time and Giverny

This year, I gain an hour twice: today, when Daylight Savings Time ends in most of Europe (only Russia and Belarus do not observe DST) and next Sunday, when it ends in most of the States (Hawaii and Arizona do not observe it).

Ah, the gift of more time!

In fact, France and Spain are weird about the issue of time. Geographically, they are due south and in Spain's case, even to the west of the U.K., yet for political reasons, time-wise, since the end of World War II, these two countries have chosen to align themselves with the rest of central Europe, so that Paris, just south of London, is one hour ahead of it in time, even as it shares the time zone of Warsaw, which is nearly 900 miles to the east. (An expat here from the States writes about the joy of being closer, for just this one week, in time to the US in a NYTimes article here.)

And so today, I wake up to a brighter morning, but I know that the sun sets at 5:42, as opposed to yesterday's luxuriously later 6:45.

This makes for an interesting situation at Monet's gardens (which shut down for the season in a few days). The closing time this week and only this week is after sunset. (The gardens close each day at 6 p.m.)

Wouldn't it be grand to be in Monet's garden at dusk? You can only do it now, this week and hope that it will be a sunny set of days, so that you can actually witness the sun recede from the vantage of this magic landscape.

And true to the forecast, I wake up to a sunny day. Looking out at Francine and Michel's garden:






Breakfast first -- the magnificent, delectable, artfully presented (then gobbled all too quickly) breakfast.






And then I set out. (A Sunday walk in the country will inevitably put you face to face with cycling enthusiasts in France.)


 



But suddenly, I'm undecided. There appears one solitary cloud in the sky. Well now, where there is one, there will be more. What if, what if the skies cloud over by afternoon? What if I pass on this beautiful morning light in the garden in favor of an evening dapple that in fact will not materialize, giving me, instead the Normandy grayness I have come to associate with trips to Giverny?

When I made my travel plans earlier this month, my stay in Giverny was never supposed to be about Monet's garden. I just needed to stay away from expensive Paris, without going far. I wanted a place to walk. I found this delightful b&b here and I thought no more about it. Yes, I'd go to Monet's garden, but mainly I would take in the October colors from the paths that meander into the Giverny hills.

But now that I am here, I feel the onset of that Giverny pressure. How should I optimize the visit? How best to use the good weather and avoid the crowds?

Ed has always said that I'm one of the most risk-averse people he knows and so perhaps it is predictable that when I stepped outside and saw that first cloud, I ditched my evening-at-the-garden plans and headed straight for Monet's house and garden now.

And it was not very crowded at all. I got to it just a few minutes after the opening hour and right away it was obvious that end of October is not many people's favorite times to visit Giverny.

The fact is, 99.9% of the 700,000 who came here this year, came for the gardens and the assumption is that by this time of the year, Monet's gardens kind of looks like your own garden back home: over and done with. Limp.

Oh, but they're not limp! The use of perennials may be the backbone of the garden, but now, in late fall, it's the annuals that still remain vivid and strong: dahlias are the flower of choice. As is the cosmos. As is the beloved capucine (nasturtium).

Let me lead you through the garden, in the dazzling morning light of autumn. I first fell in love with perennial beds in England, but here, in Giverny, the image of my own garden was first formed.






Monet's gardens are not intimate. Or, you could say that one must find intimacy in their enormity. I feel that way about the farmette gardens as well. You must take in the whole and that whole includes the farmhouse and the sheep shed. Of course, my aspirations are tiny, really teeny tiny compared to what Monet worked (or, had his and Alice's children work) to accomplish.


 


His "second' garden, the one with the pond and, come summertime, the water lilies, is where I spend most of my photographic minutes. I have to wait a little for the people to pass, but they do pass. It's early in the day and late in the season -- a gentler time to be here, for sure!












For Monet, the pond was an essential element of the garden: not only did it provide a base for the water lilies, but it doubled the beauty of the plant life around it.






