Normandy Day III – Mont St Michel

Well, this day started as an utter, utter disaster.  In fact, it was possibly one of the WORST days of my ENTIRE LIFE!

We forgot the sandwiches.

Even now, the memory makes me shudder.  We also forgot our cameras as they were both in my rucksack – WITH THE SANDWICHES – and the rucksack was not in the car with us, but on the kitchen table in the Gite, severalty billion miles away.

Much slapping of palms on foreheads followed, but technology being what it is, we had our mobile phones.  And in France, you can always find food.

Never mind the monastery – where’s the flippin’ cake shop!

Mont St Michel is mighty fine.  It’s a veritable layer of historical slices, like an angel cake (oh Lord, the food trauma is still with me).  From the Norman arches to the 18th Century facade, from the crypt to the cloisters – it is a beautiful, architecturally intricate building.  You would be hard pushed not to find something to appeal.

In a post from many months ago I pointed out (quite correctly, as it happens) that 18th Century history is a complete and utter waste of time, so there are no pictures of the main doors into the monastery. This is because they were no doubt built by bewigged fops and powdered dandies, the sort of wasters who totally failed to turn up and show their support at the Battle of Culloden in 1745 and thus left England in the hands of the wicked Hanoverians. So I have NO TIME FOR THEIR ORNATE DOORS!  I give you, instead, the rather beautiful arches of a previous (and far more interesting) era of history.

I am a Norman Arch and I don’t care who knows it.

And here is St Michael, who seems to be in something of a foul temper.  He has obviously just realised that St Gabriel has raided his rucksack and run off with his sandwiches.  We’ve all been there, believe me.

 I’d put brie in and everything.

For my next blogging installment, I shall describe the lovely and picturesque town of Bayeux, the treasures of the tapesterie, an encounter at the butcher which produced much mirthe and gaiety with the local inhabitants, and a thought provoking and interesting diversion at the war museum.

Please do not put knitting needles in your eyes

Normandy Day Two – Caen.

Caen is lovely.  Really, it is.  You’d never know it was horribly destroyed during WWII because it looks “just so”.  There are the obvious things, like the Norman churches and castle, but aside from that it’s pretty and elegant anyway.  It all fits, and it is all lovely.

But let’s get something out of the way first.  I’m on holiday, right?  And this woman I don’t even know has said that she likes Orangina.  I have a holiday to enjoy here, things to see, people to eat, and what do I do?  I take a photograph of a sexually provocative zebra wearing a swimming costume and drinking from a bottle of Orangina.  I do this because Silverpebble – as I’ve said, a woman I’ve never met – has said that she likes that particular drink.  BLOGGING MAKES YOU DO DEMENTED THINGS. 

How many levels of wrong is this?  Five?  Six?  I’d say about twenty at the very least.

These things are all over the place.  If it’s not a zebra, it’s an antelope, a polar bear or a disgruntled gnu.  Truly I say to you – the French are bonkers.

Their ancestors, however, knew how to build.  My goodness, didn’t they just.

This is Abbeye Aux Hommes, where that big, fat dingbat William the Conqueror is buried.  Or rather, where his femur is buried.  Amazing that the only thing left of him is a slender bone, considering the fact that he literally exploded when they tried to ram him into the space reserved for his cadaver.  I love an exploding monarch.  Henry VIII exploded as well.  It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, really.

And here is Abbeye Aux Dames where Matilda (remember her?  She of the lovely silver frock, damask corset, emerald encrusted knickers, ruby studded bra and basalt lined 15 denier tights), is buried.  Yes, that’s Matilda, the poor woman forced to marry said big, fat dingbat.  For that selfless act alone she should have a massive church with flashing lights over the bell towers.  But wouldn’t you know it?  She gets a smaller church than he does.  And yet – I prefer hers.  The simplicity and clean lines are less spectacular, but there’s a quietness and calmness about her church which I preferred.

In between these two ecclesiastical delights, we visited the Chateaux where, to my absolute joy, we encountered a man wearing a T-Shirt bearing the legend “I STILL HATE THATCHER”.  Well, frankly, had I not been carrying a camera and a bottle of water, I’d have shaken him firmly by the paw.  But perhaps that’s just me and most normal people have let that one go, moved on, dispensed with any traces of bitterness, gnrrrrrrr…….

Oh, hang on, I forgot the food.  After we left the Abbeye Aux Hommes we ate some delicious sandwiches that MrCat had prepared.  For those of you interested in these things they contained brie and rosette, and, in my case, traces of cucumber.  The bread had been bought fresh that morning from our local boulangerie.  I say OUR local boulangerie but it was MrCat who got up early, went down there and purchased the goods (along with the obligatory pastries), so in truth it was HIS boulangerie, not mine.  But never let it be said that I let facts get in the way of a good sandwich.  We ate them on the side of a busy road, paying no heed to the glances we received.

In the grounds of the Castle, there is an art display.  Several rather disconcerting sculptures were poised on tall wooden poles and suspended over the art gallery.  It was only when you got close that you realised they’d been designed by a LUNATIC!

I mean, what on earth is going on here, I ask you?

To my eyes, that is a pig with a man’s head.  Pardon?  I said, PARDON?  And it’s no good saying it looks a bit like something by Bosch (whom I like, by the way).  That simply makes it more, not less, demented.

And if you WILL insist on doing Fair Isle with small knitting needles then what do you expect?

Either read the pattern more closely or use a knitting machine, I say.

Normandy

If I was clever and literary, I could do a fancy travelogue, but since I am neither, you’ll get pictures, a few words and be grateful for it (as my mother would say).

