Vézelay

Vézelay

The book mark fluttered to the ground. Why did I need a book mark in a guide that I’d read so many times? It was an unsent, unwritten postcard, stamp already applied, from a previous visit. I stooped and picked it up. Avallon, the clock tower. The basilica was quiet. No, that’s not true. Old buildings, churches in particular are never silent, just resting. I had a sudden urge to rest. I settled onto a stone bench built against the aisle wall. Sunlight streamed through the clerestory window above spilling pools of white light onto the worn stone paving flags, recipients of thousands of footfalls and witness to as many stories. I heard the toll of the mid day bell and so time for lunch; a snack, a meal, a grand repas? I think a simple dish today; its too hot for a large meal, especially for one such as me who’s way past the first flush of youth – more ambling beyond maturity to senility and anyway a large meal on my own did not appeal. And why was I here, a place I’d visited so many times with so many different people who presented so many varied memories, happy and otherwise and stages in between. For the moment I couldn’t really answer. I picked up my hat, straw and disreputable - a long time friend and shield for my now balding pate, the guide book, inserting the errant card at random amongst its worn pages: there had been a time when any guide book had to be renewed with the latest edition before setting out on any venture. I erected myself stiffly to a standing position and shambled my way slowly towards the west door. There was a small restaurant that I’d visited before, some years ago, set in a shady courtyard with a tinkling fountain, on the opposite side of the square to the church.

I had arrived in Vézelay late the previous afternoon after a gentle drive from Chablis, where I’d spent the previous night. I had arranged to stay at La Poste et Lion d'Or at the foot of the town, a place of fond memories and after an early breakfast had set out on my mission, to visit the basilica, yet again.

It was late June and midweek and I was the sole person in the courtyard when I entered the restaurant.

‘Monsieur, a table for one, perhaps?’ I had obviously been espied from afar and my origin defined as British; the hat, the cut of my short sleeved shirt, my guide in English?

‘Yes please, in the deep shade by the fountain would be nice’.

‘An aperitif on such a hot day, Monsieur?’

‘A glass of Chablis would be good.’

‘Bien sur, I will bring it immediately’. As good as his word, this smartly dressed young man, although on reflection he could have been in his forties when viewed from someone now in their late sixties, returned swiftly with a glass of wine and the menu. I decided on grilled trout, a dish which made me think.

-=-

‘Why is it that you can never decide what to eat? It’s not the end of the world if you don’t like what you’ve chosen, but please decide so that we can all eat – now, at lunch time and not sit here ‘til dinner?’
The question was, would my minor [for me] outburst result in a/ an argument, b/ tears, or c/ both? Thankfully this time it was none of these.

‘I’ll have the grilled trout’. I started to say ‘But you hate fish with bones’ but luckily the words didn’t come out. Instead I said,
‘I’ll have the same, I think.’

‘Mum, I’m going to have andouillettes. I had them in Normandy with dad when we went to the invasion beaches and Caen that Easter, when you were doing the finals for your masters degree’. As it turned out it was not all you were doing whilst we were away, but I didn’t find that out until much later. But then on a lighter note, I was mentally transported back to that brief Easter Holiday trip where we also visited Bayeux and its glorious cathedral and the enchanting Mont St Michel. And that sunny afternoon when we went to the haunting cemetery to the US forces on the cliff above Omaha Beach with its serried ranks of white grave markers, mostly crosses but some recording the deaths of Jews, Muslims or with no faith, all fighting against the common foe; Hitler and his Third Reich.

‘And what would you like to do after lunch Russell?’ I asked. ‘There is an old church down in the valley with wall paintings we could look at?’

‘No I don’t think so. I think I’ve had enough culture for the day. It was a bit tiring going around the basilica and a bit gloomy in there, although I loved the carvings in the arch at the entrance. Can we go on a boat on a river or lake do you think?’

‘Well, we could drive over to Clamecy and see if there is a cruiser for hire and take a little trip on the canal, although I think that they only do weekly hiring’s from there. Its too far to go to Lac des Settons, the only other place near here where there may be boats. What do you think Sonja?’ Silence, then the studied removal of a cigarette from the nearly empty packet on the table and once it was lit, she murmured.

‘Well, Roger, you’re the one glued to the guide book, I wouldn’t have a clue, but there are some nice shops in Clamecy if I remember well. Didn’t we stop there for a night after our boating holiday with the Fishers?’

‘We did and as you well remember, the clothes shops were very expensive.’ This was a trip we’d taken some four years earlier, which I had some other memories of.