I have assumed that the lilies would be over and done with and I am not wrong in this. Fallen leaves have taken their place on the water.






And then I take a second look. One lily still remains!






Sometimes in Monet's garden, you are so drawn to what is at foot level, that you forget to look up!






And then you look down and up and down again and all around, and the joy is just huge!






I am so deeply, deeply satisfied!



(a selfie on a time release)


And of course, because Giverny has not had a hard frost, the other masterpiece of this place -- the Grande Allee de Capucines is at its most glorious full bloom. Looking toward the house:






A closer look at the beloved nasturtium, not unlike mine, but here, it's trailing from beneath the dahlias:






Looking from the opposite end, toward the gate (where a kiss is taking place):






I leave in a daze.

You have to walk through the gift shop to exit and my hand has greed written into it now. I want so much to take this morning home with me!

Wait. Pause. Don't buy. You cannot take it home.

But but -- this is beautiful, and look at this dish, and this set of...

Wait.

I ask the sales lady -- if I come back toward the end of the day, will they let me into the store? (The store is after the ticket check and they do not normally allow you to come back inside on the same ticket.)
Yes, of course. Just come late. It will be fine.

My garden visit is over. But I have lots to do today still!

I visit the Museum of Impressionism. They have a display of Monet's garden photography and as I walk through the (nearly empty) rooms, I think -- perhaps I should have come here first. It's very inspiring. I understand the challenges of photographing the place -- I've just gone through it. It's helpful to see how the masters did their craft (in much the same way that reading good books helps you to become a good writer).

Alright. Cultural stuff to the side, I head for the trails. It's a glorious day, though the clouds are indeed multiplying.






I pick a 2.5 hour trail into the hills and yes, it does offer grand views of the Seine River valley...





...but halfway into the walk, I get lost.

The problem with having a trail map is that once you are off trail, you have no idea where you are. I am so completely lost in the forest that I get edgy about it. Every acorn drop is a startle.


 


I come to a fenced military base and the warning signs have dire symbols that even the non French speaking person would understand. They mean keep out or else.

Eventually, I decide that I have probably strayed so far off course that I'm likely to emerge in Paris by the time I leave the forest. I turn back. With great relief. Happy to see civilization again. And the River Seine.






And Giverny.





And now the afternoon is creeping up on me and I have some decisions to make. Giverny is suddenly feeling very populated, in not an unpleasant sort of way. Because it's Sunday, the small groups of tourists are in the minority and the French presence is palpable.



(close to Snowdrop's age?)


Think of it this way: if you lived in, say Paris, and most of the stores closed on you Sundays, wouldn't you force yourself to take your family on an outing into the countryside? Giverny is a good choice -- it's close, it offers a nice stroll (with beautiful fall colors -- here, you see my beloved Gaura against a backdrop of flaming ivy)...


 



... perhaps a visit to the garden, perhaps a lunch en plein air. (How can I tell who is French? Well, the language, of course, and, too, French people have very sensitive-to-cold necks.)











So, should I join the lunch crowd? Except for yesterday's creperie, every eatery here closes early today.

I have a plan: why not go to Les Nympheas? It's a cafe restaurant just outside the entrance to the gardens and I love it for its kind staff. Not long ago they saved my life, or at least my day, by finding a way for me to get back to the train station in time for a train to Rouen. It's a simple place, but it serves solidly good food, despite the fact that most of its business is from the tourists that flock here after a walk through the gardens. (So much is it tied to tourism that it closes next week for four months, just like the gardens!)

I come in at 4, just a little while before they, too, close for the day and I have a lovely quiche with a salad...


 


... and, because it's my last day in Normandy, I take a slice of their apple tart, with Normandy cream -- a cream so naturally sweet, that no one would ever think to put sugar in it.






The staff and management gather around the bar at closing time. I ask if they've had a good year. It was okay -- I'm told. I sense their tiredness, even though they are professional and swift and always, always obliging.






