marseillans tuesday market, food, flowers and general household goods with a little vintage and local ceramics thrown in, is fast winding down as the church clock strikes 12.30. throughout the morning it has taken up the whole of the miniature 17th century colonnaded market place, meandered past the church square and spilled out into the place de republic beyond, up to the busy les marins sailors bar at the roundabout. traders are packing up into battered renaults or dawdling with old friends, sharing a smoke and a café noir before moving off. others shout encouraging cries of tout a cinq euro to stragglers, pleading with passers-by to take the last of the flowers off their hands, even though to do so is blatant daylight robbery...
...within minutes most of the town is staggering under the fragrant burden of bargain bunches of bougainvillea, fat headed sunflowers or overblown blousy dahlias and the square is ankle deep in a scented river as florists swill out empty vases and drag containers away. then as the market recedes the cafes and restaurants pick up the trade and, where bright awnings displayed boxes of vegetables and colossal hams so recently swayed, tables and chairs appear, plat du jour boards are written up and hung on trees and lampposts. waiters scurry back and forth with entrees, café noirs and aperitifs, and lunch is duly served.
we stroll away from the vieux ville past the pretty mairie and its obligatory petanque pitch, noisy with a half dozen devotees passionately squabbling as always over whose boule has actually displaced the cochonnet (victory hanging on curves, angles and geometry), and make for the harbour to eat our market goodies, enjoy the sea breeze and watch the boats bobbing about. of all the ports on the basin de thau, marseillan is probably our favourite – well this week at any rate. last week we were sure that meze was the one…and later in the week revisiting sete down the coast, we’ll remember that in fact sete is definitely the best.
one satisfying side effect of our unhealthy puce habit is that it affords access to a clutch of secluded backwaters along our little coast, a treasure trove for flaneurs, moochers and idlers like ourselves, revealing forgotten hamlets and stranded old ports tucked out of the way of the sun worshippers and beach revellers that flock to the stretches of sandy beach beyond the etangs. overlooked little spots that still have space for the workaday rhythms of quotidian life for its inhabitants, a life that though still acknowledging tourism, isn’t altogether dominated or relinquished to it. in these places can be spotted all sorts of relics, human, artefactual, architectural, all clinging unnoticed like barnacles on the underside of some great tourist steamer, quietly getting on with everyday life in the languedoc.
a spot of coast-hugging along the trusty old d613 in either direction will swiftly reward anyone wishing to observe the janus face of the petite camargue and the shifts in economy brought to bear in a mere generation. whilst one face basks in the sun, sea and parasol revenue, the other trades on the cliché of its traditions and distinctive way of life. whether this delicate balance can survive the rapid development of the latest section of the shiny a75, the toll route currently gobbling up everything in its path on the way to the sea, remains to be seen.
marseillan and marseillan-plage offer a perfect example of this common schizophrenia. whilst marseillan-plage is inundated with holiday makers and weekenders attracted by its sandy beach and plethora of sun loungers, marseillan itself, once a flourishing fishing town with a splendid harbour and fine old market place, is now ignored. it’s a typical tale - marseillan sits amongst a pocket of old fishing ports lining the petite camargue, an evocative string of salty but unfortunate smelling etangs and scrubby flats populated by birds and not much else. some of these lovely old harbours handled trade for the romans, whose great via domitia passes close by, carrying goods from cadiz past gibraltar all the way to rome. indeed, the ruins of ambrussum lie only a few kilometres inland, further evidence of the regions former glories. but time has played a cruel game - in recent generations the petite camargue has become all but forgotten as the old harbours either silted up and faded into obscurity or flourished in the 70’s tourist boom like the modernist resort of le grande motte further up, a planned futurist community that now looks as dated as an episode of thunderbirds. (though secretly im quite smitten with this too….)
