From Argentan to Avranches
Between tall poplars whose stems are splotched with grey lichen and whose
feet are grown over with browny-green moss, runs the road from Falaise to
Argentan, straight and white, with scarcely more than the slightest bend,
for the whole eight miles. It is typical of the roads in this part of the
country and beyond the large stone four or five kilometres outside Falaise,
marking the boundary between Calvados and Orne, and the railway which one
passes soon afterwards, there is nothing to break the undulating monotony
of the boundless plain.
We cannot all hope to have this somewhat dull stretch of country relieved
by any exciting event, but I can remember one spring afternoon being
overtaken by two mounted gendarmes in blue uniforms, galloping for their
very lives. I looked down the road into the cloud of dust raised by the
horses’ hoofs, but the country on all sides lay calm and deserted, and I
was left in doubt as to the reason for this astonishing haste. Half an hour
afterwards a group of people appeared in the distance, and on approaching
closer, they proved to be the two gendarmes leading their blown horses as
they walked beside a picturesque group of apparently simple peasants, the
three men wearing the typical soft, baggy cap and blue smock of the country
folk. The little group had a gloomy aspect, which was explained when I
noticed that the peasants were joined together by a bright steel chain.
Evidently something was very much amiss with one of the peaceful villages
lying near the road.
After a time, at the end of the long white perspective, appear the towers
of the great church of St Germain that dominate the town where Henry II.
was staying when he made that rash exclamation concerning his “turbulent
priest.” It was from Argentan that those four knights set out for England
and Canterbury to carry out the deed, for which Henry lay in ashes for five
weeks in this very place. But there is little at the present time at
Argentan to remind one that it is in any way associated with the murder of
Becket. The castle that now exists is occupied by the Courts of Justice and
was partially built in the Renaissance period. Standing close to it, is an
exceedingly tall building with a great gable that suggests an
ecclesiastical origin, and on looking a little closer one soon discovers
blocked up Gothic windows and others from which the tracery has been
hacked. This was the chapel of the castle which has been so completely
robbed of its sanctity that it is now cut up into small lodgings, and in
one of its diminutive shops, picture post-cards of the town are sold.
The ruins of the old castle are not very conspicuous, for in the
seventeenth century the great keep was demolished. There is still a fairly
noticeable round tower--the Tour Marguerite--which has a pointed roof above
its corbels, or perhaps they should be called machicolations. In the Place
Henri IV. stands a prominent building that projects over the pavement
supported by massive pointed arches, and with this building in the
foreground there is one of the best views of St Germain that one can find
in the town. Just before coming to the clock that is suspended over the
road by the porch of the church, there is a butcher’s shop at the street
corner that has a piece of oak carving preserved on account of its interest
while the rest of the building has been made featureless with even plaster.
The carving shows Adam and Eve standing on either side of a formal Tree of
Life, and the butcher, who is pleased to find a stranger who notices this
little curiosity, tells him with great pride that his house dates from the
fifteenth century. The porch of St Germain is richly ornamented, but it
takes a second place to the south porch of the church of Notre Dame at
Louviers and may perhaps seem scarcely worthy of comment after St Maclou at
Rouen. The structure as a whole was commenced in 1424, and the last portion
of the work only dates from the middle of the seventeenth century. The
vaulting of the nave has a very new and well-kept appearance and the side
altars, in contrast to so many of even the large churches, are almost
dignified in their somewhat restrained and classic style. The high altar is
a stupendous erection of two storeys with Corinthian pillars. Nine long,
white, pendant banners are conspicuous on the walls of the chancel. The
great altars and the lesser ones that crowd the side chapels are subject to
the accumulation of dirt as everything else in buildings sacred or lay, and
at certain times of the day, a woman may be seen vigorously flapping the
brass candlesticks and countless altar ornaments with a big feather broom.
On the north side of the chancel some of the windows have sections of old
painted glass, and in one of them there is part of a ship with men in
crow’s nests backed by clouds, a really vigorous colour scheme.