The cafe-restaurant has a lovely gift shop to the side (both are owned by the Monet Foundation). Wouldn't you want to bring home some flowers for your winter table back home?






And now it's after five and I take the plunge. The skies are clearing again and I walk over to the gardens and ask the admission guard if I may reenter to pick up something at the gift shop and to take a picture or two.

He shrugs with a half smile and waves me in.

I feel incredibly lucky and guilty, too, because no one should have their cake and eat it too and here I am, just as the sun is about to set and the place is so empty, SO EMPTY, that it's almost as if I have broken in after hours and now am stealthily making my way through the typically crowded even in the best of times alleys and pathways.






It is a beautiful hour! One that can only bring tears of joy.

Quietly, stealthily, walk with me.






The Grande Alee, one more time, because it's different now, in the evening!






The bridge, empty.






The last rays...






And now the sun has set.












And a little giddiness takes over too, because why not play for a bit? Why not indulge myself in something I would never be able to do in high season or even shoulder season, in fact any season at all, except just this week, when the sun sets early and no one in their right mind would choose to visit Monet's garden in Giverny.











I leave just as they're getting ready to close.


 








One last look...






...and I'm out on Giverny's main street again. The sun has set...


 


... the strollers are ambling toward waiting cars. Me, I'm ambling over to the bakery, where madame has promised to save half an evening baguette for me. Since my quiche wasn't filling enough to serve as both lunch and supper, I thought I'd beg off some of the Neufchatel cheese from Francine and eat that for a Normandy supper, accompanied by the Normandy (hard) cider  that my hosts have left in my minifridge.

And when Francine returns from a coastal visit with her brother (the traffic! All those Parisians returning to the city after the weekend! It took forever!), she is generous as always and brings out not only the cheese, but some fruit and her wonderful home made quince squares and here's a real treat -- slices of foie gras that she just happened to have at home.






I ask her why they decided to move here (now some thirty years ago), because surely during the high season, it must be tortuous to face the daily crowds outside. She laughs. When we moved here, Monet's house was still in disrepair. Yes, it was Monet's house, but the gardens were destroyed and no one came here. The investment in them (much of it from American sources, BTW) happened later. We are lucky because we are at the edge of the village. No one bothers coming this far. Our friends, living closer to the heart, have had to make far greater adjustments!


The moon shines brightly over Michel and Francine's home and garden and I hope over your home as well.





Post Scriptum:

After two days of rather massive photo postings (44 today!), I'll be slowing down for a bit. Tomorrow I travel to Warsaw and an in-transit day is never very photogenic in my mind. Surely airports and train stations are no Monet's garden at dawn and dusk, though perhaps the great artist may, at one point in his life, have disagreed.

a day of two villages and 37 photos

You have to travel by train from Paris to Vernon (pop. 25,000) in order to access Giverny (pop. 500), which confuses tourists no end, so much so that they now put up a sing on the train station that this is the Vernon-Giverny stop.

In fact, the two places are only four kilometers apart. That's enough to make me hesitate about combining both in one day of ramblings. And so for today, I choose only one -- Vernon.

The reason for this? Well, the weather is good, but tomorrow it's slated to be great. That means I want to go to Monet's gardens tomorrow. Too, the hike into the hills rising above Giverny will be finer on a sun dappled day. And so today, I do the "remains" -- the secondary stuff, all concentrated around Vernon. As you'll see, the secondary stuff may sometimes be finer (or as fine) as the primary stuff.

Since I do want to post many photos (see title above), I'll keep my text short. I'll announce photos as they come along.

Out my bedroom window I see that the sun is ready to finally crawl into our day. We're looking out at the village church (this is where Monet is buried).







Breakfast at Les Arceaux is lovely! Francine and Michel wheel the food cart out. At the bottom level, you'll see the bakery products from Giverny's boulangerie, along with three northern France cheeses: the little goat cheese, the square Brie, and the Normandy Neufchatel cheese (the heart shaped one in the photo; story has it that the French farm girls fell in love with the English soldiers of the conquering army back in the 11th century -- and so they made cheeses that spoke of their affection).






