TABLE BAY AND THE BAY OF ANGELS

Table Bay, etching 1683

For me Table Bay is a Cape Malay bredie* of images and thoughts.  Table Bay and, of course, the Table Rock, were what magnetized me from the rural landscape to become a Capetonian.  And this bredie … Table Bay calls up for me the desire for a bigger world, a refusal to settle for suburban answers.  These Westerners … was the bad they brought in equal measure to the good?  In the shimmer on Table Bay history clashes swords with the sun … Wolraad Woltemade and his horse in the curve of a wave; the postal stones; ships sinking, ships arriving; the noon cannon;  bearded sailors staring at the Table Rock; Adamastor that you hear in storms if you listen; the Castle, the Amsterdam battery, the Chavonnes battery; the pain and anger of the Flying Dutchman …

The Flying Dutchman, ghost ship

… the murmur of the beach-combers; gulls; Robben Island, smear on the ocean;  musicians on the deck of a ship full of freed slaves dancing and playing the banjo, bringing the blues back to Africa …

Then the second bay, the Bay of Angels.  This Bay, the Côte d’Azur in France, stretches from Menton, near the Italian border and ends near Cannes.  They tell me there were human beings here four-hundred thousand years ago.  I smile.  Where I come from, South Africa, we start at two million years.  Still, history hums in the Maritime Alps that guard the Bay.  Here the Celt-Ligurians, a civilization of thousands of years, erected their forts and grunted under monoliths.  In Antibes (then Antipolis), where I find myself, their remains from 600 b.c. have been brushed open from under the Cathedral with its proto-Christian history.

Nomade sculpture ponders the Bay of Angels

Then came colonial masters, the Phonecians.  For them, the Bay of Angels was a lesser part of the larger establishment of Massala (today Marseille).  The Greeks arrive with an It’s our turn.  Monaco, Nice and Antibes all had Greek names originally.  Whether there were epic battles after some hundreds of years when the Romans marched in is uncertain.  Another handful of centuries.

In this time Roman soldiers regarded the mists of Scottish mountains and the rivers of Northern Europe.  After the assassination of Julius Caesar the coastal town along the Bay, Fréjus (the Forum of Julius), was honoured with his name.  His descendant Augustus had La Trophée built, today a sad, proud ruin, above Monaco. He instituted a census in the Empire, even to the far-flung town of Bethlehem in the Middle East.

Trophée of Augustus at La Turbie

Antibes has a legend that Paul came to the city.  Not unlikely when one thinks that Rome is but two or three days by boat.  Somewhere in the hills here there is a cave, its entrance collapsed and hidden.  In that cave is the Letter to the People of Antipolis written by Paul.  How would that be, if it were true?

At Juan-Les-Pins, the coastal town adjoining Antibes, there are few waves.  Here the Bay of Angels, or the Mediterranean Sea, often feels like a lake.  Over the shimmer on the water you see two islands, Ste Marguerite and St Honoré.  These islands, closer to Cannes, were occupied by the Romans and four hundred years after Christ, St Honoré and his following landed here, to establish one of Europe’s first Christian cloisters.

The islands of St Honoré and Ste Marguerite

These whispers across the water, music from distant times; strange instruments, lyrics unknown … they move over the creased sea … Table Bay and the Bay of Angels, two worlds, people who went before me, some of whose genes I carry … they saw what I now see and, perhaps, felt what I now feel.

 

© Will van der Walt

http://www.willwilltravel.wordpress.com

Les Semboules, Antibes

April, 2017

 *bredie – A Cape Malay dish of spiced curry, dangerously addictive

 

 Sources

Pierre Tosan (ed.) : Dictionnaire D’Antibes Juan-Les-Pins (Hepta, Antibes. 1998)

 Images

Flying Dutchman – paulthomasonwriter.com

Table Bay – etching by Allain Mallet in 1683, from “Hoerikwaggo”

Nomade, sculpture on the ramparts of St Jaumes, Antibes –  my photo

Trophée d’August – Côte d’Azur Tourism 

View of islands – my photo

 

 

 

 

 

THE FRENCH LANGUAGE: the delights, the quirks

 Outsiders (I believe we are called les etrangers)  will know what I’m talking about – the ups, downs and the sideways.  Take the accents in this language, something seldom used in English.

Le bâtiment (building) has a nice little roof on it.

Célèbre has celebratory firecrackers over it.