Keeping to the high ground, there is to the south of this church an open
Place, and beyond it there are some large barracks, where, on the other
side of a low wall may be seen the elaborately prepared steeple-chase for
training soldiers to be able to surmount every conceivable form of
obstacle. Awkward iron railings, wide ditches, walls of different
composition and varying height are frequently scaled, and it is practice of
this sort that has made the French soldier famous for the facility with
which he can storm fortifications. The river Orne finds its way through the
lower part of the town and here there are to be found some of the most
pleasing bits of antique domestic architecture. One of the quaintest of
these built in 1616 is the galleried building illustrated here, and from a
parallel street not many yards off there is a peep of a house that has been
built right over the stream which is scarcely less picturesque.
[Illustration: A SEVENTEENTH CENTURY HOUSE AT ARGENTAN]
The church of St Martin is passed on entering Argentan from Falaise. Its
east end crowds right up against the pavement and it is somewhat unusual to
find the entrances at this portion of the building. The stained glass in
the choir of St Martin is its most noticeable feature--the pictures showing
various scenes in the life of Christ.
As in all French towns Argentan knows how to decorate on fete days. Coming
out of the darkness of the church in the late twilight on one of these
occasions, I discovered that the town had suddenly become festooned with a
long perspective of arches stretching right away down the leafy avenue that
goes out of the town--to the north in one direction, and to St Germain in
the other. The arches were entirely composed without a single exception of
large crimson-red Chinese lanterns. The effect was astonishingly good, but
despite all the decoration, the townsfolk seemed determined to preserve the
quiet of the Sabbath, and although there were crowds everywhere, the only
noise that broke the stillness was that of the steam round-about that had
been erected on a triangular patch of grass. The dark crowds of people
illuminated by flaring lights stood in perfect quiet as they watched the
great noisy mass of moving animals and boats, occupied almost entirely by
children, keep up its perpetual dazzle and roar. The fair--for there were
many side-shows--was certainly quieter than any I have witnessed in
England.
A long, straight road, poplar-bordered and level, runs southwards from
Argentan to Mortrée, a village of no importance except for the fact that
one must pass through it if one wishes to visit the beautiful Chateau d’O.
This sixteenth century mansion like so many to be seen in this part of
France, is in a somewhat pathetic state of disrepair, but as far as one may
see from the exterior, it would not require any very great sum to
completely restore the broken stone-work and other signs of decay. These,
while perhaps adding to the picturesqueness of the buildings, do not bring
out that aspect of carefully preserved antiquity which is the charm of most
of the houses of this period in England. The great expanse of water in the
moat is very green and covered by large tracts of weed, but the water is
supplied by a spring, and fish thrive in it. The approach to the chateau
across the moat leads to an arched entrance through which you enter the
large courtyard overlooked on three sides by the richly ornamented
buildings, the fourth side being only protected from the moat by a low
wall. It would be hard to find a more charming spot than this with its
views across the moat to the gardens beyond, backed by great masses of
foliage.
Going on past Mortrée the main road will bring one after about eight miles
to the old town of Alençon, which has been famed ever since the time of
Louis XIV. for the lace which is even at the present day worked in the
villages of this neighbourhood, more especially at the hamlet of Damigny.
The cottagers use pure linen thread which is worth the almost incredible
sum of £100 per lb. They work on parchment from patterns which are supplied
by the merchants in Alençon. The women go on from early morning until the
light fails, and earn something about a shilling per day!
The castle of Alençon, built by Henry I. in the twelfth century, was
pulled down with the exception of the keep, by the order of Henry of
Navarre, the famous contemporary of Queen Elizabeth. This keep is still in
existence, and is now used as a prison. Near it is the Palais de Justice,
standing where the other buildings were situated.
