Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Reflections on Time Travel, Traveler Angst, and What One's Protagonist Might Do

Friday, June 10, 2011, Bayeux, France

Working from the journal I kept while traveling alone In Europe has reminded me how the journey shaped my writing and my views of my novel protagonist. I went to Europe to gather insight into what it might be like for my protagonist, Aihne Fontaine, to go to a foreign country and to travel 800 years into the past. Although I couldn't literally travel back in time, I would be walking through some very old parts of Europe, which I hoped would transform me back, even just in my head. And I was right: I found I shared not only Aihne's perspective as a traveler in a foreign land, but I felt I knew what it might be like to be a time traveler like her--sometimes while sitting in front of a 5000-year-old dolmen or standing inside a centuries-old church. Aihne is a Harvard student, time traveler, and lover of everything 12th-century France, Aihne is independent, intelligent and a serious academic. Like Aihne, I viewed my travel experience as academic at root (although, as you may know from previous blog entries, I strayed off my research path to see the wonders around me).

What surprised me during my own travel experience was the wide gap between the person I identified as me in the mirror and the person the culture I was visiting reflected back at me as I meandered into their train stations, hotels, or cafes. I knew at once Aihne must feel the same after landing in the indifferent city of Poitiers, France in 1136. But I must take my communication muddles and multiply them by ten to get close to how hard it must be to go back in time almost a millennium. Aihne and I both sought to be understood and to understand. I took the opportunity when I could to connect with Aihne and her experience, even in the middle of my own social discomfort. I tried to catch her perspective by walking cobbled streets or sitting on a bench in a cathedral. Then back in my tiny hotel room, I would write furiously in my notebook to reach further into her head and get it all down. At times the connection wasn't strong. Sometimes it was interrupted by my own angst, but eventually I got through.

Journal Excerpt, Friday morning, June 10, 2011, Breakfast Room, Hotel Churchill, Bayeux, France:
Not awake. Australian show off! He could answer our matron de in French and she was pleased. Oh, wait. He is not the Australian. He is the Brit from the first night who encouraged me to find the WiFi connection, and I eventually did. This coffee is old. Perhaps la matron de can bring me a fresh pot.... Yes. I asked. I hate to be a problem, but the coffee was so good yesterday. Ellen, this is not a 4-star restaurant, you know. But the coffee was bad and I know they make good coffee... Dave wouldn't have done it, but Dave isn't here! :) Okay. Got coffee. Thanked the woman for it. Now I have some time to write, so...

Aihne walking through the medieval hall—

The interior of the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Bayeux. More beautiful than the exterior to my cursory view from my last night there.

I got a chill. I wanted to run out of the Bayeux cathedral last night. I had seen so many stone walls. I felt I didn't belong here. Unlike the Mont Saint-Michel, which invites the tourist trade, this cathedral is still very private. No entry fee, but votive candles everywhere. I did not feel comfortable making an offering there—mine would not be a religious one, but spiritual, as in celebrating the seeking and finding. Outside, the church is so old and grim. The city is preserving it as an historical site. I wondered why.  Then I walked inside. The windows were gorgeous. Such starkness and beauty all in one place. Perpetual sorrows—

The grim, weathered outside of Bayeux Cathedral.

Churches wouldn't be Aihne's primary research, but she is quite interested in abbeys, particularly the Abbey at Fontevraud. So the images: the gloom, the high transepts and the hollow echoes that become glorious chant from the choir at other times. It all goes to the same thing: the cloistered life, religious or not. Living away from the large community in a smaller one where contemplation is not only encouraged but one of the few activities open to a woman of high birth who had been retired by society. But I get ahead of myself. That is the next chapter of my journey. At Saumur, I will see the Abbey de Fontevraud.

Paintings on a wall of the gallery at the Bayeux Cathedral.

Time traveling. I can understand how disjoint it must be. You don't speak the language exactly, at least in Aihne's case. She has studied linguistic remnants of the language and knows how it probably sounded based on modern romance and Germanic languages. She will refine it as she goes. Get by on her wits. I understand not knowing if your message is getting through. Are you going to get what you asked for—what you thought you asked for? Or something entirely different? Of course, unlike Aihne, I'm a tourist. There is a courtesy extended to strangers who come to visit a country. We are (mostly) forgiven our ignorance. Time travelers walk among the people incognito. I am looking at present-day ruins of medieval sites instead of living in them as new structures along with medieval contemporaries like Aihne is. And Aihne is going back to a time and place in which strangers posed much more likely threats than in western civilization today.

By Anonymous - "Eve spinning", folio 8r, detail from the Hunterian Psalter, Glasgow University Library MS Hunter 229 (U.3.2)  Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons.

Aihne must be thinking, "Will people regard me as other and run me out of town? Will they trust me or suspect me? So what if they suspect me? Will they act on the suspicion?" That would be problematic. You'd have to smooth things over, faking it. That would be the only way to do it. Constantly smiling when you are talking. Pretending to be helpless or very much like it. (In some ways Aihne and I are both helpless.) Play up the helplessness in some cases. In others, be tougher, stronger, even magical. With men, I suppose, always demur, but calculate carefully so that you do not play it too far. With women, show yourself to be more inept than they, but a hard worker and eager to learn. Puts them on a higher footing than you and they will trust more. Act in trust—prove your trustfulness by doing what you said or indicated you would.

So ends the journal entry from that Friday morning before I set off on my 5 1/2-hour journey from Bayeux to Saumur and encountered adventures that pushed me further into the unknown realms of space and time travel.

