moissac the abbey and a rembrandt

No petit déjeuner at the Le Moulin de Moissac this morning, we've got business at the Abbey.
We drive there, to the car park on the other side of the railway tracks that carved their way slap bang through the abbey's medieval refectory back in the C19th. Almost took out the cloisters as well, which is now the major cultural feature of this edifice, which we have bee-lined here for, as Adam hasn't seen it since he was knee high. M and self brought the senior sibling Terry here in September 2024 and renewed our acquaintance. 

Because in a country not short on exquisite cloister configurations St Pierre's Abbey I maintain, is absolutely premier division one. My camera took the day off today, without permission, while Sten says no to dawdling round ecclesiastical institutions and anyway it doesn't open til nine… so we sit out front of the magnificent entrance porch and have our breaky at a café in the square. The snaps herewith date from September 2024; am I glad I took them! This is a remarkable town in other ways too. Look at their history during the second world war and the occupation… I'm just saying…

A Unesco World Heritage site we have here, the whole abbey and its appurtenances.

People come from all over and it's on the pilgrimage route to Santiago-de-Compostela. I worked hard to keep the place looking deserted. It wasn't. 

Adam and Mary have availed themselves of the entrance fee and revisited St Pierre.

We meet up over the railway tracks and make a move. 

I'm not sure when it is that Adam and your author detect a departure from the approved route. The former certainly before latter. I have noted with regret that we've passed under, without stopping, the magnificent aqueduct near Agen carrying the Canal de Garonne over the river of the same name. But now here is the variation we mooted before even setting out on this holiday. 

I am directed… and do duly arrive in Le Mas d'Agenais where in the singular village church we encounter the Rembrandt. It is a crucifixion. The work has the distinction of being the only Rembrandt that is neither in a private collection or in an art gallery. It belongs to the church and the parishioners thereof. A Rembrandt, mind.

I've had the privilege of standing in close proximity to a Rembrandt before, in Holland. True, there is protective glass here but the presence of the painter's genius is hardly dimmed by it. We have this unique masterpiece to ourselves for, what, at least twenty minutes or more. Could have been longer… No queueing, no attendants, just a quiet Catholic church interior with the occasional parishioner in the nave or chancel. No entrance fee either. No priest, even. This is one of the world's greatest painters of all time. And this work is one of his. 

Be moved. 

Sorry about the reflections, but even these integrate the Christ figure with the church interior. Not a fan of crucifixions, me. But of Rembrandt? That I am. 

This photo representation of the work (above) is by Mme Melling.

Shortly after driving on, we dive down a country road to another river crossing, in a village, with a suspension bridge leading a single track road to a golf course. I mention it because we eat our sandwiches there. This side of the bridge. No idea where it is, or was. The river, neither.

We motor on, take refreshment at Sauveterre, then don't stop again until we get into the usual traffic mayhem of Rochefort. There's the hotel, there's a spot to park, let's get off to the crêperie (the new one just down the road is already closed and not trading) I limp all the way down there and shamble all the way back. Damn it. I liked my galette anyway and we did sink two bottles of rather dashing cidre brut. But bed's the thing. We are here for two nights but no one is too keen on going very far tomorrow… and we didn't.  

marseillan to moissac

 

As daylight returns, bats zip about the trees opposite the overnighter. We are down on the port rather earlier than usual (not having had the A9 hack down from 84110) looking for breakfast and all that. Mme Melling has gone and secured boulangerie requisites but for a worrying few minutes it looks as though no one wants to make an honest euro out of us and serve us with coffee to match. At last an ice cream parlour proprietor breaks ranks and we enjoy a last few minutes of refreshment (coffee, not glace you understand) before setting course to the next overnight oasis at Moissac. Mary secures filled baguettes and we get going. 

There's a market blocking the road to Agde so we go via Marseillan Plage instead. Béziers, St Chinian, and St Pons fly by under fairish skies as we climb through the southern bit of the Central Massif, before we jostle our way into Castres. Sorry about the lack of snaps through the lumpiness of the Central Massif: bendy roads, gorges and summit cols, you know the drill. The bleak industrial towns that punctuate our route have been covered to a slight extent in a post last year when we overnighted at Castres, as you'll recall, I have no doubt. Yeah Right. 

I'm not in good walking form today so confine my activities to sitting it out in the Castres square with 'uncle Sten', I wish he'd take a hike: Sten that is, not the fellow up on that plinth. A&M do some cultural mooching. Adam's first visit since he was in nappies. It is a fair town, so it is. Everybody visiting Castres simply must snap the river-edge houses that feature in the centre so here they are, on cue:

Again, sorry for the lack of a snap on the road thereafter, before reaching Moissac, and I have to reveal, I don't enjoy it so much, a bit unrelenting and rather urban, punctuating the intensive fruit growing that stretches to the horizon in all directions. Need to go another way next time m'thinks. With better views. 

I have to commend Mme Melling though, who readily directs the complicated but very worthwhile avoiding route round Montauban. So much so that we arrive in Moissac in time to go and seek the confluence of the rivers Garonne and Tarn from the high river-cliff viewpoint we think we know of, just up there.  