The west porch of the church of Notre Dame is richly ornamented with
elaborate canopies, here and there with statues. One of these represents St
John, and it will be seen that he is standing with his face towards the
church. A legend states that this position was taken by the statue when the
church was being ransacked by Protestants in the sixteenth century.
Another road from Argentan is the great _route nationale_ that runs in a
fairly direct line to Granville. As one rides out of the town there is a
pretty view on looking back, of St Germain standing on the slight eminence
above the Orne. Keeping along by that river the road touches it again at
the little town of Ecouche. The old market hall standing on massive
pillars, is the most attractive feature of the place. Its old tiled roof
and half-timbered upper storey remind one forcibly of some of those
fortunate old towns in England that have preserved this feature. The church
has lost its original nave, and instead, there is a curious barn-like
structure, built evidently with a view to economy, being scarcely more than
half the height of the original: the vacant space has been very roughly
filled up, and the numerous holes and crevices support a fine growth of
weeds, and a strong young tree has also taken root in the ramshackle stone
work. From the central tower, gargoyles grin above the elaborately carved
buttresses and finials in remarkable contrast to the jerry-built addition.
[Illustration: THE OLD MARKET HOUSE AT ECOUCHE]
Passing through rich country, you leave the valley of the Orne, and on
both sides of the road are spread wide and fascinating views over the
orchard-clad country that disappears in the distant blue of the horizon.
Wonderful patches of shadow, when large clouds are flying over the heavens,
fall on this great tract of country and while in dull weather it may seem a
little monotonous, in days of sunshine and shade it is full of a haunting
beauty that is most remarkable.
About seven miles from Argentan one passes Fromentelle, a quiet hamlet full
of thatched cottages and curious weathercocks, and then five miles further
on, having descended into the valley of the little river Rouvre, Briouze
is entered. Here there is a wide and very extensive market-place with
another quaint little structure, smaller than the one at Ecouche, but
having a curious bell-turret in the centre of the roof. On Monday, which
is market day, Briouze presents a most busy scene, and there are plenty of
opportunities of studying the genial looking country farmers, their wives,
and the large carts in which they drive from the farms. In the midst of the
booths, you may see a bronze statue commemorating the “Sapeurs, pompiers”
and others of this little place who fell in 1854.
Leaving the main road which goes on to Flers, we may take the road to
Domfront, which passes through three pretty villages and much pleasant
country. Bellau, the first village, is full of quaint houses and charming
old-world scenes. The church is right in the middle on an open space
without an enclosure of any description. Standing with one’s back to this
building, there is a pretty view down the road leading to the south, a
patch of blue distance appearing in the opening between the old gables. To
all those who may wish to either paint or photograph this charming scene, I
would recommend avoiding the hour in the afternoon when the children come
out of school. I was commencing a drawing one sunny afternoon--it must have
been about three o’clock--and the place seemed almost deserted. Indeed, I
had been looking for a country group of peasants to fill the great white
space of sunny road, when in twos and threes, the juvenile population
flooded out towards me. For some reason which I could not altogether
fathom, the boys arranged themselves in a long, regular line, occupying
exactly one half of the view, the remaining space being filled by an
equally long line of little girls. All my efforts failed to induce the
children to break up the arrangement they had made. They merely altered
their formation by advancing three or four paces nearer with almost
military precision. They were still standing in their unbroken rows when I
left the village.
Passing a curious roadside cross which bears the date 1741 and a long Latin
inscription splashed over with lichen, one arrives at La Ferriere aux
Etangs, a quaint village with a narrow and steep street containing one
conspicuously old, timber-framed house. But it is scarcely necessary to
point out individual cottages in this part of Normandy, for wherever one
looks, the cottages are covered with thick, purply-grey thatch, and the
walls below are of grey wooden framework, filled in with plaster, generally
coloured a creamy-white. When there are deep shadows under the eaves and
the fruit trees in blossom stand out against the dark thatch, one can
easily understand how captivating is the rural charm of this part of
Normandy. Gradually the road ascends, but no great views are apparent,
although one is right above the beautiful valley of the Varennes, until
quite near to Domfront. Then, suddenly there appears an enormous stretch of
slightly undulating country to the south and west. As far as one can see,
the whole land seems to be covered by one vast forest.
