A cloudy day in Paris, with a chance of rain. It hardly matters. I'm traveling today. A forced exit because I know that if I stayed, I would not feel like taking a train out to the country for an afternoon, or a day. I would do what I did yesterday and the day before: walk the streets, visit museums, buy chocolate. And I really want that walk in the country. In a garden that's not touched by city noise, dust, debris. So today I leave for the country. My last two nights in France wont be in Paris.
Breakfast -- late as usual. (My bedtime last night? Don't even ask.) Only one other couple in the breakfast area. Americans. Perhaps my age. Can't really tell. Being the curious sort, they as our waiter what he does after he's done taking care of breakfast for Baume guests. Oh, I read books. I love to read, he tells them. And I run. I do not read the news -- too depressing. Indeed. I had checked my email and had gotten the usual Breaking New alerts. Horrible stuff. We seem to cultivate school shootings as a hobby back home. How depraved are we anyway? So much taking of human life, deliberately. We use guns to stop those with guns. So, more guns, an endless stream of guns. At some point will they think of you as insane if you dont have at least five stored in various closets? A couple of days ago I was at the post office in Paris buying some stamps. The woman didn't want to give me "just boring" ones so she proudly took out a pack of some iconic cartoon characters. Bad guys, good guys, shooting with guns. I said I'll take the boring ones. Why? -- she asks. These are classic cartoons from the past! I don't care. I'm American. For me, guns are not funny. Boring is way underrated.
And yet, if you think about it, most people are like our waiter here: they like to run, read books, find calm. A million, ten million of those for every one person whose brain malfunctions. I suppose there is hope in that.
(My last breakfast. I almost want to cry. It's very special for me at home (Millie's with me!), but here, it is pure harmony of the senses.)
This hotel never fails to charm me. When you come back to a place, you start to notice the progression of time. Things fade. An older patina sets in. Not at the Baume. The other time I asked -- is that new carpet on the stairs? They said -- no no, it's been there for a few years. How do they keep things so fresh? Outside in their courtyard, there are now tiny lights forming shapes of butterflies. Everyone comments on it. -- it's so pretty! You need unusual and rare managerial skills to run a place so beautifully.
And speaking of such skills, who should I see out on the street but Madame Harrault herself, riding her bike to work (she is the highly respected general manager at Le Baume).
We pause to talk for a few minutes. She always takes the time for me. She is by nature a warm and wonderful person. And inevitably I learn something from her. She tells me how French grandparents (and aunts and uncles) do presents in France. A great idea! I'll try it back home.
I'm out for just a short stroll, to one point and back again. With one last glance at places I know and, by virtue of their familiarity, love so much.
(many photos have been taken over the years of this mirror and the image in it!)
(home)
And at 11:45 I take a cab to the Gare Saint Lazare, the same station that you would use for a trip to Giverny, or to the Normandy coast. It's a busy but well orchestrated station. One level of shops, one of take away food venues. Screens showing where your train serving your station departs from (usually you have to remember the final station; this is so much better). I'm especially impressed because Snowdrop and I had such chaos using trains in Spain. Crowded spaces where you learned of your train platform less than ten minutes before it left. Here, efficiency rules. (And the ticket was an inexpensive 10 Euro and of course there's WiFi on the train.)
So am I going to be spending my last two night in Normandy? No, not exactly. I take the train to Bueil -- a small town in southern Normandy. But my country hotel sits right at the border of Normandy and the Val Loire (the Loire river valley) and technically it belongs to the latter, though culturally, they regard themselves as Normand.
My new for me hotel is the Domaine de Primard. French people think of it as the former home of Catherine Deneuve. I think of it as an 18the century estate on the river Eure, though I do smile at the thought of her once living here. I loved her in the Umbrellas of Cherbourg! Deneuve is 82 years old now (she has 5 grandchildren!) and lives in Paris right on the Place Saint Sulpice, which is a five minute walk from Le Baume.