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Mont Saint-Michel, Tidal Flats, Monk Footprints, and Gloomy Crypts

Journal Excerpt: Thursday, June 9, 2011, Hotel Churchill:
Off to Saint Mont Michel this morning. Eating breakfast in the dining room of Churchill hotel. The maître d' was kind enough to ask if I wanted more coffee, so I said yes. And I decided to do a little writing while I wait. Talked with Dad last night. He was very pleased I called, but he sounded only OK. Still no appetite and still only sleeping OK.

Thursday morning I managed to get myself up, showered, and down to breakfast well before the appointed time to leave for Mont Saint-Michel. I had enough time for eggs and toast and fruit, and drank two cups of coffee. I was energized for the long trip in the shuttle.

Morris giving our little tour group our instructions before we explored Mont Saint-Michel.

There were several people taking the shuttle with me. They all spoke English, but talked among themselves. I sat up front with the driver, a French-Canadian expat named Morris. He was friendly and I felt very well-taken care of on the hour and a half journey. During the drive, Morris told us some of the history and trivia behind the monastery and the little town that surrounds it on its tiny mound of land, population 50. The island has been considered holy since the Celts believed the souls of the dead resided there. A Roman-Gaul culture established a church there by the 6th century.  The abbey was established on the site of the older church around 966. The town surrounding the abbey was burned and the townspeople massacred by two Breton dukes who were allied with the French king during the hundred years war. The king was so appalled that he paid for the abbey's restoration and that of some of the surrounding buildings. The site then survived the French Revolution, the indignity of being made into a prison, and the ravages of WWII.

Steep stairs near the monks dormitory level where the original chapel was. This way up to the abbey!

Journal Excerpt: Later that same day, Hotel Churchill:
Back from Mont St.Michel—Remote. Cold wind whipping narrow streets. Hard stone crumbling in places. The smell of stale wine in the abbey chancel (near altar) the smell of another tourist's spearmint gum. Both narrow stairs and broad stairs. Arches upon arches. Naked stone and mortar where there used to be more décor back in the day of the Romanesque period—the early Normans before the Benedictines took over. Stark light and shadows on the landscape. The flats are patched in odd shapes of shadow from overhead clouds. They pattern the meadows along one river as well as the tides and sand flats.

The one street on the island of Mont Saint-Michel going up.

Everything is up. The walls go up and the rails and towers are up. You crane your neck up. Shadows fall there. The sun careens through the greenery and ironwork of an inner garden courtyard. Grids with interlocking patterns over windows. The glass is still in the windows after all these centuries. Lots of empty space underground and even on top, but the ascent is narrow and windy/winding with shops crammed in on either side and restaurants and hotels. Claustrophobia might descend if I had to linger. Then yet, at the top, open space -- a terrace. A great room with vaulted ceilings, underground crypts – what are they? Didn't understand all the lingo used by the audio guide.

Looking down about midway up the Mont at maintenance going on at the base of the island. The workers drove their vehicles into the sand flats. Hope the tide is not coming in!

Everything was indeed, “up.” Morris left us at the entrance to the “town” of Mon Saint Michel: a cluster of houses, which hug the causeway that is the only link between Mon Saint-Michel and the mainland, and an old wooden gate that opens onto a steep cobbled street with more houses and businesses nestled along it. This is the only street in the town. It's really more of an allley. We had 2 ½ hours to explore, but we needed to be back at the shuttle van at 12:45pm.

Some of the 50-odd residents of the island live in houses clustered at the foot of Mont Saint-Michel.

I started up, camera at the ready. Was I in a town or within the walls of an ancient fortress? The shops and the pointed slate roofs and red chimneys signified town, but the walls and the ancient stone edifices argued for fortress. I had thought the whole of the island was the abbey, but so many other things went on here. What did all of those 50 people get up to? I climbed passed the shops and the more touristy area at the base of the fortress. As the street curved around, I glimpsed green foam and sand. The sea was right there. Another switch back and I was engulfed in the deep shadow of a wall a hundred-feet high.

This was a bustling area at the base of the Mont. Turns out: restrooms. And a gift shop. And originally where priests greeted pilgrims.

The narrow street opened into a plaza. One wall to my right shot straight up. A ridge ran down it's length at an acute angle. I found out later that this was part of the mechanism used to haul supplies up to the prisoners above when the abbey was used as a prison in the 19th century. I'll get back to this later.

The "elevator" that officials used to haul up supplies for prisoners during the 18th century. A large wheel in the room at the top was used to pull the items up by a pulley system .

I hiked to the abbey entrance. I was high up. What incredible views these monks and nuns have! Can you imagine living and working on such a small piece of land and being stranded there when the tide came in? Editor's note: A bridge linking Mont Saint-Michel to the mainland was built in 2014. Now, even at high tide, there is a way off the island by car or foot. However, in 2015 the bridge was completely submerged by sea levels higher than any experience over the least 18 years.

Holy crow! We are up in the air!

Finally I entered the abbey itself. I was in a beautiful chapel. Turns out this was the Gothic Choir or crypt beside the main abbey church nave. It is one of three crypts added when the 9th-century church was rebuilt in the 12th century. The resident monks and nuns often worship here. It is more colorful and more human-sized than the church nave.

The Gothic Choir east of the main abbey church's nave.

I really didn't know where I was and where I was going. The audio guide used terms I was unfamiliar with. I never got lost, but it usually took me until I was done exploring a space, or after I could compare/contrast it with another space, that I realized what it was. I have since learned that a crypt is a chapel built underground beneath a church. The other definition, which I was more familiar with, is "burial place."

Next I managed to stumble upon the cloister outside the monks' quarters. This covered walkway, with a wall on one side and open pillars on the other, was where the monks would walk to get from building to building. In 1966, a beautiful medieval garden was rebuilt in the center of the cloister by brother Bruno de Senneville. Boxwood shrubs form a square in the center with rose bushes placed outside at intervals. Another hedge lines the edge of the green, separating the garden from the cloister walkway. 

