V A is a long standing and recognised digital creative; her voice resonates with many. In the last ten years, the site has developed into an online destination for fashion, beauty and lifestyle advice. Her sense of style, editorial flair and practical counsel offers an inspired and graceful approach to living.

V A is a long standing and recognised digital creative; her voice resonates with many. In the last ten years, the site has developed into an online destination for fashion, beauty and lifestyle advice. Her sense of style, editorial flair and practical counsel offers an inspired and graceful approach to living.

Edit by: Vicki
Sep 17, 2009

Normandy Interlude

Bayeux tapestry, normandy, french essence, vicki archer

 

It is ‘raining , pouring the old man is snoring’ kind of weather this week in St Remy. The chill is well and truly in the air and the mist is hanging low and heavy over the house this morning. There are no complaints because I have had many sun filled and scorching days this summer but there is always a little part of me that laments the changing seasons; it is just one way that makes me only too aware that the clock is always ticking.
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Last week was entirely different and the days were warm and balmy; the strength of the sun’s rays made it hard to believe autumn had arrived. Mr FF and I drove up to Normandy to meet with friends for a few days and were greeted by blue skies; Normandy, capital of cream and camenbert, performed beautifully. With a colder and wetter climate than Provence, a climate reminiscent of England, we were expecting to rug up and spend our time looking out from beneath an umbrella. The umbrellas stayed in the car along with the sweaters, scarves and hats. I asked a local girl what the fuss was about, ‘ bad weather in Normandy’….I didn’t believe it. All I could see were clear skies ahead. She told me that July and possibly August are the two months of the year that don’t require heating and that normally it rains steadily throughout the year. It seems we were lucky.
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We explored lots, we saw lots and we ate lots. I learned that Normandy produces only four cheeses, Camenbert, Livarin, Pont l’Eveque – all named for the Norman towns where they were originally made – and the heart shaped Neufchatel, one of the oldest cheeses in France. If you are a cheese lover like me, a visit to this part of the world can only be described as deadly, dangerous and delicious. Bad weather and there is kind of an excuse to eat up. I had no excuse; weather was fine, dining was finer.
In between savoring the dairy delights of Normandy we managed to visit Joan of Arc’s Rouen, the riviera of the North and racing town of Deauville and the quaint fishing port of Honfleur.

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We spent the morning of September 11 at Omaha beach and were touched beyond words; the memorial for those brave soldiers lost in the June 1944 D Day landings is emotionally charging but also a tranquil, fitting and serene resting place for our heroes. That afternoon we went to Bayeux and saw the 70 metre long linen embroidered cloth (not technically a tapestry) commemorating the events leading up to the Norman conquest of England nearly a 1000 years earlier. Two battles, nearly eight hundred years apart remembered in entirely different ways but both equally extraordinary and moving.
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We visited Monet’s Giverny and yes it is just like the paintings. The water garden was the highlight for me and I have come home with an overwhelming urge to find water lilies for our pond. His home is maintained as it was and I presume that the gardens are re-planted each year as close to his original vision as possible. The flower gardens are a riot of colour; large cascading blooms overflowing and crowding the narrow paths and intricate walkways. This garden, unlike many French gardens, has a sense of mischief and fun to it; nothing clipped and nothing too serious.
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As I finish writing this little recap the mist is still hovering and the rain is gently falling. I can imagine Normandy on a day such as this; the wild rocky coastline and the contented cows grazing on her rich pastures. I can picture the mottled rose coloured hydrangeas that grace the roadways, fill the vases in the restaurants and the bunches that are sold for a song in the markets. I can envisage Monet in his garden surrounded by the flowers so dear to his heart,

 

I can feel for Joan of Arc and the life so perilously cut short in Rouen and I will never forget D Day, 1066 and all that. xv
Edit by: Vicki
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