‘But it was MY money that I spent!’ And I thought “As you never forget to remind me.” I further thought that it had been a mistake to use this half-term holiday as a sort of “getting back together exercise”, wrong to be using Russell as a go between, intermediary, referee and not fair on the 15 year old lad. But we were now on our way home from his October half-term break, with a planned stop in Paris so that Russell could visit the grave of his current idol, Jim Morrison who, along with other luminaries from the world of arts, was interred in the Pére Lachaise Cemetery; Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, Collette. I suspected that it was more a bit of one-upmanship with his mates at boarding school than a real appreciation of The Doors music. All in all, the trip had not been a success. Sonja, for all her “we must make an effort to get back together again – for the sake of the children”, had been withdrawn and moody, smoking endlessly and drinking too much, although there was nothing new there. Fortunately these recent bouts of drinking had only made her more withdrawn instead of her usual high spirited exuberance, which could be a bit hard to cope with. I suspected that this withdrawn state had more to do with the fact that her latest beau had dumped her as being too high maintenance, rather than anything to do with me. And for god’s sake, why was I being drawn into this reconciliation? Because the Relate Councillor had thought it a good idea? Because I was just to damn stupid not to get out of the relationship, because for all of its faults, I still cared? Or did I? Maybe it was just the easy option. Luckily, Russell provided the conversation during our meal, but I could see that Sonja was not really listening. Stories from school, the sports he was playing or getting out of. It had transpired that he was a good rifle shot and was in the school first team. One of the benefits of this was no cricket – a game he hated – as he might damage his hands, his trigger finger.

But at least the weather had been sunny and warm and Russell had enjoyed exploring the countryside with me, whilst Sonja mainly stayed in the hotel or sat at a bar reading romantic novels, smoking and drinking – so much for doing the family thing. A few days earlier, when we had been staying near Beaune, I had been scared out of my wits when we happened upon an adder sunning itself on a rock as we climbed a bank to walk on a disused railway line. Russell had laughed his socks off as I fled down the bank; I have a deep and nonsensical aversion to snakes, which Russell does not share. He thought my antics hysterical and kept teasing me for the next few days.

‘We’ve going to Bisley as soon as I’m back at school. It’s a big match against schools from all over the country.’ I groaned inwardly. More money that I didn’t have at the moment and Sonja was unlikely too fork out – at least not without the usual scene.

‘Education is your remit, Roger. I do housekeeping and holidays’. As holidays meant her holidays mostly, as I never seemed able to take the time off as she did, I thought this a bit rich. Sadly, trade had not been so good for the past couple of years and my commissions were well down on what they had been previously. However, Sonja’s Public Relations job seemed to be paying well, although she was always cagy about her earnings. It had taken some organising for me to get away and I still had to make frequent business phone calls – when we could find a mobile phone signal in rural Burgundy.

The drive to Clamecy was brief and pleasant. Parking by the canal at the foot of the town was easy; the weekly market had cleared up and gone leaving many spaces. Sadly, as I had predicted, we were unable to hire a boat – weekly hires only. So, Russell and I chatted about this and that and watched the cruisers passing through, occupied mostly by Belgian and English families who displayed various levels of boatmanship, as they passed through the lock, that we took great fun out of commenting on. Sonja returned after an hour or so laden with parcels and in a more buoyant mood.

‘I’ve got some lovely shoes! A real bargain, half price. And a beautiful silk scarf.’ Sonja had taken to wearing scarves a lot these days in an effort to hide what she considered hideous wrinkles on her neck, but which no one else could see. We returned to Clamecy by a slower route through the forest arriving back at Le Cheval Blanc in Vézelay in the late afternoon. Sonja declared that she had a headache and retired to her room; we’d given up trying to share a room again after the first three nights of our trip. Russell said that he wanted to try out his French on a group of youngsters who were surrounding a table football game and which included a couple of very attractive lasses. As I made my way out of the door, he was deeply engrossed in animated conversation with one of the girls, a slim long haired very attractive blonde, whom I would have set my cap at, at his age.

Slowly I walked up the hill by the road to the north of the town, which overlooked the fields in the valley below and was mostly outside the ancient town wall. Wild flowers and those purposefully planted gave a splash of autumn colour to the honey coloured stones. Suddenly, I was in the square in front of the basilica. The cafés where closing and the tourist shops were being shuttered for the night. Displays of the local cobalt blue glazed pottery were being taken in as were the racks of postcards and guide books. I was drawn to the cool of the basilica’s interior. A slow promenade around its aisles in almost solitude, apart from a few black dressed, aged women, praying silently in the nave or lighting offertory candles by the small chapels in the apse. My own footfall was barely discernable; I was wearing walking boots who’s rubber soles slightly squeaked on the smooth, foot-polished pavement. And why was I here. Again. I was not in any way religious. In fact quite the opposite having shunned the Anglican faith in my teens, much to the dismay of my parents, especially my father who was deeply involved in church affairs. I had become more and more cynical towards organised religion and recently, especially more outspoken against Catholicism, which I considered to be one of the most evil and controlling. So why was I in one of its temples and again?