But though part of this is real forest-land, much of it is composed of
orchards and hedgerow trees, which are planted so closely together that, at
a short distance, they assume the aspect of close-growing woods. The first
impression of the great stretch of forest-land does not lose its striking
aspect, even when one has explored the whole of the town. The road that
brings one into the old town runs along a ridge and after passing one of
the remains of the old gateways, it rises slightly to the highest part of
the mass of rock upon which Domfront is perched. The streets are narrow and
parallel to accommodate themselves to the confined space within the walls.
At the western end of the granite ridge, and separated from the town by a
narrow defile, stands all that is left of the castle--a massive but
somewhat shapeless ruin. At the western end of the ramparts, one looks down
a precipitous descent to the river Varennes which has by some unusual
agency, cut itself a channel through the rocky ridge if it did not merely
occupy an existing gap. At the present time, besides the river, the road
and railway pass through the narrow gorge.
The castle has one of those sites that appealed irresistibly to the warlike
barons of the eleventh century. In this case it was William I., Duc de
Belleme, who decided to raise a great fortress on this rock that he had
every reason to believe would prove an impregnable stronghold, but although
only built in 1011, it was taken by Duke William thirty-seven years later,
being one of the first brilliant feats by which William the Norman showed
his strength outside his own Duchy. A century or more later, Henry II.,
when at Domfront, received the pope’s nuncio by whom a reconciliation was
in some degree patched up between the king and Becket. Richard I. is known
to have been at the castle at various times. In the sixteenth century,
a most thrilling siege was conducted during the period when Catherine
de Médicis was controlling the throne. A Royalist force, numbering some
seven or eight thousand horse and foot, surrounded this formidable rock
which was defended by the Calvinist Comte de Montgommery. With him was
another Protestant, Ambroise le Balafré, who had made himself a despot
at Domfront, but whose career was cut short by one of Montgommery’s men
with whom he had quarrelled. They buried him in the little church of
Notre-Dame-sur-l’Eau--the wonderfully preserved Norman building that one
sees beneath one’s feet when standing on the ramparts of the castle. The
body, however, was not long allowed to remain there, for when the royal
army surrounded the castle they brought out the corpse and hung it in a
conspicuous place to annoy the besieged. Like Corfe Castle in England, and
many other magnificently fortified strongholds, Domfront was capable of
defence by a mere handful. In this case the original garrison consisted of
one hundred and fifty, and after many desertions the force was reduced to
less than fifty. A great breach had been made by the six pieces of
artillery placed on the hill on the opposite side of the gorge, and through
this the besiegers endeavoured to enter. The attenuated garrison, with
magnificent courage, held the breach after a most desperate and bloody
fight. But after all this display of courage, it was found impossible to
continue the defence, for by the next morning there were barely more than a
dozen men left to fight. Finally Montgommery was obliged to surrender
unconditionally, and not long afterwards he was executed in Paris. You may
see the breach where this terrible fight took place at the present day, and
as you watch the curious effects of the blue shadows falling among the
forest trees that stretch away towards the south, you may feel that you are
looking over almost the same scene that was gazed upon by the notable
figures in history who have made their exits and entrances at Domfront.
So little has the church of Notre-Dame-sur-l’Eau altered in its appearance
since it was built by the Duc de Belleme that, were he to visit the ruins
of his castle, he would marvel no doubt that the men of the nine centuries
which have passed, should have consistently respected this sturdy little
building. There are traces of aisles having existed, but otherwise the
exterior of the church can have seen no change at all in this long period.