yet marseillan has a trick or two up its sleeve - it sits at the extreme end of the camargue on the shallow expanse of the basin de thau, one of the biggest salt lakes in the languedoc and a major centre of shellfish cultivation. along the coast roads are frequent glimpses of wooden oyster racks protruding from the water, cruel rows of torture chambers for marine life. this has brought marseillan both independence and a sense of purpose, its harbour bustling with various old salty sea dogs repairing their vessels, scraping barnacles off the raised flaking hulks of their sturdy little yachts and sailing boats, clambering about the riggings and crows nests or simply huddled in clusters doing routine maintenance or repairs, re-painting a faded eye on a prow, raising a jolly roger (no really! these be actual pirates…); a vision of faded peaked caps, dusty blue shorts, espadrilles, assorted white beards and fancy moustaches. it’s also the home of the famed noilly prat distillery – another plus for both the resident sea captains and vermouth pilgrims who book themselves in for a daily tour and degustion. so as another lazy afternoon beckons and the oppressive heat of an august day takes most residents indoors for lunch, a siesta or an afternoon under canvas, marseillan blatantly ignores its passing tourists.
oh, you’ve found us, marseillan shrugs, so what…? take us as you find us, we wont be putting on any shows or making a particular effort, but you’re welcome to eavesdrop and take a peek at whatever we’re doing today; stay or go, linger or scarper, its all the same to us.
and with that marseillan gets on with patching up its nets, indulging in a spot of fly fishing in the curve of its sheltered horseshoe harbour, or simply padding about weather beaten old vessels - the odyssey, the antigone - all brass portholes and wooden cabins, fiddling over sail cloths and flagpoles, inspecting gang planks, or snoozing in their hammocks, not a care in the world….
Friday, 14 August 2009
Thursday, 13 August 2009
sweet mint tea at les puces
7.30am, two café noirs and a welcome pause from the tousle of the early traders in the vast, dust bowl of a car park, tarmac beginning to shimmer in the heat, a portent of the day to come.
tonton ambles across, all smiles as ever, proffering 2 tiny moroccan glasses of fragrant the a la menthe to our little table in the corner of his café, shady under the canvas awning, generously crammed with the sprigs of the bunches of fresh mint that adorn his counter. ludicrously sweet, hot and deliciously minty, it’s the perfect pick me up. tea for my manchester girls, his usual greeting, chuckling at the memories of his decade of lost youth and adventure in preston and clitheroe. good times, he says, his english a rich lancashire burr, incongruous here in mosson from our french algerian grizzled giant, exciting times, preston north end, he enthuses, and the music, aah the best of times! evidently so, with 3 grown up boys from his adventures who stayed on, doubtless with even broader accents….
mosson, the last stop on ligne 2 of montpelliers tram system, where its outer suburbs run out and collide with the languedoc proper, parched scrubby countryside, dotted with battered old farmhouses, dilapidated cattle sheds, a smattering of vineyards and sunken meadows meandering along the banks of the hérault and its tributaries, inhabited it seems by nothing more than the odd donkey, any number of raucous crickets, and wherever the etang and their attendant oyster beds break through, glimpses of exotic pale pink flamingos, the only significant colonies in europe declares the eager guidebook.
mosson, a gigantic overspill on the arse end of the city, high rise and dilapidated like the notorious hulme estate but twice its size and humanised somewhat with splashes of mediterranean colour; windows, doorways and balconies bedecked with plants, herbs and hammocks, austerity brightened by the simple addition of sunshine, flaky painted shutters and gaudy blinds adorning otherwise plain edifices like glittering jewels in concrete. architecture is so often in the vernacular details, its lived-in clutter creating more beauty than any aesthetic drawn up by the designers.
mosson is plainly out in the sticks and barely mentioned on the tourist maps, hardly picturesque and though certainly 'exotic' with a profusion of cafes and local eateries harbouring old men in fezes or taqiyah and long faded djellabas smoking tiny black cigarettes, halal stores piled high with the rich spices, herbs and olives normally only seen in a north african bazaar, is plainly not awaiting fashionable restoration by the type of English second home owner eager to colonise the next up and coming quartier. yet each sunday from 6am to 12.30, this is the place to be if, like most languedocians, you have the flea market bug. les puces is the regional obsession adopted even in the smallest village alongside the everyday food and general markets with larger all day affairs appearing in various fields and scrubby patches of spare land at the weekends. mosson though is the mother of all flea markets, the biggest, most shambolic and best; boisterous, messy and unpredictable, genuine vintage and antique traders budged up against junk and household bric-a-brac of every description, used battery salesmen, hardware, locksmith and mobile phone (broken and very old, never new ones!) emporiums, 3 for 1 beach towels and african hair care vying with pantalooned crusties selling dusty indonesian knick knacks and home made friendship bands brought back from far off travels. inbetween are stalls who appear to have merely tumbled the contents of their wash bags on to the floor, grubby brassieres and mismatched wellington boots next to washing up bowls filled with marbles, headless barbies missing an arm or a leg and far too many small blue smurfs to satisfy any logical explanation. its an english car boot sale with a surreal twist.
