Deep France Read Online Free Page B
Author: Celia Brayfield
Département 64, the
Pyrénées-Atlantiques. When I want the weather report from the
Figaro’s
telephone weather service, I key in 64. Simple.
Second, there is the provincial. On some maps, such as that used by the electricity board, Orriule is in Aquitaine. Everything south of Bordeaux and west of Toulouse gets lumped into Aquitaine
at times. British people with a taste for history can usually relate to Aquitaine, because the English used to think they owned it. Maybe we were tempted by the description of a medieval writer
called Heriger of Lobbes: ‘Opulent Aquitaine, sweet as nectar thanks to its vineyards, dotted about with forests, overflowing with fruit of every kind and endowed with a superabundance of
pasture land.’
For a while, England had a right to Aquitaine. This came with a queen, a beautiful red-head, in her day the richestheiress in Europe – Eleanor of Aquitaine. She was
thirty-one, the ex-wife of the King of France, when she ran off and married a nineteen-year-old, Henri, Duke of Normandy, in Poitiers. By way of a honeymoon, the young power couple travelled
through Aquitaine to recruit some troops, and with the help of this army, Henry became King Henry II of England two years later, in 1154.
Although Henry owed a lot to his French soldiers, forging a kingdom out of England and Aquitaine was straining the logic of geography, at a time when it would take a month to travel the length
of the realm, most of which was still a collection of small feudal states with ever-changing borders and ever-shifting alliances. The dynamic Henry and the astute Eleanor kept their dual kingdom
together in their lifetimes, but after both were dead much blood was spilled by later English kings trying to pursue their claim to this lush French province. After the Hundred Years War, Crecy,
Poitiers, Henry V at Agincourt and finally Joan of Arc, the French reclaimed Bordeaux and everything south of it in 1453.
There are traces of England all over the land that Eleanor and Henry ruled together, which includes most of the west of France. The stained-glass window they commissioned to commemorate their
wedding is still in Poitiers Cathedral, while the cathedral in Bayonne is rampant with three-lion emblems. The pretty little town of Mauleon, half an hour south of here, is overlooked by the ruins
of the massive castle built by the most appealing of Henry and Eleanor’s sons, Richard I of England, Coeur de Lion. There are also places called Hastingues and Commingues, and families called
Smith and Richardeson, and liking for bacon sandwiches, and a passion for rugby. Also, there is a folk song in the repertoire of the local bands which shares almost everything with the Cockney
classic, ‘Roll Out the Barrel’. Then there is the question of the Gascon sense of humour.
The third possible way to describe my location is to say that it’s in Gascony. I wouldn’t attempt this in front of a hard-line Béarnais, because the
Béarn has always claimed the status of a state separate from its larger neighbour in the South-West of France, even though at times they’ve been ruled by the same person. Nor would I
talk about Gascony to Parisians, because they would just snigger. Nor would I mention Gascony in the hearing of one of my French friends in London, who sniffs that only the English talk about
Gascony. However, my bank account comes under the Gascony department of the Crédit Agricole and the bit of the Atlantic off the coast by Biarritz is called the Golfe du Gascogne on my
Michelin map, so it seems that the French also recognize the name.
Besides, Gascony is as much a state of mind as a region. A twelfth-century travel guide written for the pilgrims to Compostela describes the Gascons as poor but generous people, but warns that
they can also be frivolous, talkative, cynical and promiscuous. No wonder I like them so much.
By the time of the Three Musketeers, the Gascons were also known as swashbuckling meat-heads,
Pyrénées-Atlantiques. When I want the weather report from the
Figaro’s
telephone weather service, I key in 64. Simple.
Second, there is the provincial. On some maps, such as that used by the electricity board, Orriule is in Aquitaine. Everything south of Bordeaux and west of Toulouse gets lumped into Aquitaine
at times. British people with a taste for history can usually relate to Aquitaine, because the English used to think they owned it. Maybe we were tempted by the description of a medieval writer
called Heriger of Lobbes: ‘Opulent Aquitaine, sweet as nectar thanks to its vineyards, dotted about with forests, overflowing with fruit of every kind and endowed with a superabundance of
pasture land.’
For a while, England had a right to Aquitaine. This came with a queen, a beautiful red-head, in her day the richestheiress in Europe – Eleanor of Aquitaine. She was
thirty-one, the ex-wife of the King of France, when she ran off and married a nineteen-year-old, Henri, Duke of Normandy, in Poitiers. By way of a honeymoon, the young power couple travelled
through Aquitaine to recruit some troops, and with the help of this army, Henry became King Henry II of England two years later, in 1154.
Although Henry owed a lot to his French soldiers, forging a kingdom out of England and Aquitaine was straining the logic of geography, at a time when it would take a month to travel the length
of the realm, most of which was still a collection of small feudal states with ever-changing borders and ever-shifting alliances. The dynamic Henry and the astute Eleanor kept their dual kingdom
together in their lifetimes, but after both were dead much blood was spilled by later English kings trying to pursue their claim to this lush French province. After the Hundred Years War, Crecy,
Poitiers, Henry V at Agincourt and finally Joan of Arc, the French reclaimed Bordeaux and everything south of it in 1453.
There are traces of England all over the land that Eleanor and Henry ruled together, which includes most of the west of France. The stained-glass window they commissioned to commemorate their
wedding is still in Poitiers Cathedral, while the cathedral in Bayonne is rampant with three-lion emblems. The pretty little town of Mauleon, half an hour south of here, is overlooked by the ruins
of the massive castle built by the most appealing of Henry and Eleanor’s sons, Richard I of England, Coeur de Lion. There are also places called Hastingues and Commingues, and families called
Smith and Richardeson, and liking for bacon sandwiches, and a passion for rugby. Also, there is a folk song in the repertoire of the local bands which shares almost everything with the Cockney
classic, ‘Roll Out the Barrel’. Then there is the question of the Gascon sense of humour.
The third possible way to describe my location is to say that it’s in Gascony. I wouldn’t attempt this in front of a hard-line Béarnais, because the
Béarn has always claimed the status of a state separate from its larger neighbour in the South-West of France, even though at times they’ve been ruled by the same person. Nor would I
talk about Gascony to Parisians, because they would just snigger. Nor would I mention Gascony in the hearing of one of my French friends in London, who sniffs that only the English talk about
Gascony. However, my bank account comes under the Gascony department of the Crédit Agricole and the bit of the Atlantic off the coast by Biarritz is called the Golfe du Gascogne on my
Michelin map, so it seems that the French also recognize the name.
Besides, Gascony is as much a state of mind as a region. A twelfth-century travel guide written for the pilgrims to Compostela describes the Gascons as poor but generous people, but warns that
they can also be frivolous, talkative, cynical and promiscuous. No wonder I like them so much.
By the time of the Three Musketeers, the Gascons were also known as swashbuckling meat-heads,