Inside, however, the crude whitewash, the curious assemblage of enormous
seventeenth century gravestones that are leant against the walls, and the
terribly jarring almost life-sized crucifix, all give one that feeling of
revulsion that is inseparable from an ill-kept place of worship. On the
banks of the river outside, women may be seen washing clothes; the sounds
of the railway come from the station near by, and overhead, rising above
the foliage at its feet, are the broken walls and shattered keep from which
we have been gazing.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE TOWERS IN THE WALLS OF DOMFRONT]
The walls of the town, punctuated by many a quaint tower, have lost their
fearsome aspect owing to the domestic uses to which the towers are palpably
devoted. One of them appears in the adjoining illustration, and it is
typical of the half-dozen or so that still rise above the pretty gardens
that are perched along the steep ascent. But though Domfront is full of
almost thrilling suggestions of medievalism and the glamour of an ancient
town, yet there is a curious lack of picturesque arrangement, so that if
one were to be led away by the totally uninteresting photographs that may
be seen in the shops, one would miss one of the most unique spots in
Normandy.
Stretching away towards Flers, there is a tract of green country all ups
and downs, but with no distant views except the peep of Domfront that
appears a few miles north of the town. Crowning the ridge of the hill is
the keep of the castle, resembling a closed fist with the second finger
raised, and near it, the bell-cote of the Palais de Justice and the spire
of the church break the line of the old houses. Ferns grow by the roadside
on every bank, but the cottages and farms are below the average of rustic
beauty that one soon demands in this part of France.
Flers is a somewhat busy manufacturing town where cotton and thread
mills have robbed the place of its charm. At first sight one might
imagine the church which bears the date 1870 was of considerably
greater age, but inside one is almost astounded at the ramshackle
galleries, the white-washed roof of rough boards discoloured by damp,
and the general squalor of the place relieved only by a ponderous
altar-piece of classic design. The castle is still in good preservation
but although it dates from early Norman times, it is chiefly of the
sixteenth century.
Out in the country again, going westwards, the cottage industry of
weaving is apparent in nearly every cottage one sees. The loud
click-a-ti-clack--click-a-ti-clack of the looms can be heard on every
side as one passes such villages as Landisacq. Everywhere the scenery
is exceedingly English, the steep hillsides are often covered with
orchards, and the delicate green of the apple-trees in spring-time,
half-smothered in pinky-white blossom, gives the country a garden-like
aspect. You may see a man harrowing a field on a sudden slope with a
cloud of dust blowing up from the dry light soil, and you may hear him
make that curious hullaballooing by which the peasants direct their
horses, so different from the grunting “way-yup there” of the English
ploughman. Coming down a long descent, a great stretch of country to
the north that includes the battlefield of Tinchebrai comes into view.
It is hard to associate the rich green pastures, smiling orchards, and
peaceful cattle, with anything so gruesome as a battle between armies
led by brothers. But it was near the little town of Tinchebrai that the
two brothers, Henry I., King of England, and Robert Duke of Normandy
fought for the possession of Normandy. Henry’s army was greatly
superior to that of his brother, for he had the valuable help of the
Counts of Conches, Breteuil, Thorigny, Mortagne, Montfort, and two or
three others as powerful. But despite all this array, the battle for
some time was very considerably in Robert’s favour, and it was only
when Henry, heavily pressed by his brother’s brilliant charge, ordered
his reserves to envelop the rear, that the great battle went in favour
of the English king. Among the prisoners were Robert and his youthful
son William, the Counts of Mortain, Estouteville, Ferrieres, and a
large number of notable men. Until his death, twenty-seven years later,
Henry kept his brother captive in Cardiff Castle, and it has been said
that, owing to an effort to escape, Henry was sufficiently lacking in
all humane feelings towards his unfortunate brother, to have both his
eyes put out. It seems a strange thing that exactly sixty years after
the battle of Hastings, a Norman king of England, should conquer the
country which had belonged to his father.
