This is part 6 of my series of posts relating the visit my son Alex and I made this past summer to Belgium and Northern France. As I write this, France is much in the minds and hearts of many of us, and my thoughts and prayers are with the French people.
At the end of my previous post we were leaving Reims. Meandering down side roads through forets full of renards, we headed toward Epernay.
At the end of my previous post we were leaving Reims. Meandering down side roads through forets full of renards, we headed toward Epernay.
Un renard dans le foret. Photo by Alexander Mawyer.
The region was replete with wineries and tour routes, and it would have been next to impossible to drive in the wrong direction.
The map. Photo by Alex Mawyer.
The green on the above map represents the principal terroirs of arguably the most famous grapes in the world.
Hautvillers would be a great place to stay for a few days. Among its treasures is the Abbey of Saint Sindulph, before whose altar is the grave of Dom Pierre Perignon (1638-1715).
Saint Sindulphe’s, also known as the Abbey of Hautvillers. Photo by Alex Mawyer.
Grave of Dom Perignon. Photo by Alex Mawyer.
Wikipedia has a balanced view of this legendary character popularly credited with inventing champagne.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dom_P%C3%A9rignon_%28monk%29
As Tacitus once noted, success has a hundred fathers but failure is an orphan. Bubbly wine is prehistoric, but technology was needed for bubbly wine to become champagne, including the invention of thicker bottles to reduce the risk of explosion, a development that came after Perignon’s time. Perignon’s contributions seem to have been taste, method and planning; in effect, the ability to control the fermentation reactions, the ancestral Méthode Champenoise itself. As a refiner of existing techniques, Dom Perignon should be the patron saint of editors. The official patron saint of editors, Saint Bosco, is weirdly shared as the patron saint of chocolate syrup. To the Pope I say, “Please let us have Dom Perignon instead.” Perignon’s miracles have always been obvious, even to nonbelievers.
The Abbey of Hautvillers is modest, charming, and musty.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dom_P%C3%A9rignon_%28monk%29
As Tacitus once noted, success has a hundred fathers but failure is an orphan. Bubbly wine is prehistoric, but technology was needed for bubbly wine to become champagne, including the invention of thicker bottles to reduce the risk of explosion, a development that came after Perignon’s time. Perignon’s contributions seem to have been taste, method and planning; in effect, the ability to control the fermentation reactions, the ancestral Méthode Champenoise itself. As a refiner of existing techniques, Dom Perignon should be the patron saint of editors. The official patron saint of editors, Saint Bosco, is weirdly shared as the patron saint of chocolate syrup. To the Pope I say, “Please let us have Dom Perignon instead.” Perignon’s miracles have always been obvious, even to nonbelievers.
The Abbey of Hautvillers is modest, charming, and musty.
Abbey of Hautvillers. Photo by Alex Mawyer.
Founded more than a century before the birth of Charlemagne, the Abbey of Hautvillers has been burned and sacked or at least vandalized over and over again. It spent 200 years as a mere tumbled ruin among the roadside weeds. But for some reason this abbey has always been rebuilt whenever circumstances allowed. Several stone blocks belonging to the original 7th Century foundations can still be seen today.
Where Charlemagne may very well have tethered his horse. Photo by Gary Mawyer.
One of its treasures is a piece of Saint Helena.
Fragmentary remains of Saint Helena. Photo by Gary Mawyer
This seems almost staggeringly appropriate, since Saint Helena, the mother of Constantine the Great, may have started and certainly promoted the whole industry of gathering relics. Her expeditions to the Holy Land were conducted at a time when the Gospels were only a couple of centuries old. The pickings she came across were amazing.