I had fallen in love with the architecture and serenity of the place many years before when Sonja and I were first married. We’d happened upon it on our way back from a summer holiday on the south coast when we were poor and had camping holidays. We’d been staying at a campsite near St Tropez in the late sixties when it was fashionable and I had a Triumph Spitfire sports car. It was no mean feat to pack two week’s worth of clothes and equipment into a 2-seat soft-topped sports-car, even if we did have a small luggage rack fixed to the boot lid. We’d left the beach campsite early as the mistral had started blowing and being in a tent during a sand /dust storm is definitely not enjoyable. We’d stopped off at Les Baux-de-Provence to see this romantic now deserted village, but as we couldn’t afford the hotel prices there, drove on to Arles where after an extremely good and cheap meal, I was violently sick having got sunstroke – stupidly we were driving with the hood down and I had no hat. The hotel stop was necessary as we were both dirty from the dust storm and needed the comfort, not only of a proper shower and soft towels that were not caked with sea salt, but more importantly a soft bed, the first since we’d left England! The next night was at a very damp camp site at Le Puy with thousands of daddy-longlegs coming out of the long wet grass as we pitched the tent. We had the cheapest and best meal of the trip in the Station Hotel before crawling into our damp sleeping bags; the oilskin wrapping had not done its job during the brief thunderstorm that we encountered on our way.

The air had cleared the next morning and we did the arduous, but well worth while, climb up to the Crusader Chapel which tops the Rocher St Michel in the centre of the town, before setting off north. Our next stop was Avallon where we found a camp site on the edge of town. It was late when we arrived there and it was not until the next morning that we explored the town and its ramparts. We ate a snack lunch under the shade of the Lime Trees in the raised town square and watched old men playing this strange ball game which we later discovered to be Boules. It was in the late afternoon that we found our way to Vézelay; the guide book had said it was worth a visit. Having parked at the bottom of the town, we wandered slowly up the main street looking in shop windows and at the fascinating array of different styles of architecture, until suddenly we were in the square in front of the basilica. The façade is strangely lopsided, for although the first tier of construction is symmetrical – a matching pair of plainly decorated doorways shouldering a huge arch into which is set two more doors and the arch above is finely decorated. But at the next level, a squat tower surmounts the left hand side door, a huge highly decorated arched window the middle and a tall square bell tower to the right. But it is the interior that is so stunning for me. Its lightness, its airiness, its serenity, its lack of dogma, its simplicity, its shear size. I discovered, much later that, on this journey, we had stopped at three of the four starting places for the pilgrims to Santiago de Compostela; Arles, Le Puy and Vézelay – on this trip we had not visited the remaining one, Paris.

And, this evening upon entering its shelter, I felt calmer than I had months, almost at peace with the world. The interior darkened with the setting of the sun as I slowly traversed my normal circuit of the interior, always clockwise – as I did within all church buildings; and why was that I wonder? The sound of running feet entered my solitude.

‘Hi dad, guessed you’d be here. Is it okay if I go off with the guys that I met in the hotel. Its someone’s party and I’ve been invited along. Mum says its okay if you do? Is it? I promise that I won’t drink to much – you know me as a light head when it comes to alcohol and this lass Lisette is really cute. Please say its okay?’

‘It’s okay by me and I’ve no need to tell you all those things you know I should say. Have a good time and don’t forget that we are off early to Paris in the morning.’

‘That’s cool dad. And thanks for trusting me.’ He gave me an uncustomary hug and then was off like the wind. Whilst I was glad that he had made some friends and wasn’t going to have to spend another boring meal with Sonja and me trying not to row, it did mean that we would, I supposed, be eating on our own, together.

However, there was no sign of Sonja on my return to the hotel and I felt a little miffed as by now I was feeling hungry. By eight o’clock I’d given up on her and decided to eat in the hotel restaurant. I was finishing my cheese and the dregs of a bottle of the local white Melon de Bourgogne, when Sonja entered the room and was obviously a little the worse for drink.

‘Started without me, have you darling?’ she slurred, as she pulled up at my table gripping on to a chair back to steady herself. ‘No matter, I had a little something with my new friend Pierre or Patrice or whatever his name was – He had to rush home to his wife, just as things were getting interesting. I think I might have a little lie down for a while. I’ll see you later for a nightcap?’

Deciding not to get involved in an argument or in fact any worthwhile discussion. I said.

‘You’ll find me in the lounge when I've finished here, but I may not be up for much longer. It’s a long drive to Paris tomorrow.’

‘Oh yes, I haven’t forgotten.’ But by her expression she clearly had. ‘See you later then.’ And she tottered off somewhat uncertainly through the dining room door. Thankfully this hotel had a lift, for I’m sure she would not have been able to cope with the stairs.