this sunday morning is no exception, the car park already festooned with ancient camper vans, prehistoric renaults, colourful awnings of every hue proclaiming that the market is already bustling and ready for the hunt! those in the know head straight for the right hand corner, beyond the resident café stands and their tantalising petit dejeuners of café noir, pain au chocolat and boisson, competing with fragrant tagines and nan breads stuffed with falafels and hot harissa, (like tono the owners are french north african, with menus a profusion of savoury, spicy delights) an oasis of respite from the harsh sun and ever growing crowds.
...and then, where the car park peters out and meets the hinterland of the olive groves and fig trees of old mosson, nirvana - row upon row of brocantes and antiquities sellers nestled under the pine trees at the far edge. here can be found the weird and the wonderful, the essential and the pointless; rusty sundials and battered weather vanes, faded photograph albums filled with forgotten lives and once-important occasions, enamel signs for long gone businesses and nostalgic brands of cigarettes, brass bed frames, roman amphora and columns, caryatids, gateposts and doorways from ramshackle farm houses, enormous scythes, saws and assorted farm implements, beautiful bed linen and table ware, ancient cooking pots, cafetieres and espresso sets from every era, medicine cabinets and garden furniture, and enough crucifixes, rosary beads, virgin marys, sacred hearts, wooden pews and stained glass windows to tempt the most ardent atheist….
12.30 and its chez tonton for at least the third time. we compare notes as always on landmarks around the north west, tono fearful that the memories of his youth might disappear along with preston bus station, and we show off our finds – an old bronze tap, pleasingly antiquated with a slight green patina around the spout, a clutch of requiem cards, the most intriguing the bespectacled mademoiselle celine robin, who died in 1944, still unmarried at 89 (is that a shy or cheeky smile i spy around her lips?), a faded ballet green fish keep perfect for bringing a little taste of the languedoc to my brunswick balcony, an oblong typographers font tidy, a box of gaily patterned 1950’s gouaches, pristine in their packaging, and perhaps best of all an edwardian fencing foil, pale steel sheathed in its red safely tip, long slim handle wrapped in fine coils of soft leather for gripping. as we finish the last gulp of our the a la menthe, gather our treasures and head for home, tono laughs shaking his head at yet another incomprehensible set of finds from his favourite mancunians.
au revoir, see you next week….you know there’s a lovely flower market here every wednesday, he adds as he always does, so beautiful like you’d never find in england...
a persuasive thought that hangs in the air as we wend our way across the emptying car park. but puce addicts that we are, we know in reality we’ll already be knee deep in agde’s weekly puce, a picturesque affair that winds around its medieval fortifications, eagerly looking out for that elusive vintage fencing mask or 1920’s aviation goggles….
tonton ambles across, all smiles as ever, proffering 2 tiny moroccan glasses of fragrant the a la menthe to our little table in the corner of his café, shady under the canvas awning, generously crammed with the sprigs of the bunches of fresh mint that adorn his counter. ludicrously sweet, hot and deliciously minty, it’s the perfect pick me up. tea for my manchester girls, his usual greeting, chuckling at the memories of his decade of lost youth and adventure in preston and clitheroe. good times, he says, his english a rich lancashire burr, incongruous here in mosson from our french algerian grizzled giant, exciting times, preston north end, he enthuses, and the music, aah the best of times! evidently so, with 3 grown up boys from his adventures who stayed on, doubtless with even broader accents….
mosson, the last stop on ligne 2 of montpelliers tram system, where its outer suburbs run out and collide with the languedoc proper, parched scrubby countryside, dotted with battered old farmhouses, dilapidated cattle sheds, a smattering of vineyards and sunken meadows meandering along the banks of the hérault and its tributaries, inhabited it seems by nothing more than the odd donkey, any number of raucous crickets, and wherever the etang and their attendant oyster beds break through, glimpses of exotic pale pink flamingos, the only significant colonies in europe declares the eager guidebook.