The cloister near the monks' quarters with the garden at center.

I continued on this level and stumbled upon the monks' dining hall. As I stood in the corner of the room I could imagine the scrape of the tables and benches against the floor as the monks sat down and pulled their bowls of gruel or stew towards them. It was a starkly beautiful room with the brick-colored tile and the worn but polished wooden tables. There was a large group of tourists in the center of the room, so I focused my camera at a close angle to capture the bench and tables against the tile floor.

The beauty of worn wood, reddish tiles and stone walls in the monks' dining hall.

I strolled, marveling at the beautiful tiled floors over which I imagined dozens of monkish robes had trailed and rugged sandals had passed.

The flooring was exquisite in places.

Sometimes the exit from one room would be awkwardly juxtapositioned with the entrance to the next room, and at nowhere near the same level. A talented carpenter fashioned steps out of wood that solved the problem nicely.

Good thing there were carpenters about to connect the rooms that weren't quite at the same level.

I spied some old windows looking out over the flats. The glass clear as if new-made. A brace of metalwork holding it in place. There was another smaller island out there. This is Tombelaine, which lies a few kilometers north of Mont Saint-Michel. Breathtaking and otherworldly.

Another, smaller island, Tombelaine, spied through old glass near the main hall.

I wandered more, out through doors and into little gardens, then in through doors and over once-beautiful mosaic floors.

An ancient mosaic on the floor of an entranceway, worn from the treading of thousands upon thousands of feet.

Following another group of tourists, I came upon the top of the elevator used to haul supplies when the abbey was used as a prison. A wheel was anchored at the top of the slope. It was big enough for a couple of men to walk inside it and provide the force to pull the goods up the ramp (pictured earlier).

The wheel used to haul goods to the top of the Mont when there was a prison there.

As I continued to meander and try to find the sites identified in the audio guide, I spied steep stone stairs and people headed up. I realized there was a whole bunch of abbey below my feet. So I descended to what appeared to be the basement level. This level is where the first Christian church was built on the site of even older Roman-Gallic buildings.

The stair where everyone was headed up from a basement I had not explored yet.

Called the Notre-Dame Sous-Terre or "Our Mother Underground," this first church was “lost” centuries after the foundations for newer abbey structures were built over it. It was converted to a dormitory for monks beginning around 1060. The chamber was rediscovered in the late 19th century, but not unearthed until 1959. I climbed down into it. It was cold and clammy, but there were small windows high up in the walls that prevented it from feeling like a tomb. There were tiles on the floor here and there, and walls that turned in odd direction suddenly. You could see the layers of new laid on old.

The Carolingian style architecture of the original church underneath the current abbey. This served as the monks quarters once the new abbey was built.

In researching the background of the abbey for this blog post, I got confused. According to my sources on Wikipedia, the basic architecture of the original church is called Carolingian in honor of the early Franks who ruled the area before the 9th century. This style is influenced by Roman architecture, but pre-dates Romanesque. The columns I saw holding up the crypt look like the Romanesque architecture I had seen in Paris and other cities in France. And some of the photos of the original church on various web pages look different from my photos. I began to wonder if I had ever truly made it down to "Our Mother Underground." But what I just realized is that the outer walls of the crypt are part of the original "Mother" church foundations. The stone is irregular and the masonry rough. The columns are smoother and more elegant. They were probably added later to support the newer abbey-church foundation. Phew! Now it makes sense!

It was time to head down. I had only 15 minutes to make it back to the shuttle, which Morris said would be waiting on the causeway near to where he had parked earlier that morning. But down was faster than up. I felt a reluctance to descend quickly through the levels. I lingered over the stone walls and towers, and the surprise gardens and flowering shrubs that clung to life in the tiniest corners of the abbey fortress.

Starting my descent from the top of Mont Saint-Michel back to the parking lot where Morris would be waiting with the shuttle van.

Before I hiked all the way back to the causeway where on the shuttle waited, I took one last look at the Mont at a distance from the "land side." One more chance to understand the outer structure of the abbey and everything that holds it up.

The "land side" of the island and abbey. A strong foundation of native rock and human engineering.

The drive back was uneventful. Morris chatted about a crêperie in Bayeux that he liked. I wrote down the name, and promised to check it out. After returning to the Hotel Churchill and taking a nap, I stopped by the restaurant for dinner. It was housed in an 18th-century building with a small dining room up front, a bar in the back, and a loft with seating that overlooked the cobbled street below. Dinner was delicious. I had a savory crepe, followed by a sweet crepe for dessert. I loved what the French could do with dough! I was the only customer in the restaurant, but the family that owned the place seemed happy I was there. I tended to eat earlier than most French people. The owners spoke little English, but I had no trouble communicating what I wanted, nor completing the transaction.

A statue of the Virgin Mary in a garden on my way to see the Bayeux Cathedral.

I returned to Hotel Churchill by way of the Bayeux Cathedral, La Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Bayeux ("Cathedral of Our Lady of Bayeux"), built on the site of Roman buildings. It was a lovely setting and I enjoyed walking through the old streets.

The interior of the Bayeux Cathedral.

Even though I was tired and had seen a lot of church already, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to see this beautiful and historic Romanesque and Gothic church. It was here that Duke William of Normandy made Harold Godwinson of England take an oath, the breaking of which led to the Norman Conquest. (See previous blog about my experience viewing the Bayeux tapestry.)

Harold touching two altars as he swore an oath to Duke William of Normandy in what appears to be Bayeux Cathedral. From the Bayeux Tapestry. By Myrabella - Own work, Public Domain. Wikimedia commons.