La flèche (arrow) is somehow sharper than its English equivalent.

Déteste feels stronger that detest.

                    An angle on Angèle

I take the liberty of mentioning some of the delights of Claudie’s English.  She speaks more formally than I do and adds a touch of the literary, at times.  For her a window gives onto the place.  You push off the light and close the television.  And the baddie in the Policier aggresses someone.  If you’re uncertain then you don’t know what’s expecting you.

French, you soon discover, is an uncharted territory of false friends.  Or do I forgive the English language for evolving borrowed words in unexpected ways?

Je suis blessé does not mean “I am blessed”.  It means “I am wounded”.

Négligé is not black, sexy and made of silk.  It means “neglected”.

A woman (in English) who is petite is not merely short.  So too, in English, petty is not merely dimensionally challenged.

      Painting the Giraffe

Idioms in any language are fascinating, especially when they become a touch surreal.  In Afrikaans, for example, the die is cast is expressed as “the bullet has passed through the church”.

“A kettle of crabs” in French is something like a hornet’s nest and to be avoided.

“To paint the giraffe” is doing something that really does not have to be done.

“The marriage of carp and hare”  means to bring incompatibles together vainly

And the one that applies to me  − “To speak French like a Spanish cow”.  Enough said.

                Marriage of Carp and Hare

 

© Will van der Walt

www.willwilltravel.wordpress.com

Les Semboules, Antibes

April, 2017

 

Sources

Claudie A. L. Mader

P.Desalmand, Y. Stalloni:  200 expressions expliquées (Chen, 2013)

Images

Claudie by Ise La

200 expressions expliquées

 

M I S T R A L

Walloped awake by a window bursting open and the shutter flaying in a to-and-fro struggle, I am shocked from late-night sleep and battling with clenched teeth, blinding wind, to hook my fingertips around the edge of the shutter, to pull … to pull it back so that … so that I can control what wrenches from my grip.  The catch isn’t working.  I have a piece of twine to tie … to tie onto the flapping shutter.  And I manage, while the Enemy of the Night, the Mistral, lashes this shutter, my face, this apartment block, this town, region, the west Mediterranean, wreaking an old vengeful violence.

depositphotos_26624453-stock-video-coastal-trees-blowing-under-strong

The Mistral as a wild night cannon

The shutter keeps.  I lie back on the pillow, wide-eyed, and listen to the wind, as I have never heard it. I know wind.  I come from the Cape.  But this … Is it Ligeti voices trying, like demons, to haunt their way through everything?  The high-intensity screaming like a bandsaw at my cheek … I’m scared.  Are these hexed angels?  Will the bashing shutter shower cold glass shards onto my face?  I think of flood waters.  I think of earthquakes.  I hear through the choir of lost souls in the lifeless thrashing of shutters outside against the walls of the apartment block.

Then, silence.

It’s an uncanny silence, this.  It feels as if it’s rising past my ears and slowly filling the room, like light.  The sky turns blue.  It’s day.

The day like silence comes

The day like silence comes

I’ve had this experience a number of times and throw in a thunderstorm that scared me witless.  And I know about the Mistral.  My first youthful contact was the description in Roy Campbell’s Horses on the Camargue.  He compares the wild horses of these deserted plains as wind over the sea. For me this is the most passionate poem in the language.

The spirit of the Mistral

The spirit of the Mistral

Then, there is André Brink’s Midi where he offers the mythology of the wind which bears a name in each of the southern patois.  This wind was formerly revered as a god, much as people have thought volcanoes to be gods.  And I’ve wondered how Frederic Mistral came to his surname, the Provencal poet who received the Nobel prize in 1905.

"He blows me here, he blows me there, he messes up my hair..."

“He blows me here, he blows me there, he messes up my hair…”

I think of the South-Easter – Sedoos in the patois – which tumbles Table Mountain’s tablecloth over the crags and which, as “The Cape Doctor”, blows away the germs.  It’s all so cosy until you wander around the Diaz monument on the Foreshore and experience the channeled force of the South-Easter, just as the Mistral channels its force through the Rhône valley at 100 kms/h.  Then you hold on, body and soul.

I, Mistral, am not the heavenly child"

“I, Mistral, am not the heavenly child”

 

© Will van der Walt

www.willwilltravel.wordpress.com

Les Semboules, Antibes

January, 2017

 Sources

André P. Brink :  Midi. Op reis deur Suid-Frankryk. Human & Rousseau, Cape Town.  1969.