Needless to say, Russell and I were kept waiting in the morning for Sonja to appear. I had arranged for her to have breakfast in her room at eight o’clock, hoping that after a cup of coffee or two, she would get herself organised. But no, it was after ten that she walked carefully down the stairs, dark glasses already on in the gloom of the lobby. I knew better than to have tried to stir her into action earlier – I wear the scars and tongue lashings of many a such confrontation.

‘Russell be a dear and fetch my bags for me. I seem to have done something silly with the lift and the doors wouldn’t close and Roger, where were you last night? I came down for our night cap, but there was only the dear bar person around. But he kept me company until it was my bed time. He even helped me to my room. I couldn’t get the damn key in the lock, they must have given me the wrong one!’

The drive to Paris was quiet. Sonja was hung-over and didn’t want to converse, while Russell was bright eyed and had a knowing smile playing on his lips. He was unforthcoming about his time the previous evening, other than to say that he had had a good time with his new friends who had promised to keep in touch. As to the details, nothing. But at least he was in a good mood and helpful with the navigation; Sonja had decided that in spite of possible car-sickness, the space in the rear of my Saab was a better bet. We made a brief lunch stop on the motorway for a sandwich and coffee; Sonja only managed a pee-stop.

We arrived at the entrance to the cemetery early in the afternoon. The weather had changed on our way north and it was much colder, although the sky was bright and clear. Once out of the car, Sonja became more interested in life and we were all soon wandering through the serried ranks of graves, maps in gloved hands and coated in warm fleeces, as we each tried to locate the celebrities. I was surprised to find that Abelard and Eloise were joined in death there, for they had been reburied in the cemetery as a marketing exercise in 1817 to popularise the place, a strategy that had worked well. I was fascinated by Epstein’s Art Deco gravestone to Oscar Wilde, incongruous amongst the more Gothic edifices. Russell soon found Jim Morrison’s much vandalised site. It was apparently de rigueur to pour bottle of whiskey over the grave; it was obvious that the guardians had their work cut out to keep the place clean. Sonja was interested in the graves of Piaf and Collette and chose not to wander too far. As we slowly made our way back to the entrance in silence, we disturbed a pair of Red Squirrels foraging amongst some fir cones, causing one of the all to few smiles to briefly pass over Sonja’s face.

By way of a change, after dinner at our hotel, we decided to catch the Metro and visit the Basilica du Sacré Cœur in the north of the city. It is a slightly exhausting, but rewarding climb up the steps to the hilltop church, which was bathed in light from the strategically placed floodlights, setting it off against the dark, but star lit sky. After a brief look in the church, we took a slower route down to Montmartre, passing the Moulin Rouge on the way. Russell, who was walking ahead of us, looking with fascination into the windows of strip joints and sex shops, was propositioned several times, much to his and my amusement, but not to Sonja’s!

I had arranged our itinerary so that we’d drop Russell back at school on our way home, to avoid making a separate journey, retracing our tracks towards the South Coast. Sonja said her goodbyes at the car and settled back into the interior whilst I carried Russell’s bag for him into his house at Lancing College. There were lots of lads milling around but Jake, the chap he shared a room with hadn’t appeared. I put Russell’s bag on the worktable having to shift a pile of text and reading books to do so, and gave him a hug.

‘Good luck in the rifle comp next week, I know you’ll do your best.’
‘Thanks dad. And thanks for letting me out on a long leash. I had a really good time that night in Vézelay. Lisette is really sweet and she had promised to write to me. Please don’t tell mum. You know how she gets. She’ll want me married off in no time and weekly reports on what we’ve doing and so on and so on. She’s such a drag like that. And why can’t she be consistent, sometimes she wants to know everything and tries to prise it out of me and then I don’t hear anything for months and months. She’s doing my head in! At least Sophie is not bothered by her anymore, luckily for her. Anyway how is my sister, she hasn’t written for ages?’

‘Sophie is fine. You’ll see her when she comes home at Christmas. She tells me that she is working very hard at uni and is getting good grades. I know that going to Dundee was her choice, but it does make it difficult for her to get home much. Write to her. Tell her about our holiday.’ I gave him another hug. ‘I’ll see you in about a month’s time, won’t I. At the school play. Wouldn’t miss seeing you on stage for anything and I really like Our Town. I did it myself when I was at school although I only did behind the scenes stuff, not the lead role like you.’

‘Someone’s got to do the back stage stuff, so don’t put your self down, dad.’

Sonja was quiet when I got into the car and said nothing of any consequence on our way home. On our arrival, as I was getting my bag out of the car and then hers, she took it from me.

‘I’ll take that.’ And walked over to her car, unlocked it and put it in the boot. Turning to face me she said. ‘It hasn’t worked has it? This sort of reconciliation. I’ve decided to leave you and this time its for good. And no I’m not having a relationship with anyone at the moment. I just think that we are not the people we were and I want to find someone else now who suits me, rather than stagger on for a few years with me getting older and a less attractive proposition than I am now. I’m going to stay with friends now, you don’t need to know who or where at the moment. I’m going to get a divorce and hopefully you won’t contest it, it will be so much easier that way. Please don’t beg me to stay. I couldn’t stand it.’