The Bayeux cathedral was originally built by Odo, Duke William's brother, in the 11th century. The Bayeux Tapestry adorned the interior when the cathedral was consecrated in 1077. The cathedral had to be rebuilt in the Gothic style in the 12th century after a fire severely damaged it. The interior was certainly beautiful, but I moved swiftly through it to get to the tombs.

The crypt below the Bayeux Cathedral.

I was interested in the crypt underneath the cathedral which was one of the few parts of the structure that were still Romanesque.  I guess I hadn't had enough of rooms buried in foundational rock yet. I was not disappointed. These catacombs were just as otherworldly as the Mont, and perhaps more so. The light playing off the features of the columns, the sharp relief of the designs casting shadows. Brown, bright blue, and white. It was gorgeous. Some of the pillars and walls still showed paintings from the 15th century. And this crypt does indeed contain tombs, including that of a bishop from the 15th century.

15th century painting on a pillar in the crypt underneath Bayeux Cathedral.

When I returned to Hotel Churchill that night, I knew I would be sad to leave Bayeux that next morning, Friday. But I was also excited to move on to Saumur where, on Saturday, I would participate in the largest open-air market in France. But I was also nervous because I had to navigate mass transit from Bayeux back to Caen, then from Caen to Le Mans (a place I would later come back to), and finally from Le Mans to Saumur. The last leg of the journey would have to be by bus, for which I had no reservation. I needed to get on the right bus to get to my hotel in a timely fashion Friday evening. I would be at the mercy of the employees at the train and bus station. Again. C'est la vie!

Other References:
Wikipedia entries on Mont Saint-Michel
and the Abbey
The Epic Adventures web site, In the Steps of William the Conqueror: Bayeux Cathedral

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Bill the Bastard's Birthplace, Cider, and Road Rage

Monday evening through Tuesday, June 6-7, 2011

From my notes scribbled on the itinerary:
From Auxerre, take Train #91158 departs 12:09pm; arrives Paris Bercy Station at 1:46pm
Taxi to Paris St. Lazare Station
Take ICE Train #3311 departs 3:10pm; arrives Caen 4:57pm

When I arrived in Paris on the train from Auxerre, I flagged down a cab and was taken to the north side of the city. There I met the train that would take me along the north coast to Caen, a city in Normandy. The cabbie was very nice and understood English quite well and got me out of that city. The country girl in me was done with Paris.

Hotel Mercure Caen. Photo prise par sylvrgirl : "Hotel" (May 2012) via TripAdvisor France.

The train to Caen was crowded. But I found a seat and stowed my big back pack in the bin above it. Then I relaxed. When I arrived at Caen, I was disoriented. I got off the train and walked in the wrong direction in search of my hotel. I found the river, but I saw nothing that resembled a busy commercial district that would contain a hotel like the Mercure Hotel Caen where I had a reservation for two nights. I stopped a woman and asked for directions and she got me pointed correctly toward the northeast. I had to cross a boulevard, the river, and a "basin" to get to Port de Plaisance and away from modern Caen to the heart of the city with its narrower streets and close-set buildings.

A view of Caen looking southeast from the walls of Caen's medieval fortress.

Caen was almost completely destroyed during WWII. It was rebuilt in the 1950s, so most of it is modern and kind of ugly. No one neighborhood is completely medieval. Yet it boasts the largest castle fortress in Europe. I would enjoy exploring that the next day after journeying to Falaise by taxi to see the castle where William the Conqueror was said to have been born (and Eleanor of Aquitaine lived occasionally). Falaise Castle was very important to the medieval heirs of Normandy and England.

Place Reine Mathilde where Matilda of Flanders rests in a crypt at the Abbey aux Dames

I had dinner that night at the restaurant attached to the hotel. It was lovely from beginning to end. I had a small table at the front window so I could people watch yet relax. My server was a handsome young man who spoke English and was very kind to me by helping me decipher the menu. I had a wonderful swordfish entrée with dessert and wine. I was so full afterwards I decided to begin exploring the town. Maybe I could work off some of those calories.

Deteriorating edifice at the Abbey aux Dames.

As the sun was beginning to go down, I strolled to Place Reine Mathilde, Matilda of Flanders' final resting place, at the Abbey aux Dames. Queen Matilda built the abbey to appease the church for marrying her cousin, William the Conqueror. I was mildly interested in the building, but it was locked so I could not go inside. From the exterior it was obvious that the Abbey aux Dames was magnificent once, but now the exterior stone crumbled. I admired the red door with its metal strap work. I have learned since my visit that the metalwork on doors was a task during which blacksmiths could show their creativity as well as protect the door from heavy blows. And this door did not disappoint. I have read since then that early medieval strapwork was more decorative than the later work that replaced it. I am guessing this door shows later work.

Door at the main entrance to the Abbey aux Dames featuring metal strapwork.

The abbey was quite square and Gothic-looking, and the thought occurred to me that it had been rebuilt in later generations. I later found out that the original spires were destroyed in the Hundred Years' War and replaced by rectangular parapets. The worn stone, dark and dingy, made me think of wars and the strife of life long ago. I was halted in time. It was the dark ages. I stood there expecting to see the Monty Python crew come around the corner shouting, “Bring out your dead!” and black death victims being tossed onto their cart. I hope that since my visit the town government has spruced up the outside of the abbey. I realize, in retrospect, that my head was full of fancies and falsehoods about medieval times. I would discover throughout my journey that the middle ages was a much brighter time than I knew. I trundled off to bed and slept soundly, happy that I had made it successfully to this next stop on my journey.

Abbey aux Dames today with it's spires replaced by blocky towers.