Relic veneration was no transient mania. Hundreds of years after Helena, historians recorded the return of the survivors of the First Crusade to their native cities in Northern France and Flanders — bands of sunburnt and bearded warriors garbed in oriental robes, carrying in their luggage an incalculable wealth of mummified heads, petrified hearts and other organs, femurs, teeth, finger bones, toe bones, the original spear stuck into Jesus on the cross, and anything else of the kind they had uncovered. But the real tsunami of holy relics came after the fall and sack of Constantinople in the Fourth Crusade, on April 12, 1204 CE, a date that will live in infamy. Before then, Crusaders had to be content with things St. Helena did not find first. But in 1204 her whole vast collection, which included most of the True Cross, all the Holy Family’s next-of-kin, and several entire disciples, was carried off to Western Europe — and her own sacred remains too, looted along with the rest. Such a supernaturally exquisite irony deserves more than one toast in the best possible champagne. Sometimes history actually makes perfect sense.
On to Epernay.
Relic veneration was no transient mania. Hundreds of years after Helena, historians recorded the return of the survivors of the First Crusade to their native cities in Northern France and Flanders — bands of sunburnt and bearded warriors garbed in oriental robes, carrying in their luggage an incalculable wealth of mummified heads, petrified hearts and other organs, femurs, teeth, finger bones, toe bones, the original spear stuck into Jesus on the cross, and anything else of the kind they had uncovered. But the real tsunami of holy relics came after the fall and sack of Constantinople in the Fourth Crusade, on April 12, 1204 CE, a date that will live in infamy. Before then, Crusaders had to be content with things St. Helena did not find first. But in 1204 her whole vast collection, which included most of the True Cross, all the Holy Family’s next-of-kin, and several entire disciples, was carried off to Western Europe — and her own sacred remains too, looted along with the rest. Such a supernaturally exquisite irony deserves more than one toast in the best possible champagne. Sometimes history actually makes perfect sense.
On to Epernay.
Photo by Alex Mawyer.
Photo by Alex Mawyer.
Photo by Alex Mawyer.
Here and above, Avenue de Champagne, lined with the mansions and cellars of the great champagne barons. Photos by Alex Mawyer.
The explosion in Epernay’s wealth dates from the popularization of champagne in the 19th Century. Aggrandizement continues. We reached Epernay in the afternoon, and found it calm, sleepy, somewhat deserted. Despite the wealth on display, Epernay is a rural place. There are plenty of organized cellar tours, but we had just missed the last tour of the day. Epernay has any number of walk-in tasting rooms. You can wander at random and see what happens, and no harm done. We repaired to a wine store and found the shelves filled with legends and myths and holy relics, all for sale at local prices.
Photo by Alex Mawyer.
We did well. There was also a friendly and relaxing café with exquisite local macaroons close by, where we could catch our breath and calm down.
I remember Epernay as quite lively – that is, everyone we met was vivacious — but objectively Epernay was not at all crowded.
I remember Epernay as quite lively – that is, everyone we met was vivacious — but objectively Epernay was not at all crowded.
Quiet Epernay street. Photo by Alex Mawyer.
We left town in late afternoon, idly fossicking toward Châlons-en-Champagne, sort of, by way of yet more champagne bushes on the hillsides of the Côte des Blancs.
Church rising from the grapes. Photo by Alex Mawyer.
Romanesque church door. Photo by Gary Mawyer.
The late afternoon sunlight brought out the saturated colors and hidden shadows in the terrain. Without the signposts, we might have wondered where exactly we were.
One wonders where one is. Photo by Gary Mawyer.
One wonders where anyone is. Photo by Gary Mawyer.
View toward View toward Châlons-en-Champagne. Photo by Alex Mawyer.
The land glided along silkily, its meanings concealed. Nothing has really been really forgotten. But the sense of superposition, of a layered past, is inherently the outsider’s sense. To the native initiated in this soil and air, it is all one thing.
Châlons, down the traditional invasion route from Epernay, shares in common with a lot of Northern French towns what a science fiction writer might call “The Armentieres Paradox.” No doubt there is a modern Châlons with 3 or 4 Starbucks locations and a row of fine restaurants near the university, a couple of multiplex theaters and several streets for boutique shopping, three or four well-heeled suburbs, and an outer ring of malls and car dealerships. But we never saw this side of France, not in Armentieres and not in Châlons. Instead we invariably drove to some dominant gothic spire and parked.
