Will

It’s the little things that remind us who we are.

Yesterday was my day to explore Bourges, population 64,000, and I started out nice and early. First, since I’d learned their market day is Saturday, I walked down to the halles to see what was happening. They indeed do have a huge covered building with many stalls both inside and outside, around the perimeter. I saw a lot of meats, charcuterie, cheese and seafood, but seasonal vegetables and fruits are just beginning. Meaning there were local strawberries! We are in the watershed of the Loire, from which all the strawberries came. I bought two cartons and a croissant to have for breakfast. It was the worst croissant I have ever had, anywhere. Flavorless, so not made with proper butter and yeast, stale, so not made that day, and burned on the bottom. However, I enjoyed seeing real shoppers, with cardoons peeking from their cloth totes. A farmer explained to me you can eat the big stalks of artichokes after you cut them, and they call them cards, I think. I tossed the croissant and moved on to scale the small hill to the cathedral.

I’m sure you’ve all seen a gothic cathedral, but this one is a designated UNESCO World Heritage Site, so here’s a look at the backside from the archbishop’s strictly trained gardens. Frankly, it is pretty ugly as far as cathedrals go, and replaced an older Romanesque church on the site, which replaced an even older part of the walled Roman city that was a major center during the Roman times, over 2,000 years ago. You think this stuff is old, it is less than half as hold as Roman ruins. Most of this church is only about 700 years old. It had some nice windows, and some interesting carvings around the door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

During the Wars of Religion (which in some cases seem to be particularly fresh in people’s minds here), the Protestants, or Huguenots as they were called, rudely took off the heads of some of these personages. But I noticed that all of the little heads on the points of the scallops around the door look pleased and even happy. They are like that around the building, and each unique. I imagine they are the builders and their friends. Let the world rage on, they say, and do your best work.

I was tempted to buy a facsimile of an old map of the network of the Knights Templar facilities, because their money management was key to the Pope’s purposes of trade and exploitation. Especially after the French king Phillipe le Bel (Phillip the Handsome) expelled all the Jews from France in the late 1300s. Many Jews also converted to Christianity while keeping their networks of trade and finance, and the Pope’s protection. The most famous personage of Bourges, Jaques Coeur, was one of these conversos, in my opinion, or his father was. He was born just five years after the expulsion, and though his personality was clearly powerful, he took excellent advantage of the huge network of Jewish trading and banking houses that existed in Italy at that time. His mansion is just steps from my hotel, and it is truly a gothic palace. He had it built in the mid 1400s after going from the son of a furrier and merchant, to the richest man in Europe, all without any formal education or noble birth. He just happened to start trading in Genoa and Venice, and was protected by the Pope even after his increasing wealth made him enemies. He owned more gold and silver and jewels than anyone had before in France, they say. He was made master of the mint by King Charles VII, I think it was, and given a noble title, because he gave him shelter in Bourges during the 100 Years War against the English. He was close friends with the king’s infamous mistress Agnes Sorel (look her up if you’re interested, also from a converso family according to some), and made his brother the archbishop of Bourges. Then he was attacked, framed, lost all his French wealth, was humiliated, and fled to sanctuary in Italy at the Pope’s place. He had loaned money to the Knights of Malta, and went off to visit them on a Greek island, where he died. Many holes in the story, as usual.

Ok. After this, I headed down the other side of the hill to a place that had stood out to me on a map, but which wasn’t mentioned much in tourist guides. Les Marais, or The Swamps. Two small rivers run very, very close together there, and join at the end. It is almost in the center of town, against the bottom of the hill of the cathedral. In ancient times it was left as is, as a defense against invaders on that side, but in the Middle Ages it started getting developed for little market gardens of vegetables and fruits. There are trails, and you can have guided canoe trips too, because without a guide you would get very lost in the 1,600 little canals. I strolled through the streets of the neighborhood that borders it, and then came to a little footbridge over one river, with a filbert tree artfully curving over the entrance on one side, and wisteria on the other. Crossing the bridge, I was in another world.

Being a Saturday morning, there were walkers and the occasional jogger, and people seemed peaceful and smiling. The birdsong was crazy, I wish I could tell you what kinds. There were ducks, and two fishermen with really fancy gear. I don’t remember the names of the fish in the river, but at least they weren’t carp. Not trout either. I started to see little gardens, some frivolous, back of the houses in town, and some serious, further into the swamp.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I saw a young-ish man using a weed whacker on some plots dotted with apple trees in bloom, and heard more wild bursts of birdsong. I was reminded of my son and daughter, agriculturalist and bird-lover, and felt sadness descending on my pleasant morning, because I miss them and don’t know why we don’t talk. I stopped in the path and thought about the truth of the matter. Loss of habeas corpus means one thing. And I sighed at how easily I lose my force of will when under attack. And I remembered who I was, and what I was doing, and the despair passed, and the sun came out.

These Marais gardeners must be a breed apart. I found a place where they posted bulletins, and there were current newspaper articles and a letter to the mayor about their issues. They said they “…submitted to incivilities as a nearly every day occurrence.” I think they mean vandalism. They had a fence just for poetry, and I was inspired anew to direct my will where I choose.

 

 

It was time for lunch, so I turned back, and then the cathedral bells started up and made a clanging racket for about ten minutes. It was noon. I walked back across the bridge and up and over to the other side of the cathedral, where I found the square that is today’s featured picture,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(from Linternaute.com) and took a seat at a cafe next to the fountain and enjoyed a nice lunch. In one of these old houses Jaques Coeur was born. Well, let the world rage, and do your best work. P.S. That is my own quote, not the translation of the little sign, which says “Evil is easy, good requires a lot of effort.”