Journal exerpt, Tuesday morning, June 7, 2011 at Mercure Caen Hotel:

Listening to some Brits talk about WWII. There are many Americans here, too. I'm honored to be here among men and women who were there at a crisis point in history. They are talking about the leaky shower. I experienced this, too. They had trouble closing the door in there. I just had trouble shutting it off.

Memories are streaming out all around me, I am listening to the experiences related by these octogenarians.  Nothing specific. I just catch a phrase or two. And what lively wit: One lady says of her husband, “He's not a happy bunny this morning!” Her husband, when he held out his hand to her as she left the table, mumbled something, which sounded like, “Causing trouble?” Her reply: “I'm not trouble! It's all these other people who are trouble!”

Again the croissants are a little dry here—although better than at Auxerre, they are definitively not as good as Paris and Les Grande Chenes! So odd to hear American music everywhere. Maybe some is British Pop, but definitely American Pop. R&B, Blues, Jazz, Alternative... So why don't these people—particularly the hotel employees—speak the language? :)

Maybe I am being paranoid by locking my computer up in the hotel safe when I am out and about, but that HP mini notebook is a lifeline for me. It's how I stay connected to my life back home. Where I am not a stranger.

Today at Falaise will be interesting. I've been reading about these castles and ruins for so long! I finally get to see them! However, I think I'll skip the Churche of the Hommes—William the First's chapel that he built for his sins in marrying his cousin, Matilda of Flanders. Matilda's sister chapel—actually abbey – was ugly in overall shape although in detail beautiful. Williams's will probably be much the same. I would go if it wasn't so far away. Okay. We'll see. This afternoon it is the Caen Chateau after I get back from Falaise-- maybe I won't stop for lunch and just snack on something I grab here—but then that puts me out looking for dinner in-between brasserie hours and restaurant hours. Hmm. Perhaps I can find a cafe or brasserie just in the nick. I don't want another grand dinner like last night or be up as late.

Okay. Now the dining room is playing country music! I think that I have now heard the entire American music oeuvre.

View of the entrance to Falaise Castle from atop the battlements.

I was picked up at 9:30 Tuesday morning for my tour of Falaise Castle (Château de Falaise) by a Normandy native, Mrs. Anne Brard. She spoke little English, but she was very kind. She handed me a piece of paper immediately that included information about Falaise. Since I spoke little French, we communicated using a rudimentary sign language to get our meaning across, and it was kind of fun. I had been told that Anne was not a licensed guide, but a taxi. She could not legally give me a tour. But she could drive me to the site and drop me off. That was OK by me.  The castle and fortress at Falaise, France lay about 26 miles southeast of Caen, so I must have a driver or rent another car (a little voice inside my head said “non!” to that). Hiring a taxi was the only way I was going to see it. And I wanted to see it. This was where William the Conqueror (or “Bill the Bastard” as he is known locally) was born--sort of. Historians say he was likely born at the home of his mother,  Herleva, the daughter of a ducal chamberlain, in town rather than in the fortress itself. Falaise Castle is also the place where Matilda, Duchess of Normandy and wife of William the Conqueror, is thought to have embroidered, with the help of monks, the famous tapestry most of us know as the Bayeux Tapestry (what Anne called “Victoire de Hastings”). This idea is in dispute, however, as records show that the Bayeux Tapestry was commissioned by Bishop Odo of Bayeaux (William's half brother) in southern England (probably Canterbury).

Looking down through the glass and steel structure built to help hold up the Falaise Chateau and to help visitors see its insides.

I enjoyed my tour of the castle and fortress at Falaise. Richard, Duke of Normandy and father to Bill the Bastard, built it on the site of an old fortress. The fortress keep was rebuilt with steel girders and glass and made into a museum in 1997. You can see deep into the keep and chasm below through the glass and stairways.

When first entering the keep, an audio and video recording begins based on a motion detecot to guide you through the palace at your own pace. There were some technical glitches, but I learned a few things and even saw a model of what a guarderobe looked like. The guarderobe at the castle at Poitiers plays an important role in my novel, so I took several pictures and tried to imagine what it was like to actually make use of such a facility in the 12th century.

I imagine this is my antagonist, Maël, having to do his duty and clean the loo after he found his coat hanging there. Medieval folk thought that the uric acid protected clothing from vermin. That's why the privy was called a guarderobe or wardrobe...

Another room was designed to look like a typical small private audience hall that the queen might have used when she was in residence at Falaise. It was richly decorated with wall hangings and large wooden chairs and a long table. I walked up to the turrets and got a view of the town.

Arrow loops through which archers would let loose their arches looking like they were just carved out of the limestone at the Falaise Chateau.

I then walked back out of the entrance way of the castle and explored the grounds. The walkway back down to the gift shop was at the same level as the remaining curtain walls on the east side of the fortress. Arrow loops or slits were cut into little turrets along the wall. Wow. The classic cross shape. They were bigger than the ones at Guédelon. The round ends of each line looked clean and straight, like they had been carved only a day ago. But time and nature had obviously taken over most of the ruin. I loved the way that rosy wildflowers dotted the base of the curtain wall on one side, softening the rough, rock strewn ground. A beautiful yellow flowering bush sprouted from a large boulder on the grounds.

Wildflowers along the base of the wall at Falaise Chateau.

After an hour and a half, I felt I had seen everything I needed to. So, I walked down the broad carriage way back to the spot where Anne had dropped me off. But my cultural adventure in Normandy was no where near finished, however...

Anne picked me up at noon as planned and she made it known that she would take the back roads back so that I could see some more of the Normandy countryside. I did not know how to refuse and was truely interested to see some of France that I would not see otherwise. I had nothing else scheduled that day. Anne drive us along windy, two-lane roads through countryside that reminded me of cape cod and other coastal areas of the U.S. I didn't see any ocean, but there were many rolling hills covered in brown and green and trees hugging up tight to the roadside.