Châlons has two of these stupendous monuments. The first we encountered was Notre-Dame-en-Vaux, stuffed into a modern vehicular intersection like the stake in a vampire’s heart. We were late in the day and the basilica was closed, and we were very, very sorry, because this was no medieval afterthought. It was a ship-of-the-line among basilicas, its construction having begun in 1157 and finished in 1217.
Châlons, down the traditional invasion route from Epernay, shares in common with a lot of Northern French towns what a science fiction writer might call “The Armentieres Paradox.” No doubt there is a modern Châlons with 3 or 4 Starbucks locations and a row of fine restaurants near the university, a couple of multiplex theaters and several streets for boutique shopping, three or four well-heeled suburbs, and an outer ring of malls and car dealerships. But we never saw this side of France, not in Armentieres and not in Châlons. Instead we invariably drove to some dominant gothic spire and parked.
Châlons has two of these stupendous monuments. The first we encountered was Notre-Dame-en-Vaux, stuffed into a modern vehicular intersection like the stake in a vampire’s heart. We were late in the day and the basilica was closed, and we were very, very sorry, because this was no medieval afterthought. It was a ship-of-the-line among basilicas, its construction having begun in 1157 and finished in 1217.
Basilica of Notre-Dame-en-Vaux at Châlons-en-Champagne. Photo by Gary Mawyer.
Plainly the original Châlons road hub is now more a traffic obstacle than a traffic facilitator. No matter where you are going, you have to circle the basilica first.
We walked toward the Grand Place and the cathedral. Châlons was successfully old. It desperately calls for a closer look.
We walked toward the Grand Place and the cathedral. Châlons was successfully old. It desperately calls for a closer look.
Streets of Châlons. Photo by Gary Mawyer.
The streets lead to the Hotel de Ville and the Grand Place and then on to the Cathédrale Saint-Étienne de Châlons, consecrated in 1187 by Pope Eugene III. The cathedral begins as a Romanesque edifice and continues as a Gothic one until the far portico is reached, which was built in the Baroque style. Said to have an unprecedented amount of original medieval glass still in its windows, the Cathedral of Saint Étienne begged a few hours’ study but, alas, was also closed and our regret was keen. Châlons is still calling me to come back.
Cathédrale Saint-Étienne de Châlons at the end of the day. Photo by Gary Mawyer.
Architecture as a kind of madness. Photo by Gary Mawyer.
Glass of all eras. Photo by Gary Mawyer.
Anciens combattants. Photo by Gary Mawyer.
Next to the cathedral, atop an elaborate Great War memorial, old soldiers were marching toward their croix de bois in nearby Verdun, where we were headed next.
Châlons, or at least this part of it, closed before sunset, except for the astonishing revels of a squad of French Marines, their girlfriends and some hangers-on at the only café that was still open in the Grand Place. Whatever we had to drink was unmemorable and too warm, and we quickly realized the kitchen staff was consumed by the Rabelaisian task of keeping the Marines supplied; it would take hours for us to be served. We left.
We had reservations in the basically nonexistent village of Marre, 12 km from Verdun. That was why we had come to France in the first place. It was time to go there.
Châlons, or at least this part of it, closed before sunset, except for the astonishing revels of a squad of French Marines, their girlfriends and some hangers-on at the only café that was still open in the Grand Place. Whatever we had to drink was unmemorable and too warm, and we quickly realized the kitchen staff was consumed by the Rabelaisian task of keeping the Marines supplied; it would take hours for us to be served. We left.
We had reservations in the basically nonexistent village of Marre, 12 km from Verdun. That was why we had come to France in the first place. It was time to go there.
Sunset on the road from Châlons to Verdun. Photo by Alex Mawyer.
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