mosson, a gigantic overspill on the arse end of the city, high rise and dilapidated like the notorious hulme estate but twice its size and humanised somewhat with splashes of mediterranean colour; windows, doorways and balconies bedecked with plants, herbs and hammocks, austerity brightened by the simple addition of sunshine, flaky painted shutters and gaudy blinds adorning otherwise plain edifices like glittering jewels in concrete. architecture is so often in the vernacular details, its lived-in clutter creating more beauty than any aesthetic drawn up by the designers.
mosson is plainly out in the sticks and barely mentioned on the tourist maps, hardly picturesque and though certainly 'exotic' with a profusion of cafes and local eateries harbouring old men in fezes or taqiyah and long faded djellabas smoking tiny black cigarettes, halal stores piled high with the rich spices, herbs and olives normally only seen in a north african bazaar, is plainly not awaiting fashionable restoration by the type of English second home owner eager to colonise the next up and coming quartier. yet each sunday from 6am to 12.30, this is the place to be if, like most languedocians, you have the flea market bug. les puces is the regional obsession adopted even in the smallest village alongside the everyday food and general markets with larger all day affairs appearing in various fields and scrubby patches of spare land at the weekends. mosson though is the mother of all flea markets, the biggest, most shambolic and best; boisterous, messy and unpredictable, genuine vintage and antique traders budged up against junk and household bric-a-brac of every description, used battery salesmen, hardware, locksmith and mobile phone (broken and very old, never new ones!) emporiums, 3 for 1 beach towels and african hair care vying with pantalooned crusties selling dusty indonesian knick knacks and home made friendship bands brought back from far off travels. inbetween are stalls who appear to have merely tumbled the contents of their wash bags on to the floor, grubby brassieres and mismatched wellington boots next to washing up bowls filled with marbles, headless barbies missing an arm or a leg and far too many small blue smurfs to satisfy any logical explanation. its an english car boot sale with a surreal twist.
this sunday morning is no exception, the car park already festooned with ancient camper vans, prehistoric renaults, colourful awnings of every hue proclaiming that the market is already bustling and ready for the hunt! those in the know head straight for the right hand corner, beyond the resident café stands and their tantalising petit dejeuners of café noir, pain au chocolat and boisson, competing with fragrant tagines and nan breads stuffed with falafels and hot harissa, (like tono the owners are french north african, with menus a profusion of savoury, spicy delights) an oasis of respite from the harsh sun and ever growing crowds.
...and then, where the car park peters out and meets the hinterland of the olive groves and fig trees of old mosson, nirvana - row upon row of brocantes and antiquities sellers nestled under the pine trees at the far edge. here can be found the weird and the wonderful, the essential and the pointless; rusty sundials and battered weather vanes, faded photograph albums filled with forgotten lives and once-important occasions, enamel signs for long gone businesses and nostalgic brands of cigarettes, brass bed frames, roman amphora and columns, caryatids, gateposts and doorways from ramshackle farm houses, enormous scythes, saws and assorted farm implements, beautiful bed linen and table ware, ancient cooking pots, cafetieres and espresso sets from every era, medicine cabinets and garden furniture, and enough crucifixes, rosary beads, virgin marys, sacred hearts, wooden pews and stained glass windows to tempt the most ardent atheist….
12.30 and its chez tonton for at least the third time. we compare notes as always on landmarks around the north west, tono fearful that the memories of his youth might disappear along with preston bus station, and we show off our finds – an old bronze tap, pleasingly antiquated with a slight green patina around the spout, a clutch of requiem cards, the most intriguing the bespectacled mademoiselle celine robin, who died in 1944, still unmarried at 89 (is that a shy or cheeky smile i spy around her lips?), a faded ballet green fish keep perfect for bringing a little taste of the languedoc to my brunswick balcony, an oblong typographers font tidy, a box of gaily patterned 1950’s gouaches, pristine in their packaging, and perhaps best of all an edwardian fencing foil, pale steel sheathed in its red safely tip, long slim handle wrapped in fine coils of soft leather for gripping. as we finish the last gulp of our the a la menthe, gather our treasures and head for home, tono laughs shaking his head at yet another incomprehensible set of finds from his favourite mancunians.