I stood somewhat dumbfounded by this news, but if I was honest with myself it was not unexpected. Or, if I really thought about it, unwelcome! I think that I was grateful to Sonja that I had not had to make the decision myself. But I wasn’t going to let her off the hook that lightly.

‘Ok, if that’s really what you want, who am I to stop you. However, we will need to come to sensible decisions about the house and our other properties and for that matter debts. If you try to take more than I think you should have then I’ll fight you all the way. So its your choice. Also we need to decide what we are going to tell the children and when. I would prefer to tell Russell myself, but after his competition next weekend. Also I think that Sophie should finish her next lot of exams before she is told. Do you agree?’

‘As to the money, yes we’ll sort something out, amicably I’m sure; for the children, I agree. You tell them when you think fit. I will be away overseas on business in 2 weeks time for at least six weeks, so you can sort things out with them in the meantime. If you need to contact me, do so through my office. I’m off now. I’ll collect some more of my things in a few days time, hopefully when you’re not here. I think that would be best.’ She closed the lid to the boot, got into the car, reversed out of the drive and then drove out of my life without a backward look.

-=-

I sipped my coffee, and observed the brash, noisy, middle aged American couple who had recently entered the restaurant and ordered steak, well done and French fries. They sat at their table complaining about everything, each partner seeming to try to out do the other with his or her complaints, mostly about the French or the weather or the flies or the heat. But mostly about the French and how rude they were and insensitive to their particular needs.

For me now, the spell had been broken, the peace and tranquillity shattered. I would have to go in search of another refuge. My lunch, although not extensive, had been leisurely and the shops were re-opening after their lunchtime closure as I made my way back to the church square. I found a seat in the shade and settled to think and imagine. Vézelay was one of the starting points for pilgrims on The Way of St. James to Santiago de Compostela, one of the most important of all medieval pilgrimage centres. This was crucially important in attracting pilgrims and the wealth they brought to the town from the eleventh centaury onward, and in my minds eye I could see hoards of penitents preparing to make the trek southwest towards Spain and then along that country’s northern coast to the far west town. Later Vézelay became the starting point for several Crusades. These mercenary soldiers would have been too numerous to have fitted even into the vast interior of the basilica and would have been blessed whilst kneeling, or lying prostrate on the flagstones of the square that I was now sitting in. And all for what? Did these men truly believe in their calling to turf the Muslims out of Acre and Jerusalem, or was it much more the promise of liberated treasures on their way to and at the Holy Land? Was this another case of corporate greed in the making?

-=-

During the passage of the next ten years of my life I passed through Vézelay twice and both times briefly. Firstly it was with Russell and a ‘boys trip’ around the vineyards of France in celebration of him completing his ‘A’ level exams. Of course, he caught up with Lisette as they had remained friends during the intervening years and in fact their friendship had blossomed into something deeper during this visit. It necessitated my being on my own for the three evenings we spent in the area, for although we based ourselves in Vézelay, we travelled the countryside during the day searching out specialities both vignoble and gastronomic as well as cultural; sadly Lisette was unable to join us during the day as she was working to pay her way through college. As soon as we returned from some expedition or other, Russell was off with Lisette and I didn’t see him again until breakfast.

The next brief occasion was on a business trip, where I took a client who was hoping to invest in a factory that was being built in Nevers and we had time to kill whilst the lawyers drew up contracts. This chap, Gordon, knew the Brittany Coast from sailing trips there, but did not know Burgundy. It was a pleasant excursion, but he was uninterested in either history or Romanesque architecture. For him, a good meal and an excellent bottle of wine or two was more important, so my visit to the basilica was all too brief.

-=-

Somehow, sitting in the square with my musings I was suddenly reminded of Sonja. I soon realized why, for walking towards me was a young lass talking animatedly to her partner/husband/ lover, for the body language described more than just friends or acquaintances. It was the walk and the movements of her hands as much as anything that was the trigger to my memory. The last time I had seen Sonja was after dropping off Russell at school after our half term holiday and our return home. Apart from a few phone calls up until the time of our divorce and the settlement of our estate – which was achieved remarkably amicably – we had not set eyes on each other. During the first couple of years she had kept in contact, albeit at long range, with the children and then she had moved to Canada with a new husband and that was that. And so I’d not seen or heard about her for 18 or so years. No cards, letters, phone calls. Nothing. To any of us. Her parents had died before we split up and she had no other family that I knew of. Surprisingly, neither of the children had been overly upset by Sonja’s departure. Both had said. ‘We expected that to happen ages ago.’ Sophie soon was pressing me to find other female interests, being an in-house match maker on her all to brief visits home from uni before she obtained her degree and went on with her medical studies in Edinburgh. And of course Russell had his Lisette. I was astonished when she decided to join Russell at Sussex University to finish her degree in modern languages and it was not long before they were married, had three children in quick succession, departed for Australia where they both took up good teaching jobs at QUT in Brisbane. I’d been out to visit them when I retired a couple of years ago, but I can’t say that I felt comfortable in Australia; too big and not enough relevant history. It was also just after Kate, my beautiful Kate, died, so maybe it wasn’t a good time to have gone, there just wasn’t enough to occupy my troubled, saddened, mind.

