself, “Welcome Back to Reality, Rochelle!” So I forced myself to burst out of my British bubble and using Llew’s cell phone made my first call in the USA to Chrissie–unfortunately, I only got her answer phone.

It was 10. 30 pm (exactly an hour after we set out from JFK) that we pulled into our driveway at Holly Berry House while Southport slumbered. Because we were tired and sleepy, we entered our home with only our carry-on bags, leaving the rest of the suitcases in the car to be hauled indoors in the morning.

It was about 11.00 pm when we fell off to sleep…

…and with that I had left Rochelle’s Roost in London behind me and was well and truly back in Rochelle’s Roost in Connecticut!

PS: A Million Thanks to all those who followed my blog faithfully through the past year. When I surface again from under all my unpacked suitcases and boxes, I shall put in a few more entries about the Highlights of my Year in the UK…

—until then, I shall say to you, in the finest traditions of the UK, CHEERS Mate!

Return to Paris and an Evening at the Lido on the Champs-Elysses

Jul30

Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Normandy and Paris, France

Our final morning in Normandy was spent in a most relaxed kind of fashion. Poor Jean had enjoyed the tandoori chicken so much at the barbecue that he had set up that he had overeaten, awoke feeling unwell and needed a visit to the doctor. This kept Jacques busy and left us to spend the morning as we wished. As for me, well, I awoke with a splendid black eye (just as the doctor had predicted) but, thankfully, felt none the worse for my toss of the previous evening. I did not even have a headache so avoided the need for painkillers after all.

After a continental breakfast, Llew and I decided to explore the lovely homestead on foot upon which our friends live. But while Llew got ready, I got back on a bicycle and pedalled around the property just to remove any fears of biking. I asked Marius who was also on his bicycle or “velo” as it is called here, if he wanted to join us on a promenade around the fields and he jumped at the idea.

Like the Pied Piper, Llew and I were then followed not only by Marius but by little 2-year old Julia (who came with her couverture or security blanket and Dodo, her rag doll) and Misti, the resident kitten! So it was a strange group that walked through the knee-high grass and, seriously, were it not for the fact that I did not have a meringue (as Coco Chanel described the elaborate Victorian hats that were fashionable in her time) on my head or a frill-fringed parasol in my hand, you could easily have mistaken us for the folks in Monet’s paintings featuring the red poppies in the fields of Argenteuil. It was just perfect, just delightful, this mid-morning ramble in the meadows with the children and the kitten for company. We walked on for at least an hour in the most appealing temperature. When the shrubs became too thorny, Julia begged to be carried and Llew lifted her tenderly in his arms and took her over the worst of the nettles. Marius was a most caring and attentive older brother as he comforted her for she suddenly expressed a need to get back to the house and to her older cousin Florine who was babysitting her.

By the time we returned from our walk, having encircled a good part of the property, Jacques had returned from the doctor. We sat reading for a bit while Florine prepared a very simple lunch for us–mackerels in mustard sauce, a fresh lettuce salad, cheese and baguettes and with this meal consumed, it was time for us to take our leave of our guests. Florence had returned home too to bid us goodbye, Jean had been pronounced okay by the doctor and Jacques drove us to the railway station at Lison with a great weight lifted off his mind.

Our train turned out to be a half hour late which left us time to sit on the platform and people watch. Jacques was good company as we waited, but then soon enough, along came the train and off to Paris we went arriving at 5. 45 pm at Gare Saint Lazare.

We had promised the Andersons that we would cook them an entire Indian dinner as they are great big fans of Indian cuisine. Llew and I stopped at the apartment to stash our bags and discovered that Jack had purchased all the ingredients we needed. I decided to make a Chicken in Green Coconut Milk Curry and those ingredients which were not at home were easily obtained on a quick shopping spree at Monoprix.

Julia and Llew were wonderful sous-chefs as I got cracking on our meal, cooking, in addition to the chicken, a pilau and my mother’s Cucumber Coconut Salad. Julia also assisted us in finding the bits of equipment we needed and the variety of condiments that are called for in Indian cuisine. By the time Jack walked in, about an hour later, dinner was almost ready. We sipped a glass of Bordeaux each and nibbled on a few nuts. But then dinner was plated and served by me and Llew and I sat back and enjoyed the steady steam of compliments that came our way. It had been a team effort that had paid off very well indeed. Everyone enjoyed the chicken curry and for dessert, we ate one of the very healthy fruit salads which are Jack’s specialty.

An Evening at the Lido:
By 9.00 pm, Llew and I changed and were ready to leave for our evening out at the Lido, one of Paris’ most famous night clubs. I had booked tickets online for the 9. 30 pm revue or show and we were very pleased to discover that the Lido was only a ten minute walk from our apartment. Night had fallen over Paris and the night owls were out in great numbers taking the air on the Champs Elysses, chomping away at dinner or sipping after-dinner coffee on the pavement cafes and posing for pictures by the massive billboards that line the boulevarde.