Michel makes rice pudding and also pears stewed in red wine. I am to have some of each, plus a wonderful mango apple kiwi salad. I ate (nearly) the whole thing! You see all this on the top level of the cart.






My put together breakfast:






As I eat and look out at the garden of my hosts, I'm thinking that it must be hard to maintain a yard if you live in Giverny. The pressure! Most gardens here are lovely. I mean really lovely. Michel and Francine (my hosts) too, pay attention to detail, including in the rear garden to the back of the house. Here is one view of it:






Here's the view to the front, beyond their yard.






As I said, I spend the day in and around Vernon. Michel drops me off downtown. There is an old section to this Normand town (you'll see it further down), but here, I want to show you the commercial heart, which, too, is rather pretty, I think.






(Passing the bakery makes me wince. The cake that gave our wickedly attacked cheeper her name...)






Today is market day in Vernon and so I head to the square first. Here's a wise man, doing the perfect shopping run for his wife (I'm making guesses here), with a bouquet of roses thrown in to honor her loveliness.






The market is vast and has a little of everything, from oysters (Michel is picking up those) to lobsters, to produce, to shoes...






... to beautiful mushrooms of the season. Cepes would be porcini in Italy and maslaki in Poland.






Here, you see several generations of family attentively listening to the vendor's explanation of the sausage selection. Everyone is fascinated. The steam is from a boiling pot of cabbage for a choucroute dish.






I am in Normandy. You can never forget that. In France, each region has an architectural style. Here is a sampling of buildings that are oh so typical of this area!
















(The skies turned momentarily blue at about midday. What an unexpected surprise! Normandy tends to be wet, hence the great pastureland, the cows, the apples, the superb cheeses.)






I'm just at the outskirts of Vernon now, heading toward the Chateau de Bizy (a Renaissance castle and park). The avenue leading up to the entrance is gorgeous!






I only visit the park. I'm not sufficiently appreciative of chateau interiors to justify the entrance fees. But the park here is well worth the 4 Euros. It's beautiful, especially now, as the colors of the trees turn to their radiant fall hues. I honestly think they planted trees here with Fall in mind, they are that lovely now.






Here's a surprise: cyclamen flowers, wildly in bloom! Guess who hasn't had their frost yet! (And just to make you weak with jealousy if you hate your own winter weather, Normandy escaped a hard frost all of last winter.)






(Mushrooms, because it has been a wet fall.)






Hills in the distance, chateau parks in the foreground. Beautiful!






If I lived here, I'd get a year's pass and come with a stroller (in which there should be a grandchild) every single day of the year.






The walks we would take!






The flowers we would get to know!






The beauty of Fall is ever present today.






Okay. Let me not overwhelm you. I walk back to town. I do a little shopping. Perhaps it seems odd to you that I should pick up little thises and thats for Snowdrop when I am in France (as there are plenty of nice thises and thats for toddlers in the States). Or perhaps you've guessed that it's more than just bringing her stuff from France. In shopping for my granddaughter (or for my own daughters for that matter), I feel like I am not just a spectator -- I am participating in life here. I have a grandchild. I must pay attention to her even while I am here. This is one of the many ways in which I do just that. Today's Snowdrop stuff (note the warm cap!)






And now I pass a bakery. I'm tempted, especially by this tray of very small pastries. I move on.






In the old part of Vernon, you'll still see the timbered buildings that are so typical of Normandy towns.






I'm making my way to the Vernon Museum. Michel recommended it to me - I'd never seen it before.

The Museum is small and I am actually interested in only one third of it -- having to do with Impressionist paintings. I am the only visitor in the entire museum. Imagine that!