au revoir, see you next week….you know there’s a lovely flower market here every wednesday, he adds as he always does, so beautiful like you’d never find in england...
a persuasive thought that hangs in the air as we wend our way across the emptying car park. but puce addicts that we are, we know in reality we’ll already be knee deep in agde’s weekly puce, a picturesque affair that winds around its medieval fortifications, eagerly looking out for that elusive vintage fencing mask or 1920’s aviation goggles….
Thursday, 6 August 2009
the secret life of a holiday resort
arriving by night or any weekend in the high season and palavas is a once sleepy fishing port transformed forever into a gaudy french blackpool. thumping music leaks out of every harbour nitespot til the early hours, beachside waiters bustle back and forth with trays of plat du jour, whilst jeeps stuffed full of brash young bucks screech in and out of the portside car park looking for action.
but things are never what they might first seem. wander into palavas on a weekday morning and this seaside resort shows a quite different face…
market day in the vieux ville’s tiny square by the old church spills out on to its surroundings the heart of old palavas, winding into its little maze of streets in a blaze of colour and cacophony of scents on the morning breeze.
it’s 7.30am and everyone’s out already, a population scarcely seen (but occasionally glimpsed from behind shady window sills of faded villas) when joining the evening perambulation on the harbour front, where café bars and souvenir shops vie for the tourist euro. a posse of tiny old ladies are out in force, bent double with arthritis but sprightly nonetheless with baskets at the ready for the scrum for the freshest produce, piled high on trellises and displayed in stacks of luridly labelled boxes, fresh fish laid out on chunks of smashed up ice under stripy nautical awnings, whilst crabs and lobsters skulk from a tumble of nearby buckets and baskets. further along, the charcuterie is setting up shop, chatting neighbourly to the olives and cheese stall next door, enjoying a café noir and a breather before the crowds turn up. here from the safety of the local café tucked under the arm of the old church, is the perfect spot to observe the ordinary hustle and bustle of this parallel palavas.
the vegetable stall is where the drama is this morning, teeming with ladies clutching their bright baskets, laden with the rich pickings of so many plump red tomatoes, insurgence of herbs, outsize peaches and juicy nectarines, intoxicating bunches of ripe-indigo grapes, snappy crisp peas ready to pod, gnarly courgettes and fat pale onions, enveloped in layer after layer of fragile, papery skin. the ladies, gaudy in their button through tabards, clashing with the vivid reds, purples and greens of natures best, gather in the never diminishing queue at the counter, sharing a natter whilst expertly squeezing, sniffing and generally scrutinizing the various delights on offer. yet others pass by carrying fresh warm bread, the ubiquitous baguette wrapped in jolly twists of paper, stopping for a ‘bon matin’ before hurrying to church for morning mass or benediction. all the while the local cats and their endless broods of kittens are lazily winding in and out of the throng, accepting titbits and the odd scratch of the forehead or occasionally goading the inevitable army of jack russells out and about for their morning stroll or lolling under café tables with their partners in crime, palavas’ old chaps, dapper in pressed shirts, belted pants and wide braces or jaunty in well worn sailor shorts, v-necked tees and faded sea caps. then baskets and trolleys bursting with tonight’s dinner, they move conspiratorially in twos and threes towards the enticements of the charcuterie, rotisserie at last wafting about the hot meaty juices of slowly roasting chicken and pork. meats procured, olives sampled and a cheese or two tested, a nearby display of nylon tabards beckons and the flock of blue rinses, tight perms, sensible sandals and colourful frocks moves on. essentials taken care of, they can finally afford to browse and indulge in a new pinny, carefully assessing the sartorial delights from behind tortoiseshell spectacles, wisely secured on long cord around necks.
meanwhile on the main drag, shops are opening and tourists are stirring, pottering about in their sarongs, flipflops and designer shorts. the café starts to fill up with mums and restless enfants, a sack of mussels arrives for the plat du jour, and like our flock of elderly ladies, strays and salty sea dogs, its suddenly time to move on.
