The Neighborhood

This month has been about two things…

…1) surviving successive heatwaves, and 2) finding out what I can reasonably reach on foot. I have made some routes to and from my favorite stores and I bought a bus pass. I now know all three bridges that cross the Allier, and am pleased that my domicile is less than a ten minute walk to the river, the train station, and the downtown. Today’s featured photo is from the southernmost bridge, which is for pedestrians and bikes only, and is made from a repurposed railroad bridge. I do like it that the locals enjoy their river just like we enjoy ours back home.

I am becoming an expert on our charity thrift shop, and bought a pretty oriental rug there for ten euros, which is really a steal. I even got to help a young Dutchman who couldn’t speak French, but did speak English. First time I’ve had a chance to feel useful, and it felt good. I have relied so much on the kindness of strangers, none of whom have needed my help so far. Maybe I’ve helped a little bit with cheering up a man I met who lost his wife last week. That is part of a nice story.

At the Friday market last Friday I got to talking with a woman who sells local dry sausages, and one thing let to the next and she invited me to sit down and have a coffee. The cafes on the square all have tables that stretch out right into the market, so she had one, with this widower friend, and I joined them. It was really lovely to chat, and this week I came back after I’d done with my shopping, and there they were, this time with a couple of other friends. They were glad to see me, and this time I was offered both coffee and then wine, a bit later on. We got the man really laughing a time or two. When we parted I was offered the French sign of friendship: faire la bise. 

So I’m feeling a little bit more at home, both in my little house and in the town. I expected to have challenging moments, but sometimes having no challenges is even harder. One can only watch so many videos on the couch. 

I also patronized the last remaining butcher shop downtown, and treated myself to a rib eye steak, or entrecôte. The bouchère, (yes it was a woman) hand cut it for me off of a whole slab of beef, and it was a bit huge. It actually made three meals for me.

I had assumed that it would be of the celebrated local breed of beef cattle, the Charolaise, but no. It was a breed commonly raised a bit further south of here that is called Parthenaise. It was the most delicious tasting beef I have had so far in France. Only the French Wikipedia tells this story, for some reason, but this breed was originally brought here by the Moors who invaded from North Africa. When they were driven out by Charles Martel, they left their cattle. They are very pretty as well, and were originally known for beef, milk, and draft work. Then just milk and beef, and in the 1960s, they dropped the milk and are only raised for beef now. They have the Arabic trait of black skin, which you can see. Arabian horses have that too, and I imagine it developed as a defense against the strong desert sun. It makes for a nice effect around the eyes and mouth, like cow makeup.

Anyway, I have stated before that this isn’t a food blog, but sorry, this is France! Also, just feeding myself properly has been one important thing to figure out. This picture is from Wikipedia, by the way, I have not seen them yet in their living state. Just as very expensive steaks.

Speaking of Wikipedia, I am finding a lot of differences between the English and French versions. As part of my efforts to get to know this place, I’ve signed up for some guided tours offered by the tourist bureau. I know, I hate tourist bureaus, but interestingly or not, I was the only person not from here on both tours last week. The first tour was the hippodrome, where we watched racehorses training, and the second of the medieval part of town. Apparently the French like to learn the history of their own towns, and there is certainly a lot of it to learn.

During the tour our guide told us a story of a French admiral who fought against the British during our American Revolution. He was born in Moulins, and his story is interesting and sad. He did a lot to help his fledgling ally, and it seems as if we really betrayed the French, badly. Multiple times. I need to read more about it, but the phrase “perfidious Albion” did not just come out of nowhere. Wikipedia in English on the subject left out almost all of the story.

The oldest part of the downtown still has some big houses built just as the Renaissance was coming to France. They are not obvious, because in the 19th century the facades were, sadly, redone. But this tour went into tiny, hidden courtyards, where you could still see some medieval and Renaissance construction from the backs of these places. People do still occupy them, so normally they can’t be visited by strangers. I was impressed at the fine craftsmanship of the stonework. It made the 19th century stuff look shoddy. I’ve never had the chance to feel such a long sense of perspective, and I wondered just when, exactly, our material culture started going downhill. Was the early Renaissance the real apex of northern European culture?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was then pretty amusing to see that a history brochure said that Moulins ‘peaked’ in the late 1400s. That would be the start of the Renaissance, just in case you weren’t sure.

 

 

 

 

They had a cool drawing made in 1450 of the town, and though the walls and most of the castle are gone now, you can tell where they were. Even the big square where the farmer’s market is shows up on this drawing, though it was outside the walls at the time. For the most part, they keep the old street layout even when they change the buildings. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was cool to be in one of these courtyards and see the ancient well that they had in each one. I have yet to get to go inside a medieval house that is still being lived in, but maybe sometime I will.

So, I’ll close with a photo from the northernmost bridge, that shows the famous Pont Régemortes from the 1700s, with Moulins on the left, and the area called Le Madeleine where my AirBnb was on the right. The big, grey box is the supermarket Intermarché, that has my favorite brasserie attached. I went back last week after not going for a couple of weeks, and they recognized me and seemed glad I was back. The cook teased me, and the waitresses asked how I was. It felt good, because I know from my childhood that when good old boys tease you, it means they think you’re all right.

It’s not that bad to live in a place that peaked six hundred years ago, so we Americans maybe shouldn’t worry too much.