It wasn’t long before we were at the Lido and being led to our seats by a smartly attired waiter who also brought us the drinks menu. We were seated in an exclusive little banquette from where we had a very good view of the stage. It was only a few minutes later that the show began with all the pomp, splendor and pageantry that have come to characterize such entertainment. Indeed the costumes and sets were simply sumptuous and the quality of the singing and dancing rather good. We were taken around the world in an hour and a half, as the dancers made frequent costume changes transporting us to Thailand and India and to the cabaret nightclubs of Berlin as seen in the film and stage version of Cabaret. It was all very classy and very elegant indeed and as folks sipped their Dom Perignon champagne from crystal flutes and nibbled at their cheese platters, the lights dipped and dimmed and we lost ourselves in the spectacle which was magnificent.

But then it was all over and since the night was still young and the light clear and beckoning, we decided to take a walk in the moonlight to the Arc de Triomphe which was only five minutes away. There we enjoyed the superbly illuminated monument that looks so different by day and so magical by night. Of course, we took more pictures, then strolled along the Champs Elysses and soon made our way home.

It was well past midnight when we got back to our apartment and slept soundly as we anticipated our very last full day in Paris.

Knocking Around Normandy with Jacques–and a Minor Accident!

Jul30

Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Normandy, France

Today was a day for relaxation—or so we thought! Since we had no particular agenda, Jacques thought we ought to take it easy and see some aspects of his French country lifestyle that we might find both curious and fascinating. We were game, and placing ourselves in his hands, set out to enjoy a day of his making.

We started off with the kids, of course, who joined us at breakfast—a very casual affair with baguettes and jam and good Normandy butter and cups of rich French roasted coffee. The country air had enhanced our appetites and we decided to indulge fully. I loved chatting in French with little Marius who could only say one word in English (“Yes”) and ending up responding to all my questions with that monosyllable!

After showering and dressing, Llew and I joined Jacques in his car to travel to our first stop—Florence’s office in Marigny, merely five minutes away, where she runs her architectural business with an all-female team. It was great to see her in her professional milieu with the various maquettes of her current projects spread out all around her. We spent a while examining the work in which she is currently engaged, then set off to visit Place Westport in Marigny which is named for the town that is just next door to our own in Connecticut. Westport played a major role after World War II in the rehabilitation of Marigny by raising funds to rebuild it. In recognition of its effort, the square has been named after Westport and there is a plaque in the center that recalls this extraordinary trans-continental bonding.

Next, we headed towards the German military cemetery not too far away as Jacques wanted to show us that despite the fact that the French and the Germans were bitter enemies during the War, post-War efforts of cooperation and friendship have resulted in the care and maintenance of this German cemetery on French soil. The cemetery is beautifully designed and, rather like its American counterpart, a place of serenity and comfort. About 3,000 German soldiers lie buried in this part of Normandy, their names marked in the ground with small grey stone plaques. The remarkable design of this place is enhanced by the three stone crosses that punctuate the vast grounds at regular intervals. What was also remarkable about this place is that, unlike the American cemetery, there was not a soul in sight. Indeed, it was entirely empty though when I had spoken to Valerie, Florence’s sister, who works in the office attached to the cemetery, she had informed me that hundreds of Germans visit it, especially those on vacation in France.

Our next point of interest was Saint Lo, the small French town that was once liberated by American military man Howie who is well remembered in the Mairie (Mayor’s Office) with a special exhibit on his contribution to the war effort.

Jacques had some work at the Mairie after which we went to a small restaurant to grab a bite. With large baguette sandwiches and wonderful cider, we enjoyed our meal and set out for yet another excursion—this time to the home of Jacques’ sister Helene which happened to be designed and constructed by Florence and her creative office team. Helene herself was at her beach side home and we were, therefore, unable to enter Florence’s creation—but we did admire it from the outside. It was wonderful to see how proud Jacques is of his wife’s handiwork and how supportive he is of her endeavors.

It was at Jacques’ suggestion that we arrived home by car only to set out again, this time on bicycles to see Jacques’ brother Henri’s farm that was about a half hour’s bike ride away. Llew, Jacques, Jean, Marius and I set out and what a lovely ride it was—we went past miles of golden fields that lay slumbering in the late evening sunshine. Cows watched us warily from the meadows as we pedaled past and Llew had a fright, at one stage, when a dog bounded out of a farmhouse and nipped at his ankles nearly knocking him off his bicycle. As Llew put it, “The last thing I wanted was to be bitten by a dog in France!” Again, little did Llew know what awaited me at the end of the evening!

Well, it was great to see Henri and to meet his wife Marie-Laurent who invited us into her lovely ivy-draped farmhouse which had been built by Jacques’ father and was the home in which he was born. We sat down to cool glasses of orange juice and cheesy nibbles and later watched the cows being milked by machine (though not computerized) under the supervision of Henri’s oldest son Paul. Marius and Jean were thrilled to be a part of the operation and we saw them ushering the cows into their stalls together with Paul. Truly, it was an enlightening experience for us city folk—to see the rural lifestyle of these French dairy farmers. They are marvelous sons of the soil who by no means lack poise or sophistication for all their country ways—indeed they use modern means of marketing to get their wares to the consumer and are always considering means by which their output and their income can be increased. So they are, in the final analysis, savvy businessmen who run rustic operations with the assistance of every one of their children.