Countryside somewhere in France. It gives the general feel of the countryside I was driving through with Anne like a bat out of hell. Image from Pixabay taken in 2011 by tpsdave and released under Creative Commons CC0.

What I wasn't expecting was that Anne was fluent communicator of road rage. A car ahead of us was going a little too slow for her, so she tailed him and honked. This went on for a while. I sat tensely in the passenger seat, not saying anything. The couple in the car ahead seemed to be taking their time, probably sight-seeing. Finally they pulled over and I was relieved. However, Anne was not through. She pulled alongside their car and used the control on the driver's side door to lower my window. Then she leaned across me and yelled at the driver of the other car. He and his companion ignored her. After what seemed like too long a time of Anne cursing in French, she withdrew to her side of the car and got back on the highway. I don't think I have to tell you, I was terrified. She drove too fast in my opinion, but otherwise she was a very capable driver. However, emotionally, not mature enough, even though she was in her late forties or early fifties.

Anne got me back to the hotel safely and came in with me. She gestured for me to follow her to the desk. She then told the clerk, in French, of an archaeological dig happeningin the new part of town. The clerk cheerfully translated for me. Apparently some new construction had unveiled a crypt or the foundation of an old building. It was very kind of Anne to alert me to this, and I appreciated it. But I was not sorry to say goodbye to this driver. Upon reading through my journal entry for that afternoon, I was surprised that I didn't even note the automobile adventure.

Normandy Cider by User: Mahlum (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Journal excerpt, later Tuesday afternoon, June 7, 2011, Sitting at an outdoor cafe:

Back from Falaise, from the castle of William the Conqueror's birth. Mostly destroyed and rebuilt and re-envisioned by Bruno Decaris, Chief Architect of Historical Monuments with the sponsorship of the town of Falaise.. interesting. I agree with Lonely Planet—the audio visuals are a bit tricky if you are following on the heels of the folks in front of you. I've learned how to pronounce “Caen” and “Falaise” finally. I now think “cah” and “FahLayse.”

I have an empty stomach and I want to order, but I've lost my waiter. I feel I have to keep an eye out for him and order before I can focus on writing. The temp keeps changing. I was warm when the sun was out and now it is cold and no sun. But really pleasant. My body doesn't adjust normally to temperature so who knows how warm it really is.

Okay. The order is in. I hope. I didn't understand the question the server asked at the end: “Un cah?” I said, “Oui.” I hope it just meant a can—a can of cidre or cider. Learned how to say that at the castle. He gave me the menu back. That's good in case I want dessert. But I think I might want to get out to the chateau here in Caen before it gets too late.

Bill the Bastard as they call him here--his birth place is very eerie, like other medieval edifices, but the stone was more bland than, for example, the Abbaye les Dammes: a white stone. Was it sandstone or limestone? I think sandstone. I'd like to know my stone better. I'll talk to Darcy about it—my local geologist. The stairs were broader in some places than Guédelon, but the towers were still fairly narrow. (Editor's note: it was likely limestone, the same stone as used to build the abbey although it seemed grayer. Caen is home to Pierre de Caen, is a light creamy-yellow Jurassic limestone quarried. Many buildings were built from it, including buildings in 18th and 19th century England and the USA.)

I can see why Bill and the original builders of the keep or castle chose this site. You can see for miles and miles from the ramparts: the hills. The land rolls away down from the sandstone plateau on which it stands. It was a very dangerous life in the early middle ages. Always prepared to do battle with your neighbor—if you are a noble of course. Peasants and merchants had different problems.

Excellent cidre—labeled “CRU.” This trip is all so very weird, but things are starting to move now—now that I'm in Normandy. I feel I've been through some challenging events and survived, including driving a car. I still have to figure the train to Saumur. Ifeel like I'm interfering here by not knowing the language!

Several surprises met me on this leg of my journey: Discovering the many Brits and Americans visiting Normandy to see the World War II memorials and delighting in eavesdropping on conversations I could actually understand, experiencing Normandy road rage, getting the inside scoop on an active architectural dig (see next blog entry) and finding out about Normandy cidre. Boy they love apples in Normandy. Cider-making is a large production, starting with picking apples in the late fall, letting them sour, then smashing them to get out all their juices, separating the juices from the chapeau brun (“brown hat”) or the floating solid matter, and making a variety of different alcoholic beverages. I sampled cidre, which is slow-fermented for three months then bottled with yeast for a secondary fermentation. Result: bright, bubbly sweet and acidic. When I come back I'll have to try calvados (apple brandy) and pommeau, an aperitif made by combining unfermented apple juice with calvados. I think I got the best of the three styles, though.

Eight-Week Europe Solo Travel 2011: Building a Castle at Guédelon

Saturday, June 4, 2011 Saint Fargeau and Guédelon Forest

Saturday dawned with partially sunny skies. Perfect for a cycling outing. I contemplated my day's plans over breakfast.

Journal Excerpt: Saturday morning breakfast, June 4, 2011 Saint Fargeau at the Hotel Les Grande Chenes

→ bike shorts

Questions for the workmen at Guédelon:
1. How long does the seal between mortar and stone last? Would it ever dry up and crack—fall away as powder?
2. What kind of stone?
3. What is the mortar made of? Typical materials of 13th century? Or were other materials used? Limestone? Were other stones quarried other places such as Poitou?
4. Solar?
5. 2nd floor? When?
6. Fire places? When? Where? In conjunction to upstairs?
7. Chimneys – what happened to smoke before they are in use?

The bike I rented at Hotel Les Grande Chenes to take me to Guédelon Forest. My water bottle and hat ride in the basket.

