The forecast for miserable weather was accurate but with half a day left, we packed our bags to leave downstairs and set off on the metro, umbrellas in hand, to visit Montmartre and the Sacre-Coeur Basilica. The metre system is absolutely marvellous and like an all encompassing web linking the whole city. It does very much feel like entering a rabbit warren with signs to follow to the correct platform taking you along many twists and turns or deep down into the earth.
It is a surprise when you emerge into the rain at the other end to find your physical surroundings nothing like what you left behind a short time before. This was the case when we trudged up the many stairs to the daylight of Abbesses, passing a fellow traveller who was taking a rest before completing the ascent, and popped out into narrower village style streets lined with small shops and houses. Keith joined the queue running into the street at the boulangerie (bakery), where we purchased some bread and a slice of traditional flan to try. Convenient hooks were set up to allow dogs to be tied up while the owner entered.
This area, near to Montmartre and down the hill from the Basilica, was once outside the city of Paris. Apparently there was a wine tax in the city so dedicated drinkers, students, artists and anyone who wanted cheaper entertainment, came out to these villages. It was here that the can can first took hold, and where working mills for agricultural use gradually were taken over as entertainment venues and restaurants. The famous ‘Moulin Rouge’ (red mill) is now about the only one still operating, although we did pass a mill restaurant. It is the Moulin de la Galette, where the miller took refuge during the attack on Paris by the Cossacks in 1814, hiding in the wings of the mill. Afterwards his sons transformed the mill into a trellised garden room which became the restaurant. Motor bikes seemed to have multiplied here with the narrow streets and steep inclines making them a good choice. I stood in the blue doorway of the house where Vincent van Gough and his brother Theo had lived from 1886 to 1888, and wondered about the brothers and the influences upon them in this flamboyant city that so clearly supports the arts.
Climbing up the steep streets, we now and then glimpsed the basilica and were reassured that we were heading in the right direction. A photographic display about Syria wound up a fence enticing us to go the exhibition but when we reached the end, we discovered that that was it. At this point the square funnels into the streets leading up to the main squares in Montmatre, where tradition vies with provision for (and fleecing of) tourists. It is a pretty area, with shady trees, bustling with life and colour. Known as ‘la butte’, the little town on the summit of the hill was frequented by many famous artists including Picasso, Monet, Toulouse Letrec and Van Gough. Current artists paint at their stalls surrounded by their works for sale, while others encourage visitors to sit for a portrait or to have their profiles cut out in black paper and mounted. Many portraits seemed to be idealised versions somewhat in the line of the sitter, but could possibly have passed for twenty different people of a similar type. One artist was drawing a man while his son looked on, and this time it seemed to that the artist had caught the essence of that individual. I would have loved to have my portrait drawn but we didn’t have the time. We didn’t even have the time to watch this one being completed before heading up to the parish church of St Peters, which sits at the top of the square, blocking the side view of the basilica.
At the top of the square is the site of a temple to Mars, where, in the 5th century, the church of St Peter was built. Upon its ruins an Abbey was constructed for the Benedictines in the 12th century, which also served as a parish church. In 1794 the revolutionaries closed it down as a church but later one of the towers was used for the telegraph service until 1844. Very run down, it escaped demolition in the 19th century and was restored in 1900. Inside stands ‘Our Lady of Montmartre’ where a plaque thanks her for her protection during the bombardment of Montmartre on April 21st 1944.
It was seriously raining by now but we continued on to the basilica. The haunting sound of a busker’s accordion transformed the grey day and called to mind how rarely we had heard music in Paris streets or subways. It was a young woman, sheltering in a doorway and playing her heart out. Sacre Coeur is certainly positioned perfectly for a magnificent view over Paris but also as a glorious sight on top of the hill from the city below. It was built on the site of the martyrdom of St Denys and of violence by the Commune in 1870. In 1873, the National Assembly voted for its construction but various hold ups ranging from controversy over design to the site being full of ancient ruins and quarries, meant that it took over forty years to build. Inside it was suitably magnificent and yet had a very comfortable feel. It was all set up for visitors with a one direction pathway and no photos allowed. From the back, the area behind the altar was all colour and light and quite mesmerising.We went down into the cloisters which acted as an under church store room for spare chairs, saints, banners and chapels. One whole chapel was devoted to the items given as votive offerings during the wars, with innumerable gold hearts and lots of arms and other battle mementos. By now we were becoming very excited with the thought that we would be seeing Rohan this afternoon, and I was not in my usual state of being totally absorbed by anything historical. We took the quick way back to the station down flights of steps that would have been a major challenge for the ascent. I faked a photo of Keith coming up looking fresh as a daisy, but he is so fit he probably would have looked like that anyway. I was not looking fresh as a daisy and I was going down! All I could think of now was to zip back to the hotel, collect our bags and be on our way.