It was on our ride back to Jacques’ place for which Jean had left earlier to set up the fire for a barbecue that Jacques and Florence had planned for us for the evening that I had my little mishap. While cycling downhill, with the wind whipping at my ears, I found it tugging at my baseball cap that was on my head. Since my cap threatened to fly off, I tried to keep it on my head and apply my brakes at the same time. Being that I was on a slope, I ought to have applied my brakes slowly…but the flying cap caused me to lose control of my bike and, next thing you know, there I was falling flat on the ground and knocking my head against the ground. My glasses flew off, my trunk twisted and it was all I could do to scramble up while Llew (who was right behind me on his own bike) rushed to help me out. Well, there was I, an untidy heap, certain that I had hurt my dignity more than any part of my body! I told them that I was quite okay, but Jacques insisted on biking back home, bringing his car to take me back as well as one of the boys to take my bike home.

It was not long before I had an ice pack applied to my head (brought to me by Jacques) and Llew’s hand pressing down to keep the swelling at bay. Seated around the barbecue table, the aroma of grilled meats wafted to my nostrils and I ate hungrily—there were merguez and other sausages and the wonderful Tandoori chicken that Llew had marinaded with the ingredients that we had purchased earlier in the afternoon from local supermarkets. The meal was delicious and preceded by Pommeau, the French liqueur that is a combination of calvados (apple brandy) and cider. It was great. I had taken a pill to keep down the pain in my head and so decided to stay away from alcohol. However, it was towards the end of our meal, that I felt uneasy and decided it would be best to get to a hospital and have a doctor assure me that the bruise on my head was no cause for concern and that there was no internal bleeding.

Well, after the cheese course, off we went to the hospital at Saint Lo, that was founded by an American called Paul Nelson just after the War when attempts were made to rebuild the SainteLo community. There was no one in the Emergency Room when we arrived but within minutes the place sprang to life as the nurses and paramedical staff got to work obtaining details and insurance information from me. It was not long before Doctor Patrick Minville came to my assistance and there I was, having to explain what had happened in French. I have to say that I was most embarrassed but when I informed him that my French friend Jacques was waiting outside and would be able to explain more about my accident in better French, he assured me that he had understood every word I said and that I had done just fine. I have to say that I was very proud of my linguistic abilities indeed.

Not long after carrying out preliminary examinations, Dr. Minville told me that everything looked good prima facie, but that he wished me to have some X-rays done to make sure there was no internal damage. About 10 minutes later, I was in the Radiography Department and X-rays were conducted by another paramedical man who directed me most politely, in broken English, to do his bidding. About another half hour later, after my pictures had been obtained and studied, Dr. Minville returned to tell me that all was well and that there was no cause for concern. He told me to expect a bad bruise upon awakening—a bruise that would change color with each passing day. He prescribed paracetemol for the pain and told me to return home and get a good night’s rest for all was well.

It was a great relief for me and for everyone else to know that there would be no serious repercussions from my fall. Jacaques, Llew and I returned to the farmhouse just after midnight and hoped that this would be the last of the many adventures that this trip seemed determined to offer us.

The Bayeux Tapestry and D-Day Remembered on Normandy’s Beaches

Jul30

Monday, July 27, 2009
Normandy, France

We awoke to the complete silence of the French countryside. Indeed, it was so quiet that, as Llew remarked, not even the sound of the chirping of birds could be heard. From our bed, as we opened our eyes, to a glorious day, we saw the vast expanse of green stretching ahead of us to the fields and meadows that our friends, the Lesrouxelles, call home.

Hotel Cocagne, their homestead, comprises eight acres, most of which are farmed out for the growing of corn while much is covered by grass to make haystacks that form winter fodder for Normandy cattle. (The word ‘Hotel’ in the name of their house, by the way, does not mean that it is a hotel in the English sense of the word. ‘Hotel’ in this part of France, refers to a warm, harmonious and conmfortable homestead and all the houses in their region have names that are preceded by the word ‘hotel’). There is a main house in which the family currently dwells and two other buildings (one large barn and another storage area). These ancient buildings will, no doubt, be modernized and utilized in creative ways by Florence who is an architect by profession and has already worked her magic on the main house by building a vast extension to it that ties perfectly well with the ancient stone work of the original structure.

While Florence had left for the day to start work at her own architectural firm in nearby Marigny, Jacques took care of our breakfast needs and we ate the first of many delicious morning meals with them: crusty baguettes with thick Normandy butter and home made apricot jam from Florence’s own kitchen—just super!

Seeing the Famous Bayeux Tapestry At Last:
In my correspondence with Jacques over the past few days, I had informed him that I dearly wished to see the Bayeux Tapestry which reposes in not too far away Bayeux—a small medieval town that we had passed by on the train. Jacques told us that it was a half hour drive from Quibou and Hotel Cocagne. We used the drive past fields and farms and grazing cattle (those easily recognizable black and white Normandy cows were everywhere), to catch up with Jacques whom we were seeing after ten years. He had last visited us in Southport, Connecticut, with Florence just before they got married and long before the birth of their kids. We had so much to talk about and there was so much Jacques wanted to show us. He was particularly keen to introduce us to other members of his family—both he and Florence have a large number of siblings and their kids have cousins galore so that they never lack for company.