We stayed in a little village called Clinchamps-sur-Orne, notable for it’s rather excellent boulangerie, which MrCat visited every morning to provide me with numerous delicacies while I waited in bed for my tea and whatever cake it was he brought back. Which makes me sound like some kind of hideous Queen Bee.  Urgh.

Anyway, our first excursion was on the Sunday after our arrival.  We trekked up to Falaise, the birthplace of William of Conqueror, a man I studied at GREAT AND PAINFUL LENGTH as an undergraduate and for whom I developed an utter loathing surpassed only by my dislike of pineapples.

Hi, my name’s Matilda, and as you can see, I am wearing a lovely gown

Things to note and of which I am proud.

1.  I did not bore MrCat with history.

That is the only thing to note of which I am proud.  But that’s pretty good going, since I’m a notorious history bore.  Especially since I had to bite my tongue throughout the rather fatuous audio tour which consisted of illuminating comments such as “Matilda wore a lovely gown and had some pearls in her hair”, while I stood there thinking “yes, yes, but when was the castle built, what materials did they use and – hang on a minute, who CARES if Matilda had a lovely gown, what on earth does that have to do with the price of fromage and it’s impact on the economic development of Norman England and, more to the point, how do we KNOW it was lovely?  Name your sources, or keep your silence, fools”.

View from the donjon of Falaise

The castle has been seriously renovated, with a new glass floor and some rather nice, albeit somewhat pointless, giant sized chess pieces which look like they were made from the origami kit you bought from your local craft shop and actually bothered to open.

 

Line up your Audio Cassette and Fire at Will – drawing from the exhibition at Falaise

Don’t be put off by this cynicism.  I get a bit killy when history is dumbed down and in a way I was interested to see that the French are as bad as the English for this kind of foolishness.  Falaise itself is lovely, there is some beautiful architecture, lovely churches and at least TWO boulangeries (in case you’re interested we bought a giant sized apricot pastry).  A very pretty place to sit in a town square and while away a half an hour with a beer and a cafe au lait.  And the castle is magnificent.  Ignore me.  I’m just playing it for laughs.

For my next blogging installment, I shall describe many and varied events in the City of Caen, including a trip to the burial place of William the Conqueror, and diverse and colourful passages regarding sculptings of a very interesting and unusual nature.

Swishy flowers an’ ting

I did this.  Oh yes, I did this.  FEAR ME AND MY GARDENING SKILLZ!

Actually, the picture makes it look better than it actually is, but I’m all for removing double chins in head and shoulder portraits so what the hell.

The garden project is a long and protracted affair and shall be blogged boringly anon.  There’s only a few of you here anyway (as mentioned before, the probation officer, the bailiff, the tax collector and a selection of hangers on from the pub) so I can bore for England unhindered.

As of tomorrow I am off to Normandy with MrCat. I gave him a list of places I’d be happy to go on holiday and left him to it.  At one point I was packing my walking shoes and sou’wester for a trip to the Peak District and was quite surprised by the “right, we’re going to Normandy” email I received about an hour later.

Splendid stuff.  And it was with great joy that I was able to inform MrCat that my first year as a history undergraduate was spent studying “The Norman Conquest”.  This was not, as one might expect, fixated on the year 1066.  It was about the whole Norman thing from the time of Rollo right through to 1066 and beyond – the ecclesiastical, administrative and military revolution that the Normans brought about once they’d booted the Saxons into touch (cue lots of booing from the back of the lecture room – that was me, by the way).

Funny really – his face fell when I told him this.  I thought he’d be delighted by the prospect of listening to me rabbit on ad nauseum about the development of the motte and bailey castle.  I can’t imagine why he wasn’t leaping for joy.

Men.  Huh.

Words fail me

 

I mean, really, what can one say?  Did people actually MAKE this stuff?  Ever?

Flowers

It seems that nearly all the blogs I read will, at some point, feature flowers.  This is not a bad thing.  But I’m feeling left out and want to do it too.

So for the benefit of my loyal blog followers (all half dozen of them – 2 cats, a couple of probation officers and the bailiffs), I give you some pictures of my new garden.

The herb patch was, literally, covered in ivy and convolvulus when we moved in.  My sister came round and told me she could see a fuchsia under the carnage.  I didn’t believe her, but I set about the weeds with a hacksaw and a flamethrower and LOOK WHAT I FOUND!!!

And breathe, ladies…..

And look at this here little treasure…

Ta-da!

I hope you chaps are halfway competent at identifying and naming plants, as I’ve some unidentified flora I’ll need some help with.  Oh, and any tips at garden design will be very, very, very gratefully received.

<gives everyone a hard stare>

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This week, I have been mostly trying to look as if I know what I’m doing in the garden.  I have failed valiantly.

Knickers and pies

That got your attention!

It certainly got mine.

Here are some knickers.  What intrigued me about these items is that their existence came to my attention because I know of someone who actually bought – and therefore wears, yes WEARS – these things.  What madness is this?  To be fair, she’s only got the Anne Boleyn ones, but I don’t really want to dwell on the implications of someone wearing a pair of pants with Henry VIII’s bloated face on them.

 

In case you’re interested – as I’m sure many of you now are – you can get them here - historical knickers

On a more entertaining note, these knitted pies are the best thing ever.  Just – well, click on the link and look at the sad little faces on those poor wee bunnies….

Pork and Bunny Pie

I so, so wish I’d thought of this!

The link says knitted, but they look like crochet to me.  Good old Guardian, getting it wrong!