-=-

‘Roger, do come and have a look at this!’ Kate was pointing to the archway in the narthex, her face glowing with excitement.

‘Kate, my love, I have been here once or twice before.’

‘But the carving is so exquisite, tell me all about it and no, I don’t want to read the guide. Please!’ she implored, almost standing on my toes as she beamed into my face. And so I told her. Every detail that I could remember. The dates. The descriptions of each of the scenes and tableaus. The identification of each of the animals/birds/etc in the semicircular frieze surrounding arch. The names of each of the types of architectural embellishment. Her eyes sparkled throughout my discourse, a smile graced her lips and she just nodded her understanding and interrupted me not once, until as I finished she said.

‘Tonight I shall buy you the best meal ever as a thank-you for your patience and intelligence.’ We continued our circuit of the interior and I was almost hoarse from talking, albeit sotto voce to avoid disturbing the other sightseers and the few worshipers, by the time we strolled out into the sunlight..

Later, over dinner in the restaurant of our hotel, this time La Poste et Lion d'Or, for Le Cheval Blanc holds too many difficult memories for me, Kate implored me to tell her of my other visits to the hilltop town. I tried to be frank and honest, for we had not been in this relationship for long and it was the first time we’d been to France together. We’d met some six months earlier, neither of us looking for a relationship, but it just happened. We were both at a marketing conference and bored out of our minds, as both of us had been to so many similar events. This one was being held in Bath, a town that I adore and have, over the years, spent many a pleasant hour strolling along the streets, visiting the various museums and sites, enjoying the music and clamour of the pump room and enduring, on occasion, the dreadful spa water, which has to do one good as it tastes so foul. There was a display at the art gallery of Georgian prints and we literally bumped into each other. We then recognised that we were both playing hooky from the same conference and struck up a friendship. I was living in a flat in Dollis Hill at the time and she in Pimlico, an easy train journey between us. We started out meeting up in London’s West End after we’d finished our respective jobs when we happened to be in our London offices. And then it was trips into the country at weekends, both north and south of the river, trips to shows, art galleries, museums and films. We were constantly amazed at how similar our interests were, not to mention our love of France and all things French. Soon we were spending weekends at each other’s flats; neither of us could be bothered with the trappings of a house and garden and in both of our flats walls of books ruled the day. And we fell into an easy, comfortable, relationship. This trip to France was to see if we still felt the same about each other, after two weeks of close contact. This was our fourth day of our holiday and it had been a leisurely wander through the byways of rural France to Vézelay which we planned to use as a base to visit many of the surrounding towns and villages. The two nights at Chinon with the languid river Vienne drifting by the hotel had been magical. This was after frenetic visits to the nearby chateau with the highlight of Chenonceaux visited at opening time in a failed attempt to avoid the coach loads of what seemed to be mainly Japanese tourists. From Vézelay we planned to see Avallon – particularly to catch the Saturday market, Nevers, Autun and all the towns and villages in between. Kate seemed to have the stamina of an ox. She was always on the go. A brief stop for a coffee or a small beer and she was ready to be off for more sightseeing. Her French was better than mine; I’d never got past the ‘getting a meal and bed’ stage and I was as hopeless at other European languages, in spite of many business visits to many European towns and cities. I envied the way she was easily able to converse with the natives of my favourite country. Later, after an excellent dinner, we took a stroll back up to the basilica and stood on the ramparts to the East of the building, looking out over the farms, fields, vineyards and hamlets in the valley below. We were content to just sit on a bench, side by side, barely touching each other, listening to the night time calls of owls and crickets. Kate, like me had married young but had had two children in quick succession. Sadly both had died before their 5th birthdays of a congenital disease. Her husband had blamed her for their demises, the genetic fault he believed being Kate’s, although never proven and they had divorced her soon after the second death. Although she had had a number of relationships over the years they never lasted long, which Kate blamed herself for.

-=-
Oh, Kate my beautiful, charming, witty, vivacious Kate. Why did you have to leave me so soon? So frequently you added to my Good Memories Box, to be taken out and savoured when I was not with you, more painful to take out now that you are not with me. But, strangely, today, there is another memory in the box that I’ve not taken out in some time and suddenly it comes tumbling out, clattering into my consciousness.

