I don’t think of myself as a typical American (or anyone a typical fill-in-the-blank for that matter) but in some aspects, I might be. Certainly when it comes to time. Because in France, I run through a cross-hatch of centuries like a pinball in a maze. And that is just while out strolling with the pupper. It can leave me feeling dizzy and off-balance, unsure of what to hold on to. I have such different references. But like a kid that just got up the courage to go down the slide backwards for the first time in her life, I love it. And then want more.
Because there are stories in the stones. And if you listen, you can hear them. But they always leave me asking after all that I don’t know.
Who planted the rose bush that grew over decades to eat the facade of a fortified house on a hill? Was it a gesture of love that fed the vines better than any well?
How many stooped to lay the cobblestones and brick the arches so solidly that they could outlast their makers? And do the structures now miss their former inhabitants?
I walked around the village of Bargème in the Haut Var and such thoughts rolled around in my head.
Garden walls seemed puffed up with pride for all of the many years they held tight the earth for children to run across, galloping in games.
Similarly, a sense of community exuded from the stone benches where women gathered for decades to gossip while waiting for their loaves to bake in the local oven.
In no way did I find this wonderful little hamlet to be haunted. Not at all like that nameless village that I wrote about obsessively previously. No, despite the sun’s hide and seek, a warmth of neither frenetic energy nor sleepy hollow filled and followed me.
I could hear the mother’s chiding young ones snapping freshly washed sheets at each other at the lavoir. And wondered at the transition of the proud 12th century chateau to grate and grumble so infinitely slowly as to fall to ruin.
But perhaps the ruins and monuments, homes and chapels are simply happy with their view. For Bargème is the highest village in the region and exhales across a sprawling, curvaceous valley below. It has been heralded as “Un Village de Charactère” as well as the highly coveted title of “Un des Plux Beaux Villages de France”. Personally, I prefer the former over the latter. For who wouldn’t choose to have character over beauty? As une femme d’un certain age, these wise stones tell me so.
I would like to extend a truly heart-felt thank you to all of you who responded so generously to my previous post. Moments like that are really what make blogging unique and I feel grateful to be in contact with such an extraordinary group of people. Merci beaucoup et Bon Weekend!
Merci Karena! Bon dimanche!
I loved reading this Heather and seeing these ancient images. It really gives one pause to ponder the past!
Anita's Parisian Party
xoxo
Karena
Art by Karena
This is just so beautifully put and I agree with the sentiment completely, thank you. I started this blog because I missed writing and creating as my work in the press had slowed down so much. I could never, ever have imagined the joy that it could give me–beyond developing my writing and slowly, my photography–but the incredible contact that I have had with people that I never would have met otherwise. Their generosity is just breath-taking. It gives me hope and keeps me going too…Please continue!
Thank you Heather for reminding me why I continue to 'be a blogger'. I've questioned recently the time and effort I put into blogging for the apparent small numbers of people who read it, but today I was reminded by your blog that the best part is not what I am writing for others to read of my travels, but what others are teaching me from their travels. Your post is an excellent example of that – Thank you.
Thank you Greet–but that doesn't surprise me in the least that you are the same way–two dreamers! That's us!
Gros Bisous…
So happy to imagine you two making the most of your time together before you move. And just your description of the house had me off and dreaming! Built for a visit from a Queen in the 1500's…still used as a family home…sigh. The history is so thick that you can nearly smell it. Or taste it. I know that sounds crazy but it is true!
Have a wonderful weekend Jeanne.
Ironing the sheets and the dish towels and the underwear! We girls have better things to do…
I am as you are!! I am always wondering who had built the house, who had planted the old trees, who lived in the house, who loved the house,who who who….???
What a beautiful pictures Heather!!
xx
Greet
Magic Heather! Your words roll with the hills and embrace every stone so lovingly. The words of a true travel writer…only problem, it all ends too soon. I could flip through page after page quite happily. 🙂 Funny too, as yesterday I placed a photo on Facebook, of a stone wall and entrance way with a similar thought..if walls could speak… The American in me? There's a thought. 🙂 I was with Vicki exploring a home built in the 1500's….you would love it, built for an impending visit from Queen Elizabeth I, rich in history, still used as a family home. Imagine the words hushed up in those walls. 🙂
Best wishes Heather..
Jeanne xx
YOu are so much like me its scary!When I lived in ITALIA I too would search out the ruins…………wanting to know more.We lived with my SISTER IN LAWS and they would always want to know where I had been………cause I wasnot home ironing the sheets!Gorgeous photos!