I was on my way to the 13th-century. The year 1242 to be exact. I had not prepared much for my visit. I assumed I would learn all I needed to by listening and asking questions once there .

The way to the Chantier Medieval de Guédelon was not direct if I was to avoid highways. It would be about a 3-mile ride along single-lane dirt and paved roads. The main route was a two-lane road and well traveled, but once I turned onto it, I would have only another half mile to ride before reaching the site. The bike had a basket over the handle bars. I stowed my water bottle and purse in it and took off.

By the time I got to the main drag leading up to the castle, I was tired, hot, and sweaty. But the roadway was lined on both sides with parked cars, so the traffic was not moving very fast. There was no bike parking, but I chose a parking lot fairly close to the museum and gift shop and locked my bike to the fence. I bought the ticket that would grant me entrance to the castle grounds themselves.

One of the Gate Towers under construction along the curtain wall. The wood construction on top forms the frame for the mortar and stone edifice that will be built around it.

I walked around the castle first, looking at it from all perspectives. It was still obviously under construction and would be for another 13 years as planned. They'd started work in 1998. I crossed the bridge over the ditch dug out for the moat. A tower stood at my right. It was stone-and-mortared about 10 feet up from the bottom of the ditch. The top 6 feet or so were wood construction and formed the frame for the stonemasons. It was cool to see the structure in progress.

Who are these fools who decided to build a 13th century castle with contemporary methods and tools? It was a decision by Michel Guyot, the owner of the Saint Fargeau chateau. After he had done an architectural analysis of his fortress, which had been burned and rebuilt in the 17th century, he discovered the original 13th century castle walls underneath the 17th century brick. He thought about rebuilding the chateau in all it's original glory, then got excited about the idea of the building of a castle from scratch and all that was entailed. How would we ever know what it took? That's when he decided that that was what he was going to do with his millions. He got together with Maryline Martin and she got the project moving. She brought in master stone mason Florian Renucci, and they made it happen. Florian drew up the master plan modeled on three castles from the Philip Ausgustus castle-building period, which included the Saint Fargeau chateau.

The overgrown quarry on site at Guédelon. The good stone has already been cut away. These slabs are probably not red enough to indicate the quality needed for construction of the castle.

First Maryline had to find a site, and the old quarry hidden in the forests of the Burgundy countryside was perfect. It was remote, there was plenty of area to set up and keep the project and all it's work areas productive, and the stone from which it would be made was right there. The only downside was that it was a sandstone quarry. Sandstone is generally harder than limestone and can be near to impossible to excavate from the ground. The darker the blue shades in the sandstone, the harder it is. Quarrymen look for dark red shaded stone. These stones are easier to quarry, and are generally of good quality.

Sandstone that has been selected for a specific purpose and dressed appropriately. Arrows mark the direction of the outside face. Each stone is signed by the stonecutter so the quality of the work can be monitored and appropriate payment can be made. Limestone sits, dressed and ready, at the top of the photo.

Florian and Maryline decided to bring limestone in from another site to fill out the softer stone supply. The limestone would be used for alternating with sandstone in arches (which was a common 13th-century practice), and for surrounding doors and windows. They gave themselves 25 years to finish the work. And they named the castle after the forest in which it would reside: Guédelon. To prevent anachronisms in the construction of the castle, they created an historical context: the month and year that the castle was started was set as May 1229. Louis IX was the boy king, and it was a relatively peaceful and prosperous time in France. The owners created a fictitious lord to own Guédelon: born in 1199, he is a younger member of the Courtenay family. A poorer lord, he married into a wealthy local family, descendants of a minor branch of the Toucy clan. The Guédelon land was part of the dowry. And, because of his military service, the lord was granted the right to "crenellate" or to build a castle. As I walked the perimeter of Guédelon, it was the year 1242. And I believed it.

The small Chapel Tower under scaffolding on the west side of the main residence.

Two towers on either side of the residence were under construction, but open to the public. I walked up the dark stairs of the larger tower and stumbled to the top, feeling my way with my hands. I am slightly claustrophobic, but I didn't think the winding stone steps of a castle tower would bring it on. By the time I arrived at the top of the platform, I was ready for fresh air and sunshine.

The joists in place for the floor of the lord's solar or private chambers.

The interior of the residence was also being worked on. The upstairs loft had joists installed where the floor would be laid for the lord's solar. My favorite part of the residence was the window seat over the front door of the castle. The seats looked out through a “two light” window, which is a window with two divisions, or lights, separated by a vertical post. It was the place with the most light. The wooden seats just needed cushions. It was the only corner obviously designed for comfort, it seemed.

The second floor "two light" window on the south side of the residence with a quatrefoil stone carving above and seats below.

My second favorite part of the castle was the kitchen because it made it look lived in. Inside was a woman baking bread and pies which made the past really come alive. And now I was hungry.

A cook baking bread and pies in the residence kitchen.

I walked the grounds taking in the work sites of the craftspeople and artisans. The laborers work on site from March to November. They also act as tour guides from April to October. In the off-season they can't actually work but still get paid. Most workers I saw that day were men. I saw three women: the cook in the kitchen and two women horse handlers. The horse handlers drove the carts that hauled stone and wood to the building site, and rubbed down and fed the horses after they finished a shift.

Female horse handler feeding the workhorse while a male horse handler and a child tourist look on.

I discovered later that there were at least two tiers of laborers on site, just as there would have been on the construction site of a medieval castle. The masons, stonecutters, and carpenters were "freemen" and received a daily wage or yearly salary (sometimes both depending on the totality and variety of the work the did, whether piecemeal or project level). The other laborers were peasants living and working on the land owned by the lord and receiving his protection in exchange for their labor.

