Who gives a S**T anyway?!?
My father spent several years in a prison camp during the second world war and it appears to me now that one of his prevailing resolutions in life was to prevent a repeat of this catastrophic conflict. To this end he would take us all on family holidays around Europe, mostly camping, and this is how my relationship with La Belle France really began. I think in his soul he believed, as I do, that men and women the whole world over basically suffer with the same afflictions and it is through sincere and uncorrupted communication that we will achieve anything approaching harmony. I don't know where he learned his French, probably in the prison camp, but he was very adamant in trying to convince us that we had this power to communicate even though we had no knowledge of the local language. At the time it was pretty terrifying. One of my earliest memories (aged about 5 years) was in a village in rural Spain (we had driven through France to get there) and being unable to convince anyone around me that I needed the toilet. The uncomfortable results of that failure plagued my social relations for many years afterwards and if I am honest I can still find echoes of its presence in my psyche. This photo of me and my sis was taken on that same holiday. If it was before or after the ill fated incontinence I cannot say!
Anyway this is all by way of background to explaining my personal fascination with language and the use of words, or lack of them, and the different kinds of shit that we can lead ourselves into.
While I was pedaling along I was reflecting on the conversations of the night before with Anne and Renan, my warm showers hosts. It's a difficult thing to overcome mutual apprehensions even in one's own mother tongue but it is really something to wonder at that it is not more difficult when the common language is not shared. There was a particular moment in the conversation that stood out when they explained that they'd be getting up early and would not be able to provide breakfast. To say that I could take care of that myself I used the French verb "démerder" literally to unshit myself, or to clean up, to take care of. Their response was visible in a complete relaxation of their facial expressions and a brief chuckle. We had crossed the Rubicon from offering formal respect to a more authentic and spontaneous understanding. Things were instantly more comfortable. So this journey of mine is not just a matter of geography but also of understanding myself and the people I meet on the way. In Buddhist practice there is something called Tudong, which is where the monks go off on their own in the forest to live amongst the wild animals, and this is pretty much how I'm viewing my journey. So I hope you will put up with my constant reminiscences and tangential monologues.
The route South followed a cycle path called "Le Chemin Du Guerre" and all around were memorials to the conflict. This bridge has been purposefully preserved.
It occurred to me that despite the great battles that took place around here, there was little damage done to the civilian infrastructure, compared for example to the destruction in UK cities like Coventry, Bristol and London. Most of the Mairies could have appeared in war films as Gestapo headquarters, and my mind began circulating around the cultural stereotypes of wartime. The fact that for the most part the French collaborated with or accepted the Nazi occupation no doubt contributed to the fact that they were spared wholesale destruction, and is an interesting subject for contemplation to a Buddhist interested in the path of acceptance as the route to the prevention of suffering. This topic is sensitively explored in one of my most favourite films Kokoro, which amongst other themes, explores the drift from the upkeep of law and order and security, into fascism that occurred in Europe at this time. Essential viewing in my humble opinion. Unfortunately it's almost impossible to obtain on dvd in the UK, but it is available on YouTube although there are one or two annoying corruptions in the soundtrack they don't interfere with the impact of the film.
https://youtu.be/rAhnOJ1DORM
My hosts had recommended I should take the time to explore the region around the town of Regneville and I'm very glad I took their advice. It has a beautiful unspoilt atmosphere, prosperous without being over developed, a quite unique seaside experience. Close by there are some impressive lime kilns, enormous structures used for cooking up limestone to make cement. They are in a good state of repair and testify to the huge impact this industry had in the locality. It doesn't take too long to notice, when you are in France, what an important part cement has played in their economy. Most of the street signs and lampposts were until very recently made of concrete, not to mention it's importance in buildings and roads.
As I took up my journey southwards, I was relieved to hear news from my next warm showers contact that accommodation for the night had been confirmed, near the town of Vains, on the coast opposite the impressive citadel of Le Mont St Michel.
All my doubts about the performance of Mi Czecki Mapi, (as I now refer to my satnav), have disappeared. The route she gave me was perfect, along rambling country lanes with hardly a car in sight and no lorries at all, and I quickly galloped up the kilometres. On the way I began to notice the effects of the summer drought, the remains of some smaller wildfires, the fact that many municipal taps and fountains were switched off, but above all the strong impression of heat rising from the ground which acted like a huge storage heater and became evident as soon as the wind subsided.
The Eddie Izzard within me can't help sharing this photo which illustrates my fascination with the interdynamics of French and English language. I once read that all the English words that end in ion, ent or ous are of French origin and that if you take this on board you have an instant vocabulary of many thousands of words. It's a good place to start, but can lead to some "inventive associations" that may not necessarily reflect reality. See what you make of these.
What they all have in common I cannot begin to comprehend, carpentry, blankets, zinguerie (must be zinc, but sounds like it's more to do with those mythical mermaids called Zingarels), wooden bones, isolation and bardage. What the hell could bardage be other than Druidic singing? All together on an out of town industrial estate. I practically fell off my bike laughing!
Anyway I managed to maintain my balance and my commitment to the journey and soon found myself in the rue des pêcheurs, an ancient street in the tiny village of St Léonard the home of my next warm showers hosts, Benoît and Christine. Christine is the headmistress of a local primary school, Benoît a réfrigération engineer working in research and development. Benoit's father is in hospital dying of cancer and he was out visiting when I arrived. I offered to cancel the visit but Christine insisted that it would be good for them to have some distraction from their worries, so I took them at their word and I'm glad that I did as we were able to make a meaningful conversation. Asking about my plans for tomorrow I mentioned that although I had passed by and seen le Mont St Michel several times, I had never had the opportunity to visit. They both agreed that it would be very worthwhile, and the place obviously cast an enduring influence over the whole region. Once again I was genuinely humbled by the kindness and generosity of my hosts, taking in a complete stranger in a time of personal distress, and I thought again of the Catholic worker farm and our calling as humans to look out for one another and to offer hospitality to those in need.
