Autumn in Normandy - Part I

This October holds a special meaning for me, as it welcomes the publication of my first Italian book, “Il coraggio di Bradamante e altre storie” (Bradamante’s courage and Other Stories). I have worked on it intensely for weeks, and I won’t deny that a holiday was what I needed, both to put together my fragmented and tired thoughts, and to find new sources of inspiration. 

Normandy has not disappointed me in this regard, nor have its wonderful cities.
I have chosen to accompany the photos of Caen, Mont Saint Michel, and Rouen taken during the trip with notes from my travel diary rather than with a list of places seen. This post summarises only the first days of the trip. The rest will come soon.

Caen

I woke up in France. The train, which had left London before dawn, crossed fields blurred by mist. First stop in Paris; a few hours spent walking from one station to another, and then I returned to the fields, this time bathed in sunlight, and reached Normandy.
It was in Caen where this journey began. William the Conqueror was my guide for the afternoon. I followed him to reach the Men’s Abbey, where his tomb is, and to discover more about the history not just of the city but of the entire region. The streets of the center, where I got lost right after, were crowded with young people with backpacks still on their shoulders, bags on their arms, and a glass of cider or beer in hand. I saw some of the typical half-timbered houses; a few were hidden in courtyards that I peeked into timidly, others were suffocated by the colours of modern shops.
History blew through the alleys, lightly. It didn’t impose itself, didn’t demand to be admired above everything else. It let itself be crossed through quietly.

Mont-Saint-Michel

It appeared at the end of the road, in the space between the trees and the sky. Like a creature covered in the scales of centuries, Mont-Saint-Michel came to meet me.
The high tide had just passed, but large pools of water remained, like mirrors, reflecting the gold of the Archangel Michael atop the church and the few clouds that crowned it. After passing through the mount’s town gate, I climbed a few hundred stairs and reached the abbey. In the dark corridors, in the crypts, through the halls of this majestic building, in the refectory and the cloister, I felt as if I encountered all the monks who once inhabited these halls. In their place now, pilgrims and tourists file through with eyes full of wonder.
I observed them later from the terraces and the ramparts that protect the ancient village. They resembled caravans walking in the bay. The outlines of their bodies were blurred by the heat. They appeared out of nowhere, framed by the arrow slits, and made no sound, unlike the crowd buzzing behind me.
I wish I could have explored every corner of this ancient place in silence  and solitude, with nothing but my imagination for company. I would have believed it like a long, beautiful dream.

Bayeux

There’s a weary air, of a past that refuses to fall, like a yellow leaf
still firmly attached to its branch. This is how Bayeux appears to me,
with its old streets, where old houses huddle close together, old signs,
where clouds interweave with the usual old wooden beams. It seems that
war spared it, yet somehow, its acrid smell, its thick shadow, the fear
of those dark times have remained to inhabit it. Along with the rain
that falls intermittently, everything sighs: the water lifted by the
mill wheel, the door that opens slowly, the artificial flower tied to
the window frame. Only the tombs in the British war cemetery make no
sound, nor do the surrounding trees or the insects flying from plant to
plant. In my mind, there is only a soft voice reading: “age 20, age 19,
age 18…”.