The town of Bayeaux lay shrouded under rain clouds when we arrived there. Indeed, there was a steady drizzle that also played on the old stone homes as we parked our car and walked towards the grand and very impressive Cathedral. I had heard of the famous Tapestry, about 15 years ago, when Llew and I had spent a week in Normandy with our French friends, the Leclercs, who have since moved to live permanently in Goa. In fact, it was while Jacques was driving us from Normandy to Paris, fifteen years ago, that we had passed by the town of Bayeaux where another mutual friend called Celine had pointed out to us that the town was famed for a “tapis”. I knew the French word “tapis” as meaning “carpet” in English and I had no idea that what she meant to say was “tapisserie” which means “tapestry” in English. In the years that have passed since then, I have learned much about this famous Tapestry—the first fact being that the word ‘Tapestry’ is a misnomer for it as it was not woven, as tapestries are, on a loom, but actually embroidered using a needle and woolen thread.

The Bayeux Tapestry is widely believed to have been embroidered by contemporary Normandy Queen Mathilde and her ladies-in-waiting around the year 1070 to commemorate the historic and very significant event of the victory of Duke William of Normandy over the Anglo-Saxon King Harold of England at the Battle of Hastings in 1066. Now, I had, with my friend Stephanie, visited both Battle (where the actual battle took place in 1066) and Hastings, the seaside town in Kent where Harold was based—so I was keen to see the Bayeaux Tapestry for that reason as well. Also, I remember that when I was an undergraduate student of English Literature at Bombay’s Elphinstone College, at my very first class on the History of Literature, our professor, the late Dr. Homai Shroff, had told us that if there was only one date in English History that we could possibly commit to memory, it ought to be 1066 as that was when English History as we know it first began. So, I have never forgotten that date.

How thrilled I was then to arrive in Bayeux, despite the rain and chilly weather, to see the former seminary building in which the tapestry is displayed. My Met ID card got me in for free but Llew and Jacques paid the 6 euros each to enter the space. A room had to be constructed especially to display this 70 meter long work which comprises 58 panels, each one of which tells the story of the bloody battle that brought England under the rule of the French and forever changed the culture, language and administrative systems of the country.

With a most useful audio guide in English that gave us the entire story, panel by panel, we were able to appreciate both the historic events that led to the cataclysmic upheaval as well as the artistic details and superb craftsmanship for which the tapestry is famed. Indeed, all the key characters (Edward the Confessor, then King of England, Harold his cousin, William his French cousin, and his brother the Bishop) are clearly delineated on the tapestry as are a vast number of cavalry and infantrymen that formed the rank and file of this battle. William came to be known as The Conqueror and the peculiar love-hate relationship that has existed through the centuries between the English and the French began.

Viewing the tapestry took us over an hour; by which time, we were ready for lunch that we grabbed at a nearly café with its lovely tree-shaded al fresco tables. Both Llew and I had the Croque Monsieur (France’s famous toasted cheese sandwich) which we washed down with some really good Normandy cider.

On to the D-Day Beaches of Normandy:
We were not able to linger too long over our meal, however, as we were headed towards the Bayeux cathedral to see the inside of it as well as the Bayeux War Cemetery for Bayeux was the first French city to be liberated by the Allied troops after they arrived on Normandy soil. In fact, Jacques felt that we should hurry on for the half hour drive towards Coleville-Sur-Mer, as I had told him that the next item on my agenda while in Normandy was a visit to the D-Day Beaches and American Cemetery of Normandy which I had last seen portrayed on TV during the recent 65th anniversary celebrations of the famous landings that liberated Europe from the Nazi scourge.

Though these war cemeteries are dotted all along the sea coast of Normandy, the one at Coleville-sur-Mer is the largest and most frequently visited and was the scene of the solemn commemorative ceremonies that took place here when Barack Obama arrived to represent America, a few weeks ago. Once again, we found the drive very soothing, almost therapeutic, and as Jacques pointed out places of interest, we realized how little rural France has been touched by modernity.

Then, we were at Coleville where we parked our car and found ourselves surrounded by people who had traveled across the Pond and the English Channel to pay their respects to the departed dead many of whom were their own late family members. Once we went through the security that led into the Visitors Center, we became fully wrapped up by the emotion that the venue unleashes. Just past the Center, we entered a museum where we saw so many items from those war-torn years as well as letters, photographs and other such memorabilia that belonged to another era. In these war-ravaged times, when America is still fighting for the righteous causes to which it is so seriously committed, it was poignant to remember how much was sacrificed on this soil and how much was achieved by these brave actions. Indeed, images of the film Saving Private Ryan—those devastating opening scenes when so many thousands of soldiers became cannon fodder–lingered in my mind as I entered the cemetery and saw the thousands of white marble crosses and stars of David that mark the spots upon which their remains lie buried.