as the church bells strike 9am, the secret and humdrum life of palavas fades away for another day of business in holiday town…
but things are never what they might first seem. wander into palavas on a weekday morning and this seaside resort shows a quite different face…
market day in the vieux ville’s tiny square by the old church spills out on to its surroundings the heart of old palavas, winding into its little maze of streets in a blaze of colour and cacophony of scents on the morning breeze.
it’s 7.30am and everyone’s out already, a population scarcely seen (but occasionally glimpsed from behind shady window sills of faded villas) when joining the evening perambulation on the harbour front, where café bars and souvenir shops vie for the tourist euro. a posse of tiny old ladies are out in force, bent double with arthritis but sprightly nonetheless with baskets at the ready for the scrum for the freshest produce, piled high on trellises and displayed in stacks of luridly labelled boxes, fresh fish laid out on chunks of smashed up ice under stripy nautical awnings, whilst crabs and lobsters skulk from a tumble of nearby buckets and baskets. further along, the charcuterie is setting up shop, chatting neighbourly to the olives and cheese stall next door, enjoying a café noir and a breather before the crowds turn up. here from the safety of the local café tucked under the arm of the old church, is the perfect spot to observe the ordinary hustle and bustle of this parallel palavas.
the vegetable stall is where the drama is this morning, teeming with ladies clutching their bright baskets, laden with the rich pickings of so many plump red tomatoes, insurgence of herbs, outsize peaches and juicy nectarines, intoxicating bunches of ripe-indigo grapes, snappy crisp peas ready to pod, gnarly courgettes and fat pale onions, enveloped in layer after layer of fragile, papery skin. the ladies, gaudy in their button through tabards, clashing with the vivid reds, purples and greens of natures best, gather in the never diminishing queue at the counter, sharing a natter whilst expertly squeezing, sniffing and generally scrutinizing the various delights on offer. yet others pass by carrying fresh warm bread, the ubiquitous baguette wrapped in jolly twists of paper, stopping for a ‘bon matin’ before hurrying to church for morning mass or benediction. all the while the local cats and their endless broods of kittens are lazily winding in and out of the throng, accepting titbits and the odd scratch of the forehead or occasionally goading the inevitable army of jack russells out and about for their morning stroll or lolling under café tables with their partners in crime, palavas’ old chaps, dapper in pressed shirts, belted pants and wide braces or jaunty in well worn sailor shorts, v-necked tees and faded sea caps. then baskets and trolleys bursting with tonight’s dinner, they move conspiratorially in twos and threes towards the enticements of the charcuterie, rotisserie at last wafting about the hot meaty juices of slowly roasting chicken and pork. meats procured, olives sampled and a cheese or two tested, a nearby display of nylon tabards beckons and the flock of blue rinses, tight perms, sensible sandals and colourful frocks moves on. essentials taken care of, they can finally afford to browse and indulge in a new pinny, carefully assessing the sartorial delights from behind tortoiseshell spectacles, wisely secured on long cord around necks.
meanwhile on the main drag, shops are opening and tourists are stirring, pottering about in their sarongs, flipflops and designer shorts. the café starts to fill up with mums and restless enfants, a sack of mussels arrives for the plat du jour, and like our flock of elderly ladies, strays and salty sea dogs, its suddenly time to move on.
as the church bells strike 9am, the secret and humdrum life of palavas fades away for another day of business in holiday town…
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
off the beaten track - hilaire le grand, a Russian detour:
night time, st hilaire le grande or thereabouts, and the skies burst their banks, rain bouncing off the dark, uneven camber of the old n6 so furiously that our only option is to take shelter by an unused railway track, occasional flashes of lightning our only guide. a bucolic storm ensues, a torrent rarely seen in the city.
taking to the road again after a night squished in the car dozing dismally, the roar of the deluge an impossible lullaby, we are met with the unlikely glint of what appears to be the dome of an archaic orthodox church, miniscule but pristine, a chapel really, a gold Faberge egg shining in the pale morning light. yesterdays mysterious road diversions have it seems not only led us deeper and deeper into unmarked ‘yellow’ roads, cutting through dense woods whose velvety blackness the forked flashes had barely illuminated, but into another time and place altogether, an unscheduled detour into nineteenth century imperial russia.
