—Tellurian Edition—
—Tellurian Edition—
Champignons en France The journey was rather a long one since we travelled from Essex to London to pick up one of the children; from London to Dover; crossed the Channel from Dover to Calais and then drove some 400 miles into France.
The gite [pictured left] is somewhere between Chartres, home of the famous cathedral and Le Mans, home of the famous zoomy-cars.
The nearest place one can find on a map is Belème, which sounds like across between Belleanne and Em. I rather thought it might be a nice idea to change Em's name to Em Bellemme, but I don't think the idea appealed to her greatly. Brunettes can be very hard to please.
Our only real stop on the way was at Rouen, where we saw the beautiful cathedral and a market full of mediaeval people selling all sorts of things, including an entire tent devoted to wooden swords, battle-axes and armour. We watched bright metal unicorns being forged in the flames, and Kirsten bought one.
I think I mentioned on a previous occasion that we were to be travelling with a small Tellurie blonde. It turns out that she is very much a little brunette. Just as there is always something childlike about blondes, so there can be something blonde-like about small children, at least until one gets to know them a little better.
Blondeness and brunetteness are real states even in Tellurie females. It has to do with hormones, apparently, and recent research shows that the mental differences between the two types of woman are as marked (though not as great) as the mental differences between women and men. It does not take long to discover whether one is dealing with a blonde or a brunette, and this young lady is definitely a brunette.
But I digress, as per usual. We had croques and wine in dear little glasses, and tiny cups of black coffee and felt as if we were back in France, which, of course, we were. Later we had crèpes in a little square by the cathedral.
The
rest of the day was spent in a rather tired journey south-eastward. The gite,
when we reached it was, if anything even prettier than the picture. Inside
it was a perfect French rustic house with great beams across the ceiling, a
gorgeous dresser, an open log fire, and even an extra room "too
small to advertise" for little Kirsten, which was a welcome surprise.
Fresh flowers from the farm, including gorgeous white lilies had been placed
on the table, and we were given fresh radishes and new-laid eggs, including
some teensy-tiny ones from the tiny white hens.
There were lots of creatures on the farm - a turkey, a peahen, various hens of rare and curious breed, sheep and a horse. There was even a tame pheasant who, while we were there had the teeniest baby imaginable, which we were allowed to cradle in our hands — at any rate Kirsten and I were. Grown-up brunettes, and even Em-sized ones* are not much inclined toward such entertainments.
It was gorgeous day when we arrived — the last for some time. We took the opportunity to have a light repast of French bread, cheeses, salad and wine on the outdoor chaises longues in the back garden of the little cottage.
It was lucky we did as the next day was beastly rainy. It was a Sunday and in Beleme — and even in the relatively throbbing metropolis of Le Mans, virtually nothing was open. A wet Sunday in Le Manchester. The Shroom also became rather ill. Shrooms often do, I fear. I think all the walking and talking puts a strain on them. Most shrooms don't, you know.
Monday
was much more successful. We played mini-golf with SHROOMS. We saw Beleme in
all its glory and I tried the local delicacy — boudin
noir. I didn't
actually know what it was but I thought "why not be brave?" I found
out why not. It seems the English term "black pudding" is a corruption
of boudin noir. After all, it isn't really a pudding, any more than
a Jerusalem artichoke comes from Jerusalem (the word is actually a corruption
of girasole — sunflower — which the plant resembles). So,
having rashly declared that "boudin
noir is what mushrooms like best", I discovered that mushrooms do not
like boudin noir at all. In fact they can't even bring themselves to try it
properly. Yickety-pickety-poo, to use the technical term.
The place wherein we tried the ill-starred boudin noir was also rather odd. It was a funny back room absolutely full of French men. Well, it wasn't really full at all, but there were quite a lot of French men at different tables and not a single female person other than the waitress, or garçonette. We wondered if we were actually allowed in there, but nobody seemed to mind, or even stare, so we supposed we must be.
Anyway, there was lots of bread and cheese and a big carafe of wine to drink à volonte, which is French for gluggums (or stuffums in the case of food) and frites, and one had some brunette buffet, so one did not starve.
We visited lots of other French places and brunettes and grown-ups considered the French property market and the general lie of the land with future ambassadorial moves in view, while blondes and children enjoyed the fascinating streets and bookshops and ice-cream. Below is Belème, seen as Aristasian eyes see it, with bongo-tins blurred.
The newspapers were full of the fact that the French voters
had rejected the proposed European Constitution. Within two days the Dutch
were to do the same. The German Government had decided to ratify the constitution
without consulting the people because they knew the answer would have been
no; but the French Government had thought theirs were going to say yes, so
they asked them. Whoops! A rare slip-up for bongo "democracy".
L'Europe est en Panne screamed one French newspaper. En panne does not actually mean "down the pan", but it is the expression used for a car that is broken down, so the headline was really rather jolly. Of course no one is really naïve enough to think this is more than a temporary setback for Daddy Octopus. The will of the people has never seriously interfered with the plans of bongo "democracies". But that didn't stop some of the dippier among us dancing round singing "Johnny got a kick in the pants!"
A visit to the Parc Zoologique at La Flèche proved thoroughly delightful. We saw tigers (though none of the tiger-obsessed members of the District were present). We saw parrots that could not only match shapes but could even do addition and multiplication to a level that certain Avenbridge girls could only envy.
"Trois fois cinq," said the parrot-girl and the parrot rang a bell fifteen times. I was assured that this was perfectly correct and toyed with the idea of keeping a parrot in my desk at school. However, Miss Markham, our Arcadian maths mistress might worry about the ding-ding emerging from the depths. One really would not like to worry her.