Roy Campbell: Horses on the Camargue

Wikipedia

 Refer for interest:  György Ligeti (1923-2006), the Hungarian composer’s work “Atmospheres” (1961), amongst others.  

 Images

Night tree branches – depositphotos.com

Trees in the wind – mitsiemckellick.wordpress.com

Cape Town Wind  –  source lost

Trees in the wind – source lost

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NAPOLEON IN ANTIBES

It always does things to me to walk where they walked, the ones who changed history.  To see what they saw, perhaps with similar feelings.  The Trocadéro in Paris, overwhelmed by the Eiffel Tower, the specific place where Hitler and his colleagues had the well-known (or infamous) photographs taken, to stand in Picasso’s studio where in the Provencal summer he painted barechested.  Then too, there is a legend that St Paul himself walked these streets, something not unlikely at all.  Somewhere in the back of my head is the possibility that in this region, in a caved-in grotto, yet to be discovered, is the Letter to the People of Antipolis (later Antibes), written by St Paul.   What a shake-up that find would be.

"Le Maitre de l'Europe"

                   “Le Maitre de l’Europe”

Now it’s Napoleon Bonaparte, barely 223 years ago, that strolled these street as I do, saw what I see, but without doubt not with the same thoughts and feelings.

He came from an aristocratic family in Corsica and was trained in the military before the Revolution of 1789.  But he picked up serious problems with a political leader in Corsica and fled with his mother, brothers and sisters.  In Corsica there is a tradition of solving problems in a non-verbal way.  In Nissa (later Nice) he impressed Massena who led the army.  In the meantime his mother and the small tribe of siblings arrived at the Château Salé and this ushers in a time of joy for Napoleon, especially in the meeting of Pauline, the Borghese princess.

Chateau Salé, Antibes, today

                Château Salé, Antibes, today

The young captain was imposing with his Corsican accent, slim, almost thin, stiffly attired in the dark blue uniform of the artillery regiment.  The sharp intensity was channeled into energy.  He was briefed to reinforce the coastline from Nice to Marseilles against attacks.  On the Île de Lerins in the bay of Cannes I came upon Napoleon’s cannon supports in the forest, steps against royalist or other enemies, especially the English.

Cannon support, Ile de Lerins

                  Cannon support, Ile de Lerins

In Antibes itself he had the battery Graillon on the cap d’Antibes and considered it as a solid defence point.

Batterie du Graillon, Cap d'Antibes

                 Batterie du Graillon, Cap d’Antibes

But the Revolution in Paris had begun to devour its own and Robespierre was guillotined.  Since Napoleon had had considerable contact with Robespierre and his brother, he was suspected of conspiracy and arrested.

Steel engraving (1879) of Napoleon in Nice prison,

Steel engraving (1879) of Napoleon in Nice prison,

Wikipedia has it that he was detained in Nice.  The historian De la Souchére says it was in Fort Carée in Antibes, a moment in history that the Antibois are rather proud of.  The tour guide at the Fort smiled wryly at me when I asked him.  To tell you the truth, he said, we don’t really know.  The incarceration lasted all of two weeks.

Fort Carée, above Port Vauban, built 1580

        Fort Carée, above Port Vauban, built 1580

His life, one historian has said, was “stuff of legend”.  His legacy is, according to the same historian, the attempt to reconcile right and left with a Bonapartist thread that runs through the politics of the 19th-century to the leaders of 21st-century France.   Even if he met his Waterloo after astounding military success in Europe, he had established the secular state, amongst other things – the list is long – not only in France, but it took root elsewhere as well.  The impact was immense.

The Exile, by J.M.W. Turner

                   The Exile, by J.M.W. Turner

He died in 1821 on St Helena, where he had been incarcerated for almost six years.  After his death the legend, some say apotheosis, about him began to escalate and his tomb at Les Invalides in Paris is one of the biggest in the world.  It’s interesting for me to think that he and I had something in common, well, while he was on St Helena – Constantia wine from the Cape.  And fascinating for me is that Napoleon had a sort of court jester on the Island amongst his entourage.  After Napoleon had died, this man went to the Cape and settled there.  His descendant was my neighbour when I lived in Stellenbosch.

bonaparte

 

 © Will van der Walt

www.willwilltravel.wordpress.com

Les Semboules, Antibes

January, 2017

 

Sources

Elena Dor de la Souchère :  Antibes 2500 ans d’histoire.  Maisonneuve & Larose, Ville d’Antibes. 2006.