For me, there were good reasons to pick this Domaine as a retreat. It had to be within a reasonably short driving distance to the airport (the Primard just manages to fit the bill on this!). It had to have a place to take a nice walk. And an informal dining room on the premises. And less expensive than the Champagne hotels, which in October are way beyond my retired person's pension. Champagne is closer to the airport, but the the Loire Valley offers more reasonable choices. That the Domaine de Primard also has a rose garden (250 varieties!) is a bonus that I only discovered after I fell in love with growing roses. True, they may be fading now, but it hardly matters. They haven't had a frost yet in central France. Something must still be blooming!
The train ride is brief -- not quite an hour. The hotel is about a mile from the station and there is a shuttle service to it. Even if you come by car, you cannot drive up to the Domaine. Walk a distance, or ask for a golf cart ride to the door.
My room? In a side building, but lovely! Nicely subdued and serene. I unpack all that I need to unpack.
I have no goals really, no plans. Take a walk. That's it. Their grounds won a gardening prize. They tell me it's the only hotel that received a "gardens of distinction" honor. It's not just the roses. They grow their vegetables. They farm animals here. There's a river and walking along its banks makes you remember what serenity feels like.
(A side stream that creates an island for the main house.)
(I hope this isn't next month's dinner here...)
(Is that an American Red Maple? I'll have to check it out tomorrow. Behind it -- a lake)
(The River Eure, not to be confused with the River Epte, which flows by Monet's house in Giverny which, by the way, is only 26 km or 16 mi away, but it takes half an hour to get there on these small rural roads. No thanks. I like the quiet here.)
(well positioned chairs)
(Dahlias, the veggie garden, and against the wall -- fruit trees.)
(... like these:)
(this is what being caught in a sudden cloudburst looks like!)
Between 4 and 5 they serve a tea (or coffee) with cakes if you want this. I do want this! True, I have a plate of gifted madelines and chocolate in my room (chocolate!), but I'm not one to pass up a free pastry and a latte.
I see it's going to be another carrot cake lunch for me. Supplemented with fruits and nuts this time. Including those French plums. Perfect.
I sit back in the large living room in their main house and think about where I am. The grounds are indeed extensive and beautiful in a nature sensitive kind of way (lawns have weeds, gardens have a pleasantly unkempt character -- it looks good that way). The rose garden is less perfect. A few blooms remain...
... but most leaves and flowers have given up the battle. Was it the weather, or is the lifecycle of French roses (or these roses) shorter? Ours, which n.b. are English and French and German varieties, bloom until frost.
I think about the hotel as well. I hear a lot of French. Exceptions: 1. there is an American family with three daughters, but listening in, I hear that he's actually German, and they live in London, where the girls attend the American school. It's complicated! 2. There is a family with a little girl who is maybe three years old. I heard her speak English. She sees my phone. She takes it. I ask her to give it back. No! Please? No! We do a few more rounds of this. Eventually, she throws it on the floor. Thanks, kid.
This Frenchness all around me (with these two glaring exceptions) surprises me, though perhaps it shouldn't. If you travel all the way to France why would you go to a place that is a retreat from cities, from the rest of French life? If you're me, that is exactly what you want to do, but not many would trade art, culture, cafe life for looking at two donkeys graze in a paddock. (They have donkeys as well.)
The staff here is remarkable. They will do anything for you, even before you ask. Between the two buildings, there are 37 rooms, and with the large grounds here, you can feel isolated even when you do not want to feel isolated. A friendly staff undoes the feeling of abandonment. I do not need someone to carry my coffee for me, but the concern is sweet.
Supper is at the hotel's informal Bistro Martin (they also have a well regarded posh restaurant here). The food is quite good and artfully prepared and for that there is a price of course.
(a meal of duck and potatoes never looked so good!)
Still, I'm eating less expensively on this trip than I would, were I to eat out in Madison. Which of course I never do. Only for family gatherings or to celebrate a birthday with Ed. [At the bistro, I have mushrooms as a first, duck as a second, and fruit as a dessert. With all that chocolate in the room (big thick slab -- I ate the whole thing), I think I'm good with just fruit for dinner.]
(the walk back to the house with my room...)
And yes, I should go to sleep now. Instead, I read up on starting dahlias indoors in early spring.
with so much love...
