Explaining my Francophile Tendencies

My favourite Sister has completed her first year of university and of course everyone rejoices. To celebrate after finishing her final exam we spend a weekend in Normandy, accompanied by my most lovely Girlfriend Indira and my generous Mom. Upon arrival in the Picardian capital of Amiens we spot five mysterious cubes filling the central square in front of the massive gothic cathedral, silent in their grey casings, about three metres tall and one wide. After sunset the secret is revealed, when they start humming and sharp laserlight flows from small holes in each of the five silver boxes, lighting up the looming facade in endless varieties of colours, playing with the complex relief of the ancient temple, creating evolving patterns and morphing the lancet arches, tracery windows and spitting gargoyles. 

As a Belgian I can only react with respectful amazement. 

Saturday sun came without warning, only for us she arrives too late. We visit the Garden of Monet, beset by dripping rain, but nonetheless lovely at the tail of summer with her rich flowerbeds overgrown by blossoming vines and visited by the occasional brave bumblebee. Only after we depart does the sun break through and paint the pale blue sky above our last stop of the day, the tall, round shell of Chateau Gaillard, like a hollow and rotten molar perched upon white cliffs overlooking the Seine. Favourite abode of Richard the Lionhearted, which does not impress Indi, who spends her time picking the endless bushes of blackberries while Mom, Dolores and I visit the old ruin. It is difficult not to commend such art and such heritage.

Polished diamond on the crown of any trip to Normandy should for anyone always be the magnificent capital of Rouen, displaying with pride the many elegant towers of her gracious cathedral amidst plentiful mediaeval houses built from black wooden frames filled in with pastel painted brickwork.

Lovely as a walk through her streets might be, it is her enduring mentality that shines through in two spots in particular.

First we stumble upon a tiny, almost dishevelled looking church, one that long stood abandoned and crumbling at the heart of Rouen. But instead of letting it rot into oblivion or tearing down the old memory to a forgotten God to replace it with another profitable apartment complex, the French have renovated the humble church into a quaint museum free to visit for anyone who passes by, filled with stupendous wrought iron objects, many of which require explanation, as their purpose has long ago been forgotten, their use unnecessary.

Such objects include tools to cut wicks and snuff candles, to pack threads closely together during tapestry weaving or collect freshly spun yarn into neat bundles.

Just beyond stands the church of Saint-Jean-d’Arc, on the square where she burned to death seven hundred years ago. Rebuilt in the fifties after complete destruction during the war, it resembles a wooden tent or two halves of upturned boats joined somewhere in the middle.

Only the renaissance lead glass survived the blaze, removed and stored safely away as it had been. Now it fills the large window of this modern church, creating a wonderful contrast of old and new. Preserve the gifts of the past, treat them with the respect they deserve, offer their beauty to the people.