Autumn in Normandy - Part III

And here is my latest blog post about Normandy. 

Giverny was the only town I had already explored, several years ago, with my parents. Yet I felt compelled to return. Once again, extracts from my diaries will speak for me about the visit.

Giverny

How many years have passed? Fourteen, fifteen? The exact number now blurs in my memory. The first time I entered Monet’s gardens, I was wearing a floral dress, I had long, curly hair, and a timid smile.
Following the stream’s gentle flow as it merges with the famous water lilies lake, I gaze out and catch a glimpse of that younger self, the same floral dress, the same smile. I take a photo from the exact spot where I stood years ago. This time, behind the camera, I carefully frame the scene: rounded leaves floating on the water, delicate flowers, and climbing plants. I try to escape the crowd, meticulously composing the shot to keep the background as clean as possible, preserving only the garden and my memories.
I find myself wondering about Monet. How did he walk these paths? Through what lens of perception did he observe this landscape? I look around with sparkling enthusiasm, feeling the past and present merge seamlessly. As I continue exploring the house and the rooms that breathe with history, I wonder if I will feel the same next time, if in twenty or thirty years I will return and remember the girl and the woman who were happy here.

Vernon

The visit to Giverny, which concluded with a soft vanilla ice cream sprinkled with locally produced chocolate chips (the chocolate shop is a lovely modern corner nestled among old houses), was followed by a visit to the Château de Bizy, in the outskirts of Vernon. Here, the splendours of the past have been partially lost. The elegance of the building, with its rooms and small treasures (tapestries, a painted piano from 1855, paintings, a letter written by Napoleon), clashes with the neglected garden, where only scattered fragments hint at its former grandeur. The happiness felt earlier gives way to an unusual melancholy, which becomes tangible when the tour guide encourages me to press the keys of the ancient piano with a smile. I find myself looking around, wondering which spirits of the past I might have awakened.

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