Despite following the signs in the metro rabbit warren, somehow we found ourselves sailing along the wrong arm of a junction, with the other arm to the airport receding in the distance. A kindly fellow advised us to get off at the next station and go back, with a train probably coming along in the next fifteen minutes or so. Luckily we had some time up our sleeves. This station, in the middle of nowhere as far as we knew, was under the surveillance of three policemen who appeared to be on the lookout for someone. Surely three policemen would not be needed for fare evasion so my imagination ran wild as to what we might witness while waiting for the train. The rest of the crowd seemed to be of African origin with most of the women and girls wearing the most vibrantly coloured clothing. The police crossed onto our platform, and paced up and down. The train arrived and we all, police included, boarded. So maybe their demeanour had all been in aid of getting window seats because it had been the most peaceful and happy station crowd that we have seen.Back at the junction station, the train was delayed. I was glad to rest my pack on the stand, which enables you to leave the pack on but have all its weight supported. A man came over and asked us about our travels. This was unusual in Paris, where we had been on such a tourist treadmill that we had not had the opportunity to meet anyone or have a conversation. He congratulated us on our French and explained how he had travelled quite a lot and was keen to do some more. His wife joined us and we had the most delightful conversation. We were wishing that we had met them earlier because they were so friendly and so open to strangers, and this little encounter was truly a highlight of our stay in Paris.
At last the train arrived and we all piled in, chatting on and exchanging contact numbers, with the hope that one day we would meet again. Our bags had been repacked to hopefully meet the weight requirements of the airline, and we now settled to eating our lunch to further lighten the load. We just made it but our hand luggage was certainly weighing a tonne.
The flight to Leeds was mysteriously delayed, with no information being given to explain the two and a half hour delay. The waiting crowd were friendly and chatty, with most speaking English which was a strange experience. We could hear snippets of conversation all around us and were able to learn a bit of the Barnesly language, which is English with a strong Yorkshire and specifically Barnsley accent and different phrases and words that distinguish it from the speech of areas fifteen miles away. We learnt ‘see thar later’, and discovered that ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ are alive and well. This was not a terribly useful phrase for meeting people, we discovered.
The plane flew through puffs of cloud formations, over land that surely must be England and at last into Leeds airport. We imagined some kind of delay for customs but since we chose the ‘nothing to declare’ lane, there was no-one there to bother looking into us. There was also no-one there to greet us, since we had called about the delay and the time of arrival was a bit earlier than expected. In only a few moments we saw the doors open and Rohan, Kerry and Kerry’s grandpa, Graeme, strolled in. I couldn’t wait so I raced over to give Rohan a big hug, which left poor Keith guarding the bags until we all came over. We have not seen Rohan since he left for his overseas adventures in April of 2007 and we were both thrilled to see him and to see him looking so well. It is strange how the feeling of missing someone is so strong when you finally see them, but I certainly felt that all the emotion kept in check while Rohan was away was sweeping over me.
We had spoken with Kerry a couple of times on the phone so it was great to be meeting her, and also to have the chance to meet her family. We failed to notice many aspects of the scenery on way from Leeds to Barnsley since we were chatting, but one aspect stood out clearly – the houses were built in terrace rows but in village groupings with lots of fields and woodlands in between. It was virtually dark when we arrived at Kerry’s parents’ home in Barnsley where we will stay. Maureen and Dean welcomed us, along with Maureen’s mother, Madge. Soon afterwards, Kerry’s auntie Mel arrived with Crystal. We felt really welcome and honoured that everyone had come over. Maureen is very sweet and concerned that we will be comfortable, and had prepared a beautiful bedroom for us. We had cups of tea and then a delicious meal that could only be described as a feast, there were so many choices and dishes.
It was fairly late when we sank into our very comfortable bed, but we knew that a sleep in was fine and where everything was if we got up before Maureen and Dean. The morning in Montmartre seemed like another world away, and now we were in England with Rohan and a whole family of very friendly and welcoming people.
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