blinking groggily at this little pre-soviet island (whose dates intriguingly overlap between the end of one empire and the birth of another) on the d21 to mourmelon le grand – only a few miles from rheims but a whole century away – we amble towards the apparition to investigate. sure enough the mirage doesn’t evaporate as we approach, it simply reveals 3 lines of plain gold font which reads,
aux soldats russes, morts au champ d'honneur, en france, 1916-1918
to the side of the chapel behind a wrought iron fence and laid out on an immaculate lawn are row upon row of neat white crosses with in its centre a cenotaph dedicated to the memory of a russian expeditionary force that fought in several decisive battles between 1916 –18. beyond, two ossuaries bear the remains of over 1000 compatriots who died in these now silent fields so far from home, never identified, the inconnu. we gaze for a while at the names on the crosses painfully outnumbered by those still unknown, unnamed, but commemorated with equal care and compassion in this corner of northern france, like so many other young men in so many other flanders fields.
the scale of these fields and their endless graves, the frequency of their occurrence and military precision creating a sobering optical illusion, makes for a disquieting experience the first time one takes to the roads here. the facts of the ‘great’ war are so well known, so much the dry stuff of the school syllabus or sunday night documentary that it is a shock to find the simple white crosses so affecting, so heart-rending; a jolt to remember that many grandfathers fought in these trenches, many grandmothers lost brothers, lovers and sons, an entire generation laid out in stark rows on eternal parade.
but what of this field? what brings an orthodox chapel and its retinue of monks here, to this tiny corner of france? what is the tale behind the discreet brass sign bearing the words russe ermitage orthodox, the turquoise of its domes nestled behind shady pine trees, an anachronism, an exile of revolution?
a small signpost beyond the hermitage walls offers this scrap of information –
the cimitière militaire russe de saint-hilaire le grand contains the graves of over 1000 russian officers and men. in 1937 a chapel, 16th century in design, was built to commemorate all of the russians who died on the Western Front, tended to this day by the monks of the adjacent orthodox hermitage.
further enquiry reveals that the russian expeditionary force was sent to france by the then russian empire, initially made up of 2 battalions, the first russian special brigade which landed in marseille in april 1916, and the 2nd special brigade which served alongside other allies in northern greece. the first brigade served with distinction until the outbreak of the revolution in 1917, when the entire force was disbanded, interred in alien camps or returned home. however some stayed and formed the legion russe (or Russian Legion) joining up with the elite french moroccan infantry division. the combined units then took part in the fighting around amiens in march 1918, with severe losses to the moroccan division and the russian legion, its captain even being decorated with the medal of the legion of honour. in may, the moroccan division took part in the fierce fighting on the road from soissons to paris, with losses accounting for nearly 85% of the russian legion's forces, but despite this continued to preserve a significant russian presence in the west and, indeed, in the great war itself, right up until the armistice, attracting volunteers to the very end. after the german withdrawal to the border the moroccan division, including our russian regiment, advanced upon moyeuvre but the operation was halted by the signing of the armistice treaty in november 1918. after armistice the entire russian regiment was recalled and demobilised, and while some chose to remain in france, others returned to revolutionary russia. among the latter was rodion malinovsky, the future soviet minister of defence.
this stirring and rather romantic account can be easily found online, for those requiring more detail. or wiki gives a more dispassionate outline of events.
as we drive off and out of the little copse, absorbed, a little sombre, leaving the fallen russians far from home in the care of their monastic sentinel, life resumes its usual rhythms, a hare lolloping exuberantly in the bright morning sun, whilst nearby a fox exposed momentarily from its early morning ablutions misses a sure chance. and in the meadow beyond, a lone falcon perches atop a hay bale, contemplating breakfast.
and before we know it we too are breakfasting on buttery brioche and bitter café noir in a roadside café once more en route to rheims, our sunrise detour a flight of fancy, a mere whimsy in the morning mists….