A total of 10,000 odd soldiers died during the D-Day Landings on June 6, 1944 and another 1,500 remained missing. They are commemorated on an adjoining wall where their names are recorded in alphabetical order. Beautiful pink roses bloomed all over the cemetery and the American stars and stripes flew at halfmast in the salty sea air. The sound of the waves were never very far from our ears as they still thundered in across from England where the ships that brought the soldiers to these shores had embarked. The setting was perfectly serene and wonderfully evocative of those turbulent times, now, thankfully, only a memory in the minds of both those who served in the call of duty and those who benefited from their sacrifice. We watched a group of American high school children who laid a wreath on the sculpture that recalls the fallen dead and missing and as the last post and the American national anthem was played, we felt privileged to be included in the very moving service.

On Omaha Beach:
A short drive later, we arrived at Omaha Beach where the offensive had been launched following the landings on D-Day. Today, it looks like just any other beach. A few kids frolicked in the waves while sunbathers enjoyed the warmth of the day and walked their dogs along the wet sands of the shore. The temporary ports that were set up within weeks to facilitate the landings can still be seen though only fragments of them remain jutting out like a pier into the waves. The landings are remembered by a memorial stone on the sands.

Just next door is Utah Beach where more landings took place. Jacques drove us to Pointe du Hoc where the land forms a point that juts out into the English Channel. This point was well protected by the Germans who set up look out posts and guns on this promontory in order to diminish the fury of the Allied attack. The ground was pockmarked with fallen bombs and even today we could see the remains of the bunkers in which the Germans hid and concealed their guns. There is a poignant memorial at Pointe du Hoc that takes the shape of a single granite tower over a bunker that once surveyed the waves.

Indeed, our morning was deeply moving and I felt so privileged that we had the opportunity to visit these very touching memorials of awful times past. Five years ago, during the 60th anniversary of its liberation, Llew, Chriselle and I were at Auschwitz-Birkenau Concentration Camp in modern-day Poland and, five years later, here we were in Normandy on the 65th anniversary of the landings at the very spot where the conquest of Europe by the Allies began.

We were rather subdued as we returned to the car and began the long drive homewards. Jacques was keen to take us to the farm of his brother Jean-Luc who has a most modern and very novel way of milking his 80 sheep on his dairy farm. As the mayor of his town, Jean-Luc serves two functions—mayor and farmer—and it was a pleasure to meet him and his wife Natalie and their sons Francois and Benoit. I must say that my French stood me in good stead everywhere I visited as these folks were most impressed by the fact that I could carry out perfectly good conversations with them in their own language and could thus steep myself, at least temporarily, into their culture.

Jean-Luc’s farmyard was indeed an extraordinary place. Not only did we thoroughly enjoy getting acquainted with the ingenious computer system, recently installed, that allows his cows to be milked automatically, without any human intervention at all, but Llew and I had yet another superlative experience awaiting us.

A Calf is Born:
 Jean-Luc had casually asked us if we wished to see his new born calves. Well, how could we resist? So, off we went, following him to another barn, where we saw the most darling calves, about ten in all, gambol around playfully in the hay filled barns. And then, imagine our shock when we discovered that one of the cows had gone into labor and was just about to give birth! Since calves are born with their forelegs emerging first, followed by their heads and hind legs, we were stunned to see the forelegs already jutting out. Jean-Luc then jumped into the fray and began to help the cow by tying a rope around the calf’s forelegs and pulling.

Now I have to say, at this point, that a year ago, when Llew and I had visited Yorkshire to see the home of veterinary author James Herriot, I had been motivated to do so by the TV series All Creatures Great and Small that I had watched in which the birth of cattle was a frequent feature. In fact, Herriot and his vet colleagues were often required to push their hands deep inside the uterus of these cattle to find out the state of health of the animals and had often assisted in exactly this fashion. And now, a year later, here I was in Normandy, the home of European cattle farming, watching the actual birth of a calf. I mean this was no longer TV drama I was watching! This was reality and the real world birth was every bit as exciting and moving as those TV shows had portrayed. I was so deeply affected by these sights that I was speechless and could only watch mutely as creation occurred before my very eyes.

It was a difficult and rather lengthy first birth. When Jean-Luc’s efforts proved to be inadequate, Jacques jumped in to lend his brother support. Soon his young son Francois joined in providing a warm bucket of water and with their black lab Aurianne nosing around the cow, it was a strange sight to behold indeed. Before long, the calf’s legs emerged and then with one massive effort, out slid the head and the rest of the calf. I watched enthralled as the calf was taken to its exhausted mother who had dropped down on the ground for rest. As she made acquaintance with her new baby, she licked it tenderly and bonded with it. Truly, it was one of the most unusual things I have ever seen and both Llew and I were profoundly moved by this experience.

We said goodbye to Jean-Luc, returned to Jacques’ lovely farm, met up with Florence and this kids again and then sat down to a delicious dinner of salad (fresh from Florence’s garden) and roast chicken with a really yummy stuffing made tasty by the addition of raisins. French cheese followed in the next course, then pots of yogurt. All this was accompanied by delicious glasses of cider and an aperitif called Ricard which had an anise flavor.

It was much later that we finally ended our day having undergone so many massive adventures.

In the Midst of the Tour de France and Paris’ Famed Sights

Jul30

Sunday, July 26, 2009
Paris and Normandy

By the time we set out to explore Paris, Jack had ensured that we ate a really great huge homemade breakfast. There was oatmeal made from scratch in milk, jazzed up with giant raisins and loads of cinnamon which made it really yummy. Large quarters of cantaloupe, plums and white peaches were placed at our seats and there was yogurt all washed down with excellent Harrods tea. Indeed, it was a meal that would keep us going for hours, we knew, as we left our apartment for a day of sight seeing.