Except we don't, we've got confused with another viewpoint we visited a while back, overlooking the confluence of the Garonne and the Lot (that's another river) a bit further west. Unsurprisingly we fail at the first two attempts to find this panoramic delight and almost give it up, but as the realisation that we've never been up here before dawns on us, we do in fact make it to the official viewpoint. It has taken a while though and some choice expletives have been given an airing. For which I apologise. It was mostly me. Crap signage. 

What's that they are growing down there, you may be wondering? Very red apples mostly, that I think are principally for juicing because they taste awful if you chomp on one: I have in the past, and it was rubbish. Cordons, with hail protection nets… mass production and still not yet picked hereabouts, as yet. Can't be past their best, because they don't have a best, take it from me. 

We give up any hope of visiting the confluence down at river level and make our way to our hostelry in Moissac (the town is just round the corner from the river-join and firmly on the banks of the Tarn). A big old hotel, once the biggest water powered flour mill in France. Mary has secured us a superior room overlooking the river, the old mill wharf, and a noble squad of firefighters practising and honing their river life-saving skills far below. Adam sees kingfishers down there as well.  Mme Melling has taken an executive decision and booked us into the hotel's capacious restaurant where we eat a moderately good supper at an immoderately high price (well the wine is). Not our thing really, but Sten won't let me wander the streets looking for bistros, so needs must. 

Our foolish confusions regarding the confluence viewpoint has caused us to postpone our visit to the abbey until the morning. River mists hide this hotel window view on the morrow: the sapeurs-pompiers are long gone of course. We are off to the abbey.

footnote: Sten? Uncle Sten?? this refers to my current constant companion, Lumbar Stenosis, soon to be late of this parish I sincerely hope…

reflective returning

We didn't get sunsets at 1rueFB in Sablet: facing the wrong way we were. 

So at least, that was a plus when residing in Villedieu. The terrace looked west. 

Notwithstanding, we embraced more readily the rise of the shining orb above

 the Étang de Thau when we arose at Marseillan to drink it in, our first stop back on our journey to the hallowed shores of the motherland. 

No disrespect to Villedieu mind, just relief to be out of a holiday let that had so disappointed and frustrated us, that fell so short on what we had quite reasonably expected, but found wanting…

This is my record, for the record, of the journey back, because in many ways it made up for some of our discomfiture in Villedieu: some of it, not all of it. And most of what we did during our time in Villedieu was pretty fine, familiar, homecoming sort of stuff, the accommodation did not cloud those pleasures, well not much. 

I might have a stab at relating a bit about that month (for the record) but first…

the return.

We can't stop ourselves. Even when we have secured an additional day to ensure we don't conflict with the departure time required of us, so that we don't feel hassled, we still get going as early as 0900, but are happy to stop after a mere three or four kilometres, at Violès, where the best croissants in the Vaucluse can be secured, and consumed in the little bar next door. 

And because we are slightly relaxing now we don't join the A9 in Orange but drive to the Rhône crossing at Le Pont-de-Rochemaure (alongside the A9 and TGV bridges) where we resolve to give the autoroute a complete miss.

I won't detain you with the rather less than fascinating list of towns and villages this occasions us to find our way through… we complete, and reach the coast not far short of Frontignan. We take a breather to view the wondrous Canal du Rhône from Le Pont-des-Aresquiers, where it slices through the étangs close by the Mediterranean. Not that the ocean is much cop in this vicinity… although there is a fair old sprinkling of flamingos that hang around these shallow pools and lakes. And not just for the tourists either, you understand: I believe they are 'native'. 

We leave out Sète today and motor to good old Bouzigues where we once paddled with the son & heir when he was classified as a toddler. By now we are feeling the heat so as well as taking the air we take in some liquid refreshment: in that hotel with the weird lettering on it, which once refused to give us breakfast simply because we weren't resident. Mme Melling and self rented an apartment here when we were considering this bit of France for a potential house purchase. Without a boat of some sort? Er…… Sadly not. No chance then. 

Marseillan is just up the road now, through Mèze. We arrive, park up and get the keys. What a contrast! The coolest apartment that Mme M has somehow managed to secure, for just one night, because of the absence of suitable hotels. Fortuitous! Everything just so. Outside space, crisp and ultra clean. A bit of alright… mark it down…  I want to come this way again. 

The gaff even sports this fitting tribute to the Phare-des-Onglous, the feu that marks where the Canal-du-Midi enters the Étang-de-Thau, once a favourite early morning walk, once upon a time.  Class!  (Although fading a bit…)

We eat, naturally enough, at La Pacheline. 

I don't recall what m'family had but I had this little lot: – which is probably why I can't remember much about what the kith-&-kin consumed; preceded by fish soup if memory serves. After that, an early bed is called for… but nevertheless we perambulate down to the green port light where we dispute which phare we can see flashing across the way at Sète. Ah me. Marseillan, home of Noilly Prat (we have stocked up). Still got some of its original charm surviving despite the wear and tear of those terrible tourist types… thankfully just about out of season as October gets into its second week.