Cecil Jenkins :  A Brief History of France.  Running Press, Philadelphia. 2011.

Wikipedia.

Images

“Le maitre de l’Europe”  –  napoleonbonaparte.pagespersa – orange.fr

Chateau Salé  –  plus;google.com

Cannon support – my photo

Batterie du Graillon  –  plus.google.com

Napoleon in prison  –  etsy.com

Fort Carée  –  my photo

“The Exile”  by Turner  –  parisblogged.fr

Bonaparte  –  axl.cefan.ulaval.ca

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nicolas de Staël

 Through a half-open door I see a painting on the wall of a consulting room  ̶  a close-to-abstract nude with long black hair.  It’s a work by Nicolas de Staël and inspection shows it’s the original, which says something about the income of this eye specialist.

Nu couché bleu, Antibes, 1955

Nu couché bleu, Antibes, 1955

It is this image which was used as a poster for a retrospective on the artist’s work.  And that in House Grimaldi, a 15th-century building constructed on Greek and Roman foundations, and it’s fitting:  the studio of the artist in his final years was literally around the corner from this museum, “seventy paces,” in his own words.

Seagulls, Antibes, 1955

Seagulls, Antibes, 1955

I saw the exhibition.  He was known for abstract work, the form characteristic of modernism.  One critic says that De Staël tightropes between abstraction and figurative painting.  Another says his painting works like “superb iceberg, with the beauty of frozen crystalline forms …”  I saw falling, rising blocks of autumn colours, grey against black … I confess that it moved me not.  Abstract painters that speak more to me are Delaunay, Mondriaan and Kandinsky.  Perhaps if I lived with a De Staël, viewed it each morning with my coffee, I’d see the inner logic.

His life story touches me.  He was unusually tall and Time magazine describes him as “husky” at the time of his exhibitions in America in the early-1950s.  He was born in Russia, his parents fleeing the Russian revolution in 1917.  Both of them died in Danzig and the boy was adopted by a Belgian family; hence, the Flemish surname.  They soon saw the talent and sent him to Paris.  For the next twenty years he took abstract painting to another level.  His untimely death, by his own hand, was a great loss for art.  He was 41 years old.

de-stael-face

Two of his paintings haunt me.  The one is the nude in repose.  She is overwhelmed by a plane of unbroken red over her and it would seem if she (probably the artist’s wife) is tiring of this posing business and is about to turn over to sleep, if you look at the rising leg.  It was her spirit, her feeling, he painted, not her appearance.

The second is the image of Fort Carrée which he could see from his studio window over the harbour.  It’s almost abstract.  The little white blocks are probably yachts and the fort itself, brave and luminous on the promontory, stands against a deepening black and leaden grey which also darken the foreground.   These two works early in 1955 were amongst his last.

Fort Carrée, Antibes, 1955

Fort Carrée, Antibes, 1955

 

© Will van der Walt

http://www.willwilltravel.wordpress.com

Les Semboules, Antibes

December, 2016

 

Source and images

Bruno Racine (ed.) –  Nicolas de Staël.  (Centre Pompidou, Paris.  2003)

Nicolas de Stael, un automne, un hiver – Musée Picasso, Antibes.  2003.  The quotation has been freely translated from: ” La peinture … enchante, à la maniere d’un superb iceberg, par la beauté des ses formes figées en cristaux …” (p. 33)  – Valentine Marcadé.

 

 

 

 

JEAN COCTEAU MUSEUM, MENTON

I have to confess that my interest in the Cocteau Museum in Menton was architectural rather than artistic.  I admired the quirky inventiveness of Cocteau’s work, but he didn’t touch me as some of the other moderns do.  The visit changed that.  What is interesting about this museum is that it is the most extensive collection of any single artist’s work that I have seen.

Jean Cocteau Museum, looking west

Jean Cocteau Museum, looking west

A Cocteau museum had already been established in Menton, housed in a 17th-century fort.    This building still displays many of his works and has a charm of its own.

The first Cocteau museum

The first Cocteau museum

But the Museum that was opened in 2011, designed by French architect Rudy Ricciotti, seizes the attention of the visitor like few museums in the Côte d’Azur.   There have been various descriptions of the off-white forms, each one different, that house the Museum.  “…like a fierce set of teeth or a string of alabaster forearms holding up the sky” and “… like a spider, with jagged black pillars sprawling leg-like over the building”. I found photographing these forms fascinating, both from a distance as well as selected close-up details.