We also saw the absolutely dashingmost brunette imaginable who stood on a high wooden tower directing falcons and eagles that perched on her leather-gauntleted wrists and swooped forth from the tower, taking morsels of food in flight and stooping within inches of one's head. She seemed like some mighty sorceress directing the winged forces of nature as they whirled and soared about us.
The weather seemed to have taken a definite turn for the better, and even a chilly-mushroom was now able to go about in her bare arms. We were able to have barbecues at the gite, and paddling pools and water-fights (among the very young and very brunette).
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We went to Chartres and saw the famous cathedral. Miss Juliana very much wanted to see the labyrinth, which is supposed to be visible on Fridays. Unfortunately, although we were there on a Friday, a local dignitary had passed away and a requiem mass was being held, which entailed the covering of the labyrinth. I promised to try to arrange the publication of an old essay on matters labyrinthine so that at least something might be learned of the matter. I hope that will appear in Elektra fairly soon.
There was also a fascinating book in the Cathedral shop about the Cathedral as a mirror of nature, showing its manifestation of the four elements (which is clearly a primary theme of the structure, since the central feature of the frontage shows the elemental symbols of the four Evangelists: the man or cherub (Matthew - water), the lion (Mark - fire), the bull (Luke earth) and the eagle (John - air), the with the Christ in the centre as the Quintessence, the fifth element or aethyr. The "astrological"** symbolism of the Cathedral is also fascinating, as is the representation of the seven liberal arts. The building is clearly intended as a microcosm of the manifest universe. Traditionally, this is true of any church or temple, and indeed of any house, but at Chartres the elaborate representation of this is truly remarkable.
Another fascinating, though (consciously, at least) unintended feature of the Cathedral as it now stands is that, facing the great portal is a modern statue of a bishop who restored the cathedral in the eleventh century. This statue, face-to-face with the magnificent mediaeval figures surrounding the great doorway, is in a deformist or tamasic style, to the extent that the bishop seems to be literally decomposing before one's eyes.
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As one turns from this to the mediaeval figures one could not be struck more forcibly by an example of the often-stated truth that while rajasic art attempts to reproduce physical nature (drawing the human figure, for example, in terms of anatomical realism, and landscapes with natural perspective), sattwic (or pre-modernist) art attempts to depict the inner reality that lies behind the human form. It thinks in terms of symbols and ideals rather than anatomy and individuality. Tamasic (or post-modernist) art (confusingly referred to in its earlier days as "modern art", but post-modernist is a more accurate description of all of it) also turns away from realistic representation: not, however, to that which stands above the material world, but to that which lurks below it — to the chaotic and dissolving world of the inferior psychic, with its constant impetus toward disorder and decomposition.
One has only to look at this statue, and to bear in mind that it is not the work of some satirist or religion-hater, but has been commissioned by modern Catholics, infected with the post-modernist "intellectual" spirit to honour the saintly patron of the Cathedral, to realise something of what is happening to the post-rajasic mentality.
The last day came with astonishing rapidity. The delightful farm lady came to say goodbye as we were leaving very early the next morning. Her flowers had lasted beautifully for our whole stay, and, as if to bid us a fond farewell, nature put on a wonderful display for us: a most glorious sunset above the fields. The nights had been beautiful here. Did I mention them? The stars were bright and clear right down to the horizon and the cigales chirped loudly and continuously in the balmy air, as they had done in the Loire Valley when Brunette Tiggr was dangerously perched on the pitched roof of another gite, and Tigrou was lying in a ditch listening to them. But that is quite another story — and one I shall probably never tell in public.
Our
stay in rural France was wholly delightful. It is much more expensive than
it used to be, thanks to the wildly inflationary Euro, but I am happy to report
that the phenomenon of "bob
wine" — that is, a reasonably potable bottle of wine for around
an Aristasian shilling — still exists.
Old French country-folk on street corners still look as if they had stepped from Quirinelle, if not from a fairy-tale and a significant minority of young women still dress with taste and style.
L'Europe is en panne and it remains to be seen how Daddy Octopus will rescue it. This mushroom adores Europe, and has delighted in each European country she has visited, while deploring the depredations of the Pit.
It is because she loves the fair nations of Europe that she is happy to hear that l'Europe is en panne, for the Enemy Union is as much the enemy of the European Nations as multi-culturalism is the enemy of every human culture.
We were proud to be present when it got its first good panning.
NOTES:
*Of course, what size an Em is depends entirely on the size of the typeface. This Em is fourteen-and-a-quarter point.
**The handbooks refer to the symbolism as "astrological" which rather typifies the modern confusion over the sacred sciences. A better expression would be "cosmological".
In the first place a lot of the symbolism has to do with the elements and other non-astrological facets of cosmology, astrology being the science of the stars.
This may seem like a quibble, but the real problem lies in the modern understanding of the term "astrology". At about the time of the "Enlightenment" the science of the stars was divided into two branches: "Astronomy", which confined itself to the purely physical aspects of the celestial bodies, and "Astrology" which continued the traditional study of their symbolical and spiritual aspects.
The science of astrology became increasingly devalued in the eyes of the new rationalistic world-view, which successfully confined the word "science" to the inferior aspects of the study: i.e. those which dealt exclusively with the material domain without regard to its greater significance.
As a result, astrology became associated in the popular mind with — and indeed, in most cases degenerated into — a system of vulgar divination: something that could literally be termed "superstitious": i.e. a remnant "standing over" (superstat) from something greater and more complete.
Thus, apart from being strictly inaccurate, the term "astrology" gives very much the wrong impression of the symbolism of the Cathedral and the domain in which it operates. "Cosmology" is much more adequate to this.
For useful background on the modern vs. traditional perceptions of the cosmos, see The Image of the Cosmos from the Feminine Universe