taking to the road again after a night squished in the car dozing dismally, the roar of the deluge an impossible lullaby, we are met with the unlikely glint of what appears to be the dome of an archaic orthodox church, miniscule but pristine, a chapel really, a gold Faberge egg shining in the pale morning light. yesterdays mysterious road diversions have it seems not only led us deeper and deeper into unmarked ‘yellow’ roads, cutting through dense woods whose velvety blackness the forked flashes had barely illuminated, but into another time and place altogether, an unscheduled detour into nineteenth century imperial russia.
blinking groggily at this little pre-soviet island (whose dates intriguingly overlap between the end of one empire and the birth of another) on the d21 to mourmelon le grand – only a few miles from rheims but a whole century away – we amble towards the apparition to investigate. sure enough the mirage doesn’t evaporate as we approach, it simply reveals 3 lines of plain gold font which reads,
aux soldats russes, morts au champ d'honneur, en france, 1916-1918
to the side of the chapel behind a wrought iron fence and laid out on an immaculate lawn are row upon row of neat white crosses with in its centre a cenotaph dedicated to the memory of a russian expeditionary force that fought in several decisive battles between 1916 –18. beyond, two ossuaries bear the remains of over 1000 compatriots who died in these now silent fields so far from home, never identified, the inconnu. we gaze for a while at the names on the crosses painfully outnumbered by those still unknown, unnamed, but commemorated with equal care and compassion in this corner of northern france, like so many other young men in so many other flanders fields.
the scale of these fields and their endless graves, the frequency of their occurrence and military precision creating a sobering optical illusion, makes for a disquieting experience the first time one takes to the roads here. the facts of the ‘great’ war are so well known, so much the dry stuff of the school syllabus or sunday night documentary that it is a shock to find the simple white crosses so affecting, so heart-rending; a jolt to remember that many grandfathers fought in these trenches, many grandmothers lost brothers, lovers and sons, an entire generation laid out in stark rows on eternal parade.
but what of this field? what brings an orthodox chapel and its retinue of monks here, to this tiny corner of france? what is the tale behind the discreet brass sign bearing the words russe ermitage orthodox, the turquoise of its domes nestled behind shady pine trees, an anachronism, an exile of revolution?
a small signpost beyond the hermitage walls offers this scrap of information –
the cimitière militaire russe de saint-hilaire le grand contains the graves of over 1000 russian officers and men. in 1937 a chapel, 16th century in design, was built to commemorate all of the russians who died on the Western Front, tended to this day by the monks of the adjacent orthodox hermitage.
further enquiry reveals that the russian expeditionary force was sent to france by the then russian empire, initially made up of 2 battalions, the first russian special brigade which landed in marseille in april 1916, and the 2nd special brigade which served alongside other allies in northern greece. the first brigade served with distinction until the outbreak of the revolution in 1917, when the entire force was disbanded, interred in alien camps or returned home. however some stayed and formed the legion russe (or Russian Legion) joining up with the elite french moroccan infantry division. the combined units then took part in the fighting around amiens in march 1918, with severe losses to the moroccan division and the russian legion, its captain even being decorated with the medal of the legion of honour. in may, the moroccan division took part in the fierce fighting on the road from soissons to paris, with losses accounting for nearly 85% of the russian legion's forces, but despite this continued to preserve a significant russian presence in the west and, indeed, in the great war itself, right up until the armistice, attracting volunteers to the very end. after the german withdrawal to the border the moroccan division, including our russian regiment, advanced upon moyeuvre but the operation was halted by the signing of the armistice treaty in november 1918. after armistice the entire russian regiment was recalled and demobilised, and while some chose to remain in france, others returned to revolutionary russia. among the latter was rodion malinovsky, the future soviet minister of defence.
this stirring and rather romantic account can be easily found online, for those requiring more detail. or wiki gives a more dispassionate outline of events.
as we drive off and out of the little copse, absorbed, a little sombre, leaving the fallen russians far from home in the care of their monastic sentinel, life resumes its usual rhythms, a hare lolloping exuberantly in the bright morning sun, whilst nearby a fox exposed momentarily from its early morning ablutions misses a sure chance. and in the meadow beyond, a lone falcon perches atop a hay bale, contemplating breakfast.
and before we know it we too are breakfasting on buttery brioche and bitter café noir in a roadside café once more en route to rheims, our sunrise detour a flight of fancy, a mere whimsy in the morning mists….
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