And when we reached the Champs Elysses, well, guess what? There we were right in the midst of the Tour de France, the famous French cross-country bicycle race that ends at the Champs Elysses with the riders making nine rounds of the famous boulevarde to the wild cheering of the fans. Such an opportunity to take in such a famed sporting event could not, of course, on any account, be missed. And so we resolved to return at 4.00 pm when it was expected that the first “sprinters’ would reach the area. Oh how exciting and how unexpected I thought that we should have the chance to stand and cheer in the midst of folks whom we usually see on TV at the tail end of this great event!

Seeing the Tour Effiel Up Close and Personal:
Well, I guess you cannot leave Paris without seeing the Tour Effiel and even though we have seen it from many angles and in many parts of Paris, this was really the first time I went and stood right beneath it. Llew has actually been up the tower but in the years gone by (first while a grad student back packing around Europe when I could not afford the excursion to the top and later when I could not afford the time as there were so many other things I wanted to see in Paris), I never did get down to riding those elevators that take visitors to the top for stunning 360 degree views of Paris.

However, it was fabulous just to be able to stand by the very foundations of the tower and to receive the marvelous first view of it as our metro train took us on a bridge over the river Seine.The long lines (an hour’s wait) deterred me once again, so I never did get to the top. We took the mandatory photographs instead and then made our way across the Pont d’Ilena towards the Palais de Chaillot for some more pictures of the Tower. Now this was a first time excursion for Llew who had never been to the Palais de Chaillot or seen the tower from this really great vantage point.

It was while we joined the throngs of first time tourists eager to have their picture taken that we were approached by a young couple from Texas who asked us to take their picture. They so loved the picture I took that they asked if I could take another—this time of the two of them kissing in front of the Effiel! Of curse, I said, and posed them in such a way that their faces were placed just at the bottom rung of the tower. And, as so often happens, they then turned to ask if we’d like to have our picture taken by them and of course, we said yes, and so they asked Llew, if he’d like to have a picture “kissing”! And, of course, Llew said, “Sure”! So, next thing I knew, there was I being posed against the tower locking lips with my darling husband and thinking how lucky I was to be in this city with the one I love!

Then, it was time to walk towards Rue de Passy towards the campus of New York University in Paris that I so wanted to visit before I left the city. It was quite a steep uphill climb towards the location but in about fifteen minutes, we got there and standing outside Number 56 wondered why there was no signboard or indication of any kind that the campus of NYU was located at that spot. Did I have the wrong address, I wondered, as I looked about me. Being a Sunday, however, the place was deserted. It appears (as Jack informed us later) that there was a bell that, if rung, would have admitted us into the quadrangle inside where the office and classrooms are located. Well, it was a pity we did not know this but at least I did get to see the exact location at which this campus is based—good to know in case I ever get posted to teach in Paris!

Lunch at Montmartre:
Our next stop was the lovely mountain top called La Butte Montmartre on which stands the white marble edifice with the many domes of the Church of the Sacre Coeur (Sacred Heart). Once can arrive here through the metro stops of Abbess or Anvers and then take the funicular train to the summit. We chose, instead, to scale its heights on foot and, in doing so, treat ourselves to the joys of watching the city of Paris unfold itself at our feet.

At various points on our ascent, we stopped to catch our breath and take pictures of the rooftops of the city. The day was lovely with bright sunshine illuminating the various attractions of the area including the white domes of the church that gleamed. People were sprinkled all over the green lawns and gardens that surround the church. Since it was a Sunday, we had hoped to catch Mass at Sacre Coeur, but all we could manage was a visit as the masses had finished for the day. Still, it was wonderful to encircle this very beautiful church with its Byzantine like mosaics (including the large central one of Christ).

When we had accomplished this intention, we walked behind the church towards one of the most famous squares in Paris, the Place du Tertre which is usually filled with amateur artists who provide sketches of the visitors for a few sou.

The Place du Tertre was also packed as it happened to be lunch time and the many bistros and brasseries that line the four sides of the square were doing roaring business. We decided to stop and have lunch here ourselves and selected Chez Mere Catherine which is the oldest of the bistros. Seated beneath a red, white and blue umbrella (for Paris is still celebrating Bastille Day), we decided to have the Formule, i.e. the prix fixe menu that included one appetizer, an entrée and a dessert. Llew chose the Mixed Salad while I went for the Quiche Lorraine. For his main, Llew chose the Roast Chicken, while I went for the Moules Frites (mussels with fries) and for dessert, Llew had the ice-cream while I had the Crème Caramel. At 16 euros per head for the package, I have to say the quality was rather disappointing. My quiche was burned at the bottom and I had to send it back. The replacement slice was half the size of the original (were they trying to get rid of the burnt one by serving double the size of the normal portions?). I have eaten far better Moules at Leon de Bruxelles and the crème caramel, well, I am pretty certain that I can make a better version myself! So our Parisian lunch was a bummer and I have to wonder why we chose such a touristy part in which to eat our meal. Had we chosen a small bistro in an unfrequented area, no doubt we’d have had a better repast.