Michel told me that 700,000 people came to Giverny this year (the gardens are about to close, so we can hold on to this number as a firm one). He says that next year, they're expecting 800,000. I remember reading last year that the Monet house and gardens have a new director. Is he responsible for the uptick? My host says it's too early to say that. Still, there are just a boatload of tourists making the trip here each year (mostly by tour bus, but a sizable minority come by train; Japan has contributed more than it's fair share; the US too, though Michel says the Chinese are making a spectacular appearance as well).

So why are there no visitors at the Museum, where you can actually look at authentic Impressionist paintings?

The person who is manning the rooms (is he the curator? the guard? a friend of either?) and who is making sure I don't cut out with one or two of the canvases wrapped and stuffed underneath my jacket tells me that most people just follow the guide to the gardens and that it takes an inquisitive type to make the trip here. He tells me that the main Monet canvas (donated by Claude's family to the museum) is at this moment on loan to Denmark, but they have another that can fill the gap. Here you see three canvases -- to the left, by Claude Monet, to the right -- by Blanche Hoschede Monet.






Claude Monet's life was full of drama (or, you could say that he lived long enough to experience a human being's full range of turmoils), but perhaps what bears mentioning here is his complicated family life: a wife, two children, then the wife Camille's premature death of cancer at 32. When she dies, Claude moves in with his friends Alice and Ernest Hoschede and their six children and Alice helps Monet raise his two sons as well (meaning she probably single handedly raised eight children). Soon after, Alice and Ernest split up and Alice and all the kids move with Claude to various places until Claude discovers Giverny. They settled there and when Ernest dies, Claude marries Alice. Story's not over! Her daughter, Blanche, marries his son Jean. An interesting twist, no?

It is the art of Blanche that especially dazzled me. (As the museum person explained to me, she was at once Monet's step daughter and his daughter-in-law, which, I learned today, in French happens to be the same word -- "belle-fille.")

I'm told that this particular painting of hers shocked and horrified the community. Why do you think?








The museum person explains that she chose to put summer haystacks into a winter landscape.
Well so what? I ask. It could be leftover hay that was never picked up by the farmer.
Oh no, he tells me. See how there is no snow covering the haystacks? The painting has deliberately mixed the seasons.

I finish my museum walk through and I pause at the teeny tiny gift shop. My guard/explainer and the ticket agent at the desk are the only people in the building. I thank them for all their generous help and detailed stories. One of them shoots up and goes off for a minute, bringing back a picture of the mill at the edge of the River Seine. He hands it to me. A gift. To allow you to think back to Vernon.

I'm touched. I feel we're friends for life, though of course I know that I'll not likely see these two wonderful, earnestly helpful men again.

So this is it for my own encounters with Vernon. I leave...






... and I cross the bridge over the River Seine and admire for the n -th time the mill and towers of a palace that was important to the region once...]






And then I walk back to Giverny.  (Yes, there are reds!)                                                         
 





Along the River Seine.






Past Normandy homes.






Dinner. Here's a thing to note about Giverny: it has a handful of eateries and they cater for the most part to the tourists who pass through here. I noticed last night (and this is confirmed in reviews of the favored restaurants here) how friendly and eager the wait staff is, despite this roving clientele. Michel and Francine rarely (ever?) eat in Giverny. They'll pop over to the more sedate village next door for their night out. Still, the food in Giverny is not bad. It's not spectacular and perhaps not something I'll remember ten years from now, but honestly, I've now had two very good and inexpensive dinners here.

Today, I went to the Restaurant-Creperie Musardiere, a family run place that serves a fixed price menu or (as was my choice) an a la carte selection of buckwheat crepes (northern France's favorite). So, vegetable soup, followed by the Crepe Giverny which had apples and camembert and (by my choice) an egg. (That's a half bottle of white burgundy you see at the side -- pretty much my favorite wine, tantalizingly inexpensive in France.) It was delicious!








The moon shines brightly over Giverny tonight. It should be a beautiful day tomorrow.