-=-
It had of course been a mistake, a foolish error, but luckily no harm had been done. It was my one transgression during my marriage to Sonja. We’d taken a canal boating holiday with our old friends the Fishers. Karl and I had been at collage together and we had remained friends ever since. He had married Meg about the time that Sonja and I wed and I was his best man. We’d holidayed several times over the years, mostly with both sets of children in tow. This was the first time in many years that we were away without them for it was still term time and all the children were at boarding schools. It was early June when we picked up our cruiser from the marina at Migennes, a small town at the confluence of the Yonne and the river Armançon/canal de Bourgogne. As we were doing a one way, up-stream trip it was agreed that we should take one car to Clamecy, our destination, to leave it at the marina there and we decided that it should be Karl’s BMW as he had brought his bike with him on the roof rack as he wanted to be able be independent of the boat. The plan was that Meg would drive their car and me my Saab, down to Clamecy, whilst Karl and Sonja set off from Migennes and we would meet up at the Marina at Auxerre, to avoid us having to return all the way to Migennes to collect my car at the end of the trip. Of course we were quicker in our part of the programme and it was not until late afternoon that the boat pulled in at Auxerre. In the meantime, Meg and I had amused ourselves by exploring the ancient town and had an excellent lunch at a riverside restaurant. She had not been to Auxerre before and was equally as interested in history and architecture as I was. Sonja often said that we’d married the wrong people as neither she nor Karl had much interest in these subjects; Sonja had given up her pretence many years before.

It was a very relaxing week, motoring slowly upstream, firstly on the river Yonne and then the Canal du Nivernais, once the Yonne became too shallow to navigate at Vincelles. The two streams of water then kept each other company until the Yonne departed to the east at Sardy and the canal to the right to its highest point at the Etang de Baye where it starts to descend, ultimately meeting the mighty Loire at the small industrial town of Decize. The weather during our trip had been hot with cloudless skies. We got as far south as Corbigny, a little short of our target of the ladder of 17 locks that takes the canal to its summit, before returning to Clamecy. We were delayed time and time again by the traffic passing through the locks, but we were really not in a hurry and it was only an artificial target. Most of these locks were ‘do-it-yourself’ jobs and it was obvious that many of the other boaters had little skill or experience in passing through them. On one occasion a large boat crewed by a rowdy English family nearly capsized their boat as they had tied it up in the lock and as the water level dropped, the ropes held the side of the boat allowing it to tip. It was only the quick action of a French boater who severed the ropes with an axe that disaster was averted. The English boat crept carefully out of the lock with the red faced crew issuing profuse thanks to the Frenchman as they headed off. The bike came in very useful, for either Karl or I would scoot along to the next lock to be ready for the boats arrival and to fill or empty the lock in readiness. Often though, the lock would be occupied and so it was time for a chat with the waiting boat crews until our boat arrived and passed through. Meals were mostly taken on board, especially at lunchtime, when the bike was used again to forage for fresh provisions from nearby villages. At night we mostly tied up on the canal back some way from habitation or other boats, although on a couple of occasions we did stop near towns or villages for a restaurant meal.

When we tied up at the marina at Clamecy at the end of our trip, Sonja was not well. She had developed a migraine the previous evening and had not even ventured out for a meal. It was agreed that we should book into a nearby hotel and that whilst Sonja was hopefully recovering, Meg and I would collect my car and include a visit to Vézelay on the way, where she also had never been. With Sonja ensconced in bed and Karl off on his bike along the towpath to visit the 17 locks, we set off for Vézelay with the remnants of our cold food from the boat and a bottle of wine for a picnic lunch. Meg was enraptured by the basilica as I had been on my first visit. Sadly the interior was crowded with Saturday sightseers and so the atmosphere was a little below par. However we enjoyed ourselves with me playing guide to her attentive student and it was not until well after midday, that we made our way out of the town to find a picnic spot. Soon we found a track leading to a vineyard and under the shade of a huge Fig tree we laid out the blanket and our lunch. We were ravenous and ate and drank too well, chatting nineteen to the dozen. And then suddenly, there we were, naked as babes, coupling like rabbits in the dappled shade. Once our lust was satiated and passion was exhausted, we laid back in silence. My mind was in turmoil. How had that happened? Before this neither of us had showed any interest, sexually, in each other, we were, well, just good friends, mates, not someone you suddenly bed.

‘Whilst I thoroughly enjoyed that, I’ve no idea, why I did it.’’ This small voice murmured beside me. I replied

‘Ditto!’

‘Ooops! That was not meant to happen. Shall we pretend that it didn’t?’

‘Best idea, I think.’ And we turned our backs on each other whilst we nervously re-dressed. We packed up in silence, loaded the car and set off for Auxerre.