Detail

Detail

Ricciotti claims that he was inspired by Cocteau’s work.      

“Black and white no longer serve as colours here,” he said, motivating the design in the competition. “…they create an interplay of structural forces calling to mind both the artist’s works on paper and the poet’s personality, his zones of light and darkness, his enigmatic self-mythology fueled by contrasts.”

Interior of Museum

Interior of Museum

My next confession is that I had not seen that much of Cocteau’s work.  What makes it possible here is that almost the entire collection belonged to an American collector Sèverin Wunderman who bequeathed it to the Museum.  What is so striking about this artist is the diversity of his work  –  he did paintings, graphics, sculptures and ceramics; he designed costumes and made films;  he wrote plays and poetry.  The list goes on.

Les Amoreaux 1948

Les Amoureaux 1948

As with artists at this level, he turned out much of a high quality.  I found his self-portrait drawings intriguing, a series called Le Mystère de Jean l’Oiseleur.  Thirty-three of them are on display, brilliant in execution.  Each, one feels, admits to some conflict, not one of them joyous.  One bears in mind that he was an opium addict and so, a caption like Je garde mon ange (I keep my angel) makes one speculate, though, with Cocteau, of course, the caption  could mean a multiplicity of other things.

One of many self-portraits

One of many self-portraits

It was thought-provoking to see his sexually-explicit drawings followed by graphics of scenes from Christ’s life, the final one, done shortly before he died in 1963, an Ecce Homo, in which Christ’s face is not unlike his own.  Riciotti says that Cocteau’s art was “an enigmatic self-mythology feuled by contrasts”.

IMG_0205

 

In his figurative depictions, Cocteau is obsessed by  classical forms and it is interesting that many of the male figures have, in some way, the features of his long-time lover, Jean Marais, the French actor.

Classical obsession

Classical obsession

In a glass cabinet, the name of a small volume of poems he published caught my eye:  Le Cap de Bonne Espérance.  It does not deal with Cape Town at all; instead it is a collection of arcane, experimental poetry dealing with a metaphorical Roland Garros, the French pilot, who died in 1918.  One of the poems translates as:

The Smoke Sign

The aviator, who described the sky today

With white smoke in great sweeps

Proceeded, so that the wind,

not noticeable from below

Could not clump his sign.

That teaches us, I thought to myself,

how we must write.

Le Mystére

Le Mystère

 

 

© Will van der Walt

Menton, 17th June 2015

www.willwilltravel.wordpress.com

Sources:  Wikipedia; Jean Cocteau:  Livres, Poems

Images:  Will

 

 

 

ABBAYE DU THORONET – “the very stones …”

This lens through which we see things … can it change, grow, shrink, even disappear?  Who are we, watching the world we travel in?

I took the A8 highway north-west from Antibes on the Côte d’Azur and travelling about 80 kms. moved through  800 years, or at least, to the place made by those who lived then.  Armed with knowledge of Romanesque architecture and the lives and history of Cistercian monks, I approached this abbaye, planned and erected in the historically pivotal 12th-century.

The basilica form and bell tower

The basilica form and bell tower

I saw the plain eastern facade, compared it with the majestic portals of Notre Dame de Paris, Chartres and Vezelay.  The outline of the basilica was there, an echo of the earliest Italian basilicas, and, if you take it far enough, edifices in ancient Egypt.  But already the sheer isolation of the abbey was touching me.  It would probably have taken these monks days, if not a week, of walking before they came upon other human beings.  Who were these people who sought such total severance from the ways of the world?  The Cistercian movement rose in 1098.  Under Bernard of Clairvaux the movement grew to 280 abbeys by his death in 1154 and to 500 in France alone by 1200.

There are two modest entrances, one not used.  I cross the threshold into the permanent dusk of the church.  There are no electric lights.  This is what the monks experienced eight hundred years ago.  Far above me is the barrel vaulting with the merest hint of a Gothic point, a meeting of two architectural eras.

Nave and altar (west)

Nave and altar (west)

I am alone in the church.  The great stone pillars pour from the height into the stone floor.  There is nothing else, no ornamentation, no figuration.  Wait … at the nave I dimly see a statue that could be a figure of Christ and, on the opposite side, figures of a Mother and Child.  These are probably recent additions.