A stonecutter dressing sandstone for use in building the castle walls.

I enjoyed watching the workhorses playing in the paddocks. One nonchalantly shared his field with a burro. The animals had plenty of exercise and fresh air. And they seemed happy. I also found pigs by the rope maker's shack. Of course they were rolling in the mud!

One of the workhorses and a burro share a pen during off-work hours.

The Dyer's cottage and garden's were beautiful. The bundles of dyed threads hanging outside in the sun were an echo of the purples, greens, yellows, and blues of the flowers and herbs in the garden. No one was inside the cottage working, but large wood barrels sat on the wooden floor with smaller buckets and canisters nearby waiting for the workers' return. Shelves were lined with undyed wool thread. I later found out that the dyer at the cottage also supplied the color used to paint the interior walls of the castle, which happened sometime after my visit.

The dyer's cottage at Guédelon. Dyed threads hang out front. The roof is hand-shingled with rough hewn strips of wood with the bark still attached.

I returned to the main thoroughfare and found the blacksmith's shop. I watched a young man in medieval dress pound a piece of hot iron into shape over a very hot fire. His skin glistened with sweat and his muscles tightened with every swing. (I later discovered his name is Martin Claudel, and he has recently retired from Guédelon to start his own business as a traditional toolmaker.) The wall behind him was hung with tools he and his fellow blacksmiths had made or repaired for the stonecutters, woodcutters, masons, and carpenters. This was the biggest responsibility of the blacksmith on a work site: making tools and keeping tools in good shape so that the other laborers could keep working. Other responsibilities included making strapwork for doors and gates to protect them from enemy blows. All the workers at Guédelon not only wore period dress, but took their roles very seriously. They, in effect, had traveled back to the 13th century to work on a castle.

The blacksmith, Martin Claudel, pounding an iron tool into shape.

I watched a man make rope. I now know his name is Yvon Herouart. He spoke only in French, but the process was very active and interesting. It took a lot of room, too. He strung the initial fibers from one end of his shack's courtyard to the other and wound them with a crank. Then he took that thin rope and wound it in the crank with another like rope he had already made. He continued this process until he had a very thick rope. I was transfixed as he walked and talked continually winding his rope.

The rope maker at Guédelon, Yvon Herouart, now retired, explaining the rope walk, Burgundy, France. From original 1600x900-pixel image copyright 2010 mediea at http://mittelzeit.blogspot.com.

I was so intrigued, I did some reading about the technique later. Turns out, the procedure he was using is called “rope walking,” Rope walking or making is a lengthy (no pun intended) process during which long strings of fibers from materials such as sisal, hemp, linen, and cotton are stretched the length of the rope walk (up to 300 yards and more) and wound together by a hand crank. Typically, they use three of these lengths at a time. The new “rope” is then restrung along the walk with other ropes that have been made the same way to be wound again. This process is continued until a rope of the thickness and strength required is completed. Rope walking was a popular technique for making stout rope from the 13th century through the 18th century. You can still find rope walks today. In England, Chatham Docks on the Medway River has a rope walk that is a quarter mile long, and workers rode bicycles to get from one end to the other. One of these days I would love to visit it.

Pigs rolling in the mud behind the rope maker's shack.

I wandered some more through the site, taking pictures. When I reviewed them later, I missed the importance of some of the shots, so they never made it to my Facebook page or my slideshow. For example, now that I have read the book on Guédelon, I understand that the pile of bricks the wagon is parked in front of in the following photo is actually the tiler's oven or kiln.

The tiler's kiln.

Soon I was exhausted. I headed to the site tavern where they served roasted meats (pork?), potatoes, bread, and vegetables. And ale.

Journal Excerpt: Saturday afternoon, June 4, 2011, at the Guédelon site tavern: Taking some notes while finishing my lunch of smoked meats, coarse bread, and root vegetables. Everyone here speaks French and I did not have an opportunity to ask a question. My, it's hot. Wonder if removing the pant legs (of my hiking trousers) will help.

Metalwork-- the holes in the beams across the ceiling, tools hang from them.

The sandstone has moss all over it even as it is in the wall. Turned to the outside.

Tower Stair-- very narrow and dark chamber in tower – very dark with just slits for light. Although the windows are a wedge with the narrow end to the outside. So the light diffuses into the chamber?

The garden behind the dyer's cottage.

My trip back to the hotel was long but uneventful. I tried a short cut across a field and along a single track that went up a hill, but it turned out the ground was too rough to ride, so I had to get out and walk my bike. Eventually, I returned to the main road. I was very tired when I got to my room. After typing up some of my notes, I crashed.

It was true that I did not get answers to all my questions, but I did see and learn a lot. Later, I studied the subject on my own, and came to understand so much more. Perhaps if I had visited Guédelon later in the season when there were more English-speaking tourists and therefore English-speaking guides, I would have been overwhelmed by too much information. Maybe I would have had to fight my way through crowds to see anything. So, all-in-all, the trip was successful.

Editor's note: The building at Guédelon has continued, and in the last six years they have made some great progress, especially on the interior of the residence. This includes finishing the lord's solar and painting the interior walls with a lovely floral design. If you want to learn more about Guédelon, you can check out their website. Also there is a really cool video which shows the same blacksmith that I saw, Martin Claudel, plus includes an updated aerial view of the castle. And, there is a sister castle being built by the same man, Michel Guyot, in the Ozark Mountains of Arkansas, which I would love to visit.

Other references:
Rope making on the Medieval Blog
BBC Two's “Secrets of the Castle with Ruth, Peter, and Tom,” including interview with Martin Claudel
Guedelon: A Castle in the Making, Martin, Maryline and Renucci, Florian, QUEST-FRANCE, copyright 2010.