Witnessing the Tour de France:
It was time to return to the Champs Elysses to take in the last of the Tour de France and, when we arrived there just past 4.00pm, we found that the first riders had already arrived and taken their preliminary round of the boulevarde to the mad cheering of the crowd. Jack had suggested we take a ladder or at least a step stool down to the boulevarde and that was exactly what we did! So with the stool positioned in the midst of the crowd and with Jack joining us, both Llew and I were able to get great views of the finalists as they pedaled away around the route (as well as a few good pictures). Of course, we were thrilled to see the legendary American Lance Armstrong among the finalists and though he did not win the race, he made it in quite a respectable third place. This was another high point of our travels and we are so glad we managed to get this treat in as well.

Off to Normandy:
There was enough time for us to get back home, pick up our backpacks and head off to the Gare St. Lazare where we had made train bookings for our journey to Normandy where we would spend the next few days. Our train was scheduled to leave at 7. 10 pm and taking the metro there, we arrived on time for the two and a half hour run into Normandy.

At the station at Lison in Normandy, our friend Jacques awaited us with his 7-year old adorable son Marius whom we were meeting for the first time. Though we reached there at about 10. 00 pm, there was still enough light left for us to see the passing fields and farms and the small town of Saint Lo before we arrived at Quibou, the little village in which our friends live on a sprawling 8 acre farm. We arrived there at about 10. 45 pm, hooked up with Jacques’ wife Florence and their other kids, son Jean and baby daughter Julia and as we enjoyed an affectionate reunion and a glass of wine, our hosts busied themselves getting our dinner organized.

We partook of good French baguettes served with jambon fumee (for our friend Jacques runs a business in traditional Normandy smoked hams called Jambons d’Antan). With deli meats and a salad, and a platter of French cheese, we had a very homely meal and then, without more ado, made our way up to our room eager to explore our surroundings the next morning in stronger light.

Marche de Puces, Saint Suplice and Saint Chapelle

Jul30

Saturday, July 25, 2009
Paris

For lovers, like myself, of antiques and brochante (the French word for bric a brac), I guess no visit to Paris would be complete without a forage through one of the many marches de puces (flea markets) for which the city is renowned. So, awaking on a Saturday morning, I decided that we should go to the one at Clignancourt, perhaps the best-known flea market in the world. Again, I have heard and read about this wonderful place for years and had always wanted to go to it “on my next visit to Paris”. So, since we were here, hell why not, I thought. The best part of having Llew as a travel companion is that he is generally game to do such half-brained things like this with me and so off we went after Jack insisted we eat breakfast at home: toast with fruit and tea (I had taken them a variety of teas in Harrods’ signature wooden box and we enjoyed one of these).

How very mistaken I was! When we arrived at Clignancourt, after a ride in the Tube that involves two changes, I found it to be very different from what I had imagined. In fact, I had thought it would be something along the lines of the Bermondsey Antiques Market in London: a number of dealers setting up their wares on make-shift carts—all very casual, very friendly. Well, this Paris place was nothing like that at all.

This market is made up of several separate marches (each specializing in a different category of item—such as antiques, vintage clothing, etc.). I headed for the Marche Biron and then to the Marche Serpette, both of which were located at the very end of the road from which we had approached via the metro station. These were a series of upscale shops, I mean regular shops—there was nothing make-shift about these. The wares inside were equally upscale and I could see nothing that I could wrap up in a bag and take home in a suitcase! The furniture varying from Louis Quinze to Beidemeir and Art Deco were the sort of solid buys that could only go overseas in a container! While there were some shops with silver and art glass and French porcelain, these were rare, in the most perfect condition and, therefore, very expensive. Still, I have to say despite the fact that I could tell within fifteen minutes that I was unlikely to go home with a souvenir of my visit to the marche de puces, it was a very interesting visit and I am glad I went.

Both en route to the Metro and leading away from these permanent markets, are loads of stalls run by black African immigrants from countries like Senegal and Cote d’Ivoire selling all manner of clothing imaginable from cheap T-shirts to American military uniforms! Being ravenous and with the sun stating that it was almost noon, Llew and I found a lovely Creperie that sold the most marvelous jambon and fromage stuffed crepes which we ordered and then watched fascinated as the expert chef swirled his little baton around his flat pan to make the delicious meal. This was swaddled in a paper cone and handed to us and filled us up very well indeed for the next few hours.

We returned home to the Champs Elysses as Llew had promised Jack that he would cook him his magret de canard in a typically Indian way, using a variety of Indian spices. The Andersons love Indian food and Llew found the recipe he usually uses for his Thanksgiving turkey from my website. So we bought ourselves a few ingredients from Monoprix (as Jack has a well-stocked spice pantry) and went back home to make the yogurt-based marinade in which to bathe the breasts of duck for a few hours for our dinner later than evening. Julia had left to spend the weekend in Normandy which left just Jack and us for dinner.