Sonja had recovered by the time I returned with the car, but we decided that we would still stay the night. Karl and Meg were off to visit some friends who had a holiday home near Montbrisson, to the south, for a few days and left soon after Meg arrived some half an hour after me. We needed to return to England and work necessities. I felt that our ‘goodbyes’ were a bit forced; just a peck on Meg’s cheek, a shake of Karl’s hand. But neither Sonja nor Karl seemed to notice anything amiss. Once they had left, Sonja and I had a stroll along the canal bank, virtually in silence, until we made our way back to the hotel for an early dinner. I didn’t feel guilty as far as Sonja was concerned, only embarrassed that I had cuckolded my old friend. Sonja, I knew had been playing away from home for some time, but I tried to shut my mind to her activities, pretending that they didn’t happen and anyway we had to stay together for the sake… The following morning, Sonja was up early and fully recovered and set off after breakfast in search of shopping. I decided that I would just wander the streets of the old town and take a few photographs. We had agreed to meet for an early lunch with a view to setting off north in the early afternoon. I’d eaten lunch by the time that Sonja turned up at the restaurant, arms full of parcels and packages and beaming with happiness.

‘I’ve found so many lovely things, this place is a real gold mine.’ She piled the purchases on to a chair and settled into another. ‘I’m ready for the off now, I don’t want any lunch, I’ll have a sandwich when we stop for petrol.’ As usual no apology for lateness, no interest in what I’d been doing. I paid the bill and we left.

About two months later, we visited Karl and Meg at their home for their Jodie’s 16th birthday party. This was the first time that I’d seen Meg since our holiday and wasn’t sure what would happen. It was not until we’d been there for some hours that Meg and I found ourselves alone in the kitchen. After an embarrassed ‘How are you?’ exchange, I said.

‘Do you ever think of our picnic tryst? I do, I have to say, with fond memories. But we can’t let it happen again can we?’ An impish grin covered her face.

‘I do and you’re right, we can’t. I still love Karl deeply and wouldn’t want to hurt him in any way. I know things a different between you and Sonja, I certainly could not put up with her behaviour as you do, as much as I love her too. So lets just keep the memory in the ‘Good Times’ box, shall we?’ And stoking my face she walked out of the kitchen, leaving me to accept her decision – which of course was the right one.

-=-
If only you could be with me now, Kate, in person, not just a memory. I need your presence to give me strength.

I don’t know how long I sat for in the square, but I felt very stiff when I got up realizing that I was virtually on my own, save for a few young nuns scurrying into the basilica for evensong. I spite of their habits and coifs, some of them were quite attractive in an earnest sort of way. What a waste I thought, nuns should only be ugly and barren people, if at all – they aren’t going to save the world! Kate would have done, if she had had time.

-=-
‘Roger, there’s a phone call for you.’ I came in from the garden. Sophie and her husband James had joined us for the weekend and James handed me the phone. It was a simple message. Kate had been away on business and was due to return home that morning. When her breakfast had been delivered to her hotel room earlier that morning, she was found to be dead. A heart attack. Instantaneous death, the policeman had said. I have no recollection of what happened next, although later Sophie tried to talk me through it. Kate was only sixty-three for goodness sake, no age at all, these days. We’d had barely two years of each others company and were looking forward to an active retirement in a couple of years time. And now in the aftermath of her dying, I couldn’t face going back to work, so retired and withdrew into my shell.

Months passed and I saw virtually no one. Karl and Meg kept on inviting me to stay with them and at last I relented. I felt comfortable with them. Meg and I made no mention of our brief tryst during all the months I stayed there, but only spoke of Kate and how much both she and Karl had come to love her. It was they who suggested, almost forced me, to travel to Australia. Perhaps they were right. I did need a change of scene and it meet my grandchildren, Jade and Sapphire for the first time; Chris has been only a toddler when they emigrated, so I didn’t know him either other than for on-line video link ups every month or so.

I was unhappy there, not that I wasn’t made to feel welcome, but for me six weeks in a strange land was long enough and I suppose it had started to heal me. I decided that I wanted to explore and understand the reasons behind those medieval mass movement of people, the pilgrimages and crusades and in spite of the internet, I could only do this in Europe. It set me thinking again. the pilgrims, the crusaders, Vézelay was a starting point for them. Maybe even at this late stage in my life it could be a starting point in my life?

-=-

Suddenly the gentle breeze carried the singing of evensong out into the square and it drew me into the church. For some reason the main two doors had been opened to let the congregation in and the music out. The honey glow of the soft lights and candles drew me on, almost a helping hand to my elbow. Surprisingly the nave was fairly full, in fact more people than I’d ever seen before. The music from the choir was enchanting and in Latin; plainsong I realised. It was there and then that I decided that I’d write a book – a book about Vézelay, but not about the basilica, but the people who built it and worshipped in it throughout the ages. It would be their story. And just perhaps the best way of researching for the book would be to live here!