Light from the east

Light from the east

But the light … The windows have no stained-glass colour.  There are three on the western side, above the altar, and three on the eastern   ̶   to suggest the Trinity.  The church was built on an east-west axis, so that sunrise would illumine morning prayers and sunset, the evening prayers.  The monks lived with an expectation of Christ’s return in morning light.  Of this light, Le Corbusier said in the early-1950s, “The light and shadow are the loudspeakers of this architecture of truth.”

Chapter Hall

Chapter Hall

It is noticeable that the adjoining buildings  ̶  the cloisters, the chapter hall, the dormitories, the lavabo  ̶  are built on a slope so that the church could be erected on the highest point of the site, a firm rock surface serving as a foundation as well as providing a symbolism. I walk through these spaces, admiring especially the gracious low-vaulting of the chapter hall.  It bursts from the floor like thick stylized branches, the most striking ground-level ornamentation at the abbey.  The cloisters themselves, with simple, muscular column arches, were the hub of life for the monks, where they meditated   ̶   the steps of the cloisters are worn smooth  ̶   where they studied and perhaps relaxed.

Stairs worn by centuries of use

Stairs worn by centuries of use

It appears a small world to me.  To them, it was the beginning of eternity.  I wonder about them, these people who maintained this life for more than six hundred years until the deconsecration of the abbey in 1785.  Who were they?  Who am I, asking this question?  Perhaps my wonderment at these people, my admiration and even respect, come from the world I inhabit, belonging to a tribe that is a little more than 350 years old, who did not have a literature to speak of in the year 1900, whose language, Afrikaans, was recognised as late as 1926, whose folk music never discovered the minor-key. Perhaps too, fundamental to the lens through which I see Thoronet, is my Methodist (Protestant) upbringing that has evolved to the ubiquitous sensual-sceptical worldview of the 20th-century. To this I add my “tic”:  agnostic-mystic.

Cloister

Cloister

But my lens is also my individuality and maybe that  keeps a lens from constricting my experience.  As a teenager it came to me that a church is fullest when it is empty.  I return to the church, not empty as it was when I arrived.  Now a different kind of fullness awaits me.

I am preceded by a babble of school kids who filter out at  the entrance.  A small huddle of adults with their tour guide gathers between the few simple pews.  While they chat in subdued tones, the guide explaining and informing, I take up a position at the back of the church, marvelling anew at the space.   The Middle Ages were times when most  people lived in cramped wooden structures and here over me is the vaulting of stone, the material that symbolized eternity for those lives.  This would be how you represent the House of God on earth.  One writer speaks of Thoronet as “the measure of perfection”. Modern architects, generally speaking, do not feel such  weight, what occupied their Medieval counterparts with a profundity that is beyond us.  Then too, they had knowledge and skills that even today we do not fully understand and about which we can only speculate.  This was the science of acoustics, something I experienced for the first time years ago at Kloster Eberbach on the banks of the Rhine in Germany, also a Cistercian monastery.

The Cloister at the heart of the lives of monks

The Cloister at the heart of the lives of monks

The tour guide, a Corsican by name Antoine, I hear later, a thin man with thick grey-black wavy hair, moves from the tourists to the centre of the nave.  He begins a Gregorian chant, though it might too, be his own improvisation.  He strolls to the chapel to the right of the nave and down the broad, empty side aisle.  And he sings.  Suddenly the church has a choir.  He walks past me at the back of the church where I am sitting. And he sings. It is as if the towering arches of vaulting embrace his voice, as if the rising stone columns harmonize with  the voice, as the gold of the sound fills everything.  He strolls down the other side aisle, returning to the nave.  He stands before the altar and lets silence descend.  His tour group have no words. Hours, days, after I leave Thoronet, perhaps even for the years to come, the voice fills the vaults of my brain.  It may that be that the lens through which I have seen these things, heard these things, experienced them, can vanish after all.

The very stones shall sing

The very stones shall sing

 

 

 

© Will van der Walt

www.willwilltravel.wordpress.com

Thursday 28th May, 2015

Sources:  Friederich Heer:  The Medieval World (1961)

Jean-Yves Andrieux:  L’Abbaye du Thoronet (Belin Herscher 2001)

Wikipedia:  Thoronet Abbey

Photos:  Will

 

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