Two Famous Parisian Churches– Sainte Suplice and Sainte Chapelle:
Having accomplished that task, it was time for us to take in the sights of the city and we headed to the center of town to see the Church of Saint Suplice that was made famous by Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code. Again, I have to say that in my ignorance, I expected it to be a church in which the Pink Rose Line actually could be discerned, even if faintly, on its flagstones! Well, call me crazy, but there was nothing to distinguish the Church of Sainte Suplice from any of the other many European churches I have seen in the past one year.

Well, perhaps the Rose Line does exist in the church but there was no one to point it out, or explain anything about it nor was there any literature available at the entrance of the church in English that might have led us to it. At the end of the day what I got out of our visit to this church was an opportunity to see two marvelous frescoes at the entrance in the Chapel of the Angels done by Eugene Delacroix. The rest of the church is notable for its beautiful sculptural statues of saints that are to be found in the chapels and the May Day paintings that were gifted to the church on May 1st each year.

Well, it was only a short walk along the lovely streets of Paris towards the Church of Sainte Chapelle and we made that our next destination. En route, we passed by the BGV Home Store at the Hotel de Ville where we bought one of the very unique can openers we saw Jack use at home. Not only does it open cans easily and effectively without leaving a jagged edge but it opens them in such a way that the top becomes a lid that can be re-used so as to almost hermetically seal the can again. I marveled at the ingenuity of this design and decided to go out and buy one for our home too.

At the Church of Sainte Chapelle, we were put through a thorough security search as this building stands within the precincts of the Palais Royale, part of the administrative heart of the modern city. It’s spire can be seen reaching out towards the clouds, not too far from the Church of Notre Dame as Sainte Chapelle also stands on the Ile de la Cite. It was a private chapel constructed by Louis IX to house the sacred relics that he acquired from Constantinople such as the thorns from Christ’s Crown and a piece of the True Cross. This acquisition placed Paris on par with Constantinople as one of the most important centers of Christian pilgrimage in the medieval world and the high altar that was created to house the relics included a grant old chest that can still be seen on it though the relics themselves have been moved to the Treasury in the Church of Notre Dame. It is a very tiny but most exquisite space and there is nothing in it that I had seen in any other church anywhere else. There is a hefty entrance fee (8 euros) to see this place but believe me, it is worth ever cent.

You enter the church through a lower level that is itself quite beautiful. This portion was meant only for the worship of the servants of the palace and the common people. Constructed in a form of Gothic style that is highly decorative (called royannte), the fan vaulting is the most distinctive part of this church, but it is the vivid decoration that most singles it out. The left sidewall is decorated with a fresco of the Annunciation that is reputedly the oldest wall painting in Paris. A marble statue of Louis IX graces the far end of the church that is surrounded by columns each separated by a pictorial depiction of a saint whose halo is studded with glass and semi-precious stones.

And this is only the bottom half. Climb the rather plain and very narrow spiral staircase at the back of the church and you ascend, it would seem, to Heaven, Indeed, it was not for nothing that the common folk called this church a Stairway to Heaven. When new, it must have quite dazzled the beholder for at this point in time its effect is still quite mesmerizing indeed. The entire church is surrounded by stained glass windows each depicting a separate book of the Old Testament, each panel separated by columns upon whose plinths stand depictions of the twelve apostles, all executed in elaborate style with vivid paint and lavish gilding. The high point in this from of decoration is reached at the altar where the wooden carved angels, again painted vividly and finished in gold leaf, form an arch to lead the eye towards the chest that once contained the relics. It is difficult for the eye to decide where exactly it should rest in this amazing receptacle of Gothic design and I have to say that Llew and I felt quite overwhelmed by what we saw. Never having seen the Church of Sainte Chappelle before, we felt fortunate that we had included it on our itinerary during this visit for it was certainly one of the high points of our visit to Paris.

Once out of the church and while walking past the bridges that line the Seine, we found a Hagen Daz ice-cream parlor. Quite exhausted by our sightseeing, we settled down to a massive sundae each and gosh, were we glad for our sugar high! It gave us the energy to continue on our rambles for truly Paris can best be seen on one’s own two feet. When one has seen the churches and the palaces and the museums, there is still plenty of street side enticement to draw one ever further into the heart of this architecturally perfect city whether it be a design store featuring the newest trend in faucets or yet another bistro whose menu boasts the country’s best known culinary delights such as steak hache or Coquilles St. Jacques.

We returned to our digs at the Champs Elysses, surprised again to find that it is only tourists today who seem to inhabit the area. In the many café trottoirs that line the street and the power house megastores that proclaimed the recent death of Michael Jackson by announcing new albums and books, there was a great deal to take in. But we were tired and though the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak, and we had to return to the Andersons so that Llew could cook his Duck Dinner. Indeed, our duck breasts had marinaded beautifully and with the oven pre-heating, Llew set to work. It was just scrumptious and the three of us enjoyed it very much indeed as we ate a salad for starters and finished off with one of Jack’s signature fruit salads with raspberry sorbet that received a huge kick by the generous addition of a cup of Bordeaux which made a lovely sauce as it melded with the melting sorbet! Jack even sprinkled some coconut over the concoction to make it more tropical.

And on that lovely gastronomic note, we called it a day, having enjoyed another evening of food and conversation with our compelling and very generous host.