The old church of St Remy at Tinchebrai, part of which dates from the
twelfth century, has been abandoned for a new building, but the inn--the
Hotel Lion d’Or--which bears the date 1614, is still in use. Vire, however,
is only ten miles off, and its rich mediaeval architecture urges us
forward.
Standing in the midst of the cobbled street, there suddenly appears right
ahead a splendid thirteenth century gateway--the Tour de l’Horloge--that
makes one of the richest pictures in Normandy. It is not always one can see
the curious old tower thrown up by a blaze of gold in the west, but those
who are fortunate enough to see such an effect may get a small suggestion
of the scene from the illustration given here. The little painted figure of
the Virgin and Child stands in a niche just over the arch, and by it
appears the prayer “Marie protege la ville!”
One of the charms of Vire is its cleanliness, for I can recall no
unpleasant smells having interfered with the pleasure of exploring the old
streets. There is a great market on the northern side of the town, open and
breezy. It slopes clear away without any intervening buildings to a great
expanse of green wooded country, suggestive of some of the views that lie
all around one at Avranches. The dark old church of Notre Dame dates mainly
from the twelfth century. Houses and small shops are built up against it
between the buttresses in a familiar, almost confidential manner, and on
the south side, the row of gargoyles have an almost humorous appearance.
The drips upon the pavement and shops below were evidently a nuisance, and
rain water-spouts, with plain pipes leading diagonally from them, have been
attached to each grotesque head, making it seem that the grinning monsters
have developed a great and unquenchable thirst. Inside, the church is dark
and impressive. There are double rows of pillars in the aisles, and a huge
crucifix hangs beneath the tower, thrown up darkly against the chancel,
which is much painted and gilded. The remains of the great castle consist
of nothing more than part of the tall keep, built eight hundred years ago,
and fortunately not entirely destroyed when the rest of the castle came
down by the order of Cardinal Richelieu. An exploration of the quaint
streets of Vire will reveal two or three ancient gateways, many gabled
houses, some of which are timber-framed visually, and most of them are the
same beneath their skins of plaster. The houses in one of the streets are
connected with the road by a series of wooden bridges across the river,
which there forms one of the many pictures to be found in Vire.
Mortain is separated from Vire by fifteen miles of exceedingly hilly
country, and those who imagine that all the roads in Normandy are the flat
and poplar bordered ones that are so often encountered, should travel along
this wonderful switch-back. As far as Sourdeval there seems scarcely a yard
of level ground--it is either a sudden ascent or a breakneck rush into a
trough-like depression. You pass copices of firs and beautiful woods,
although in saying beautiful it is in a limited sense, for one seldom finds
the really rich woodlands that are so priceless an ornament to many Surrey
and Kentish lanes. The road is shaded by tall trees when it begins to
descend into the steep rocky gorge of the Cance with its tumbling
waterfalls that are a charming feature of this approach to Mortain. High
upon the rocks on the left appears an enormous gilded statue of the Virgin,
in the grounds of the Abbaye Blanche. Going downwards among the broken
sunlight and shadows on the road, Mortain appears, picturesquely perched on
a great rocky steep, and in the opening of the valley a blue haze suggests
the great expanse of level country towards the south. The big parish church
of the town was built originally in 1082 by that Robert of Mortain, who, it
will be remembered, was one of the first of the Normans to receive from the
victorious William a grant of land in England. The great tower which stands
almost detached on the south-west side is remarkable for its enormously
tall slit windows, for they run nearly from the ground to the saddle-back
roof. The interior of this church is somewhat unusual, the nave and chancel
being structurally one, and the aisles are separated by twenty-four
circular grey pillars with Corinthian capitals. The plain surfaces of the
walls and vaulting are absolutely clean white, picked out with fine black
lines to represent stone-work--a scarcely successful treatment of such an
interior! On either side of the High Altar stand two great statues
representing St Guillaume and St Evroult.
To those who wish to “do” all the sights of Mortain there is the Chapel of
St Michael, which stands high up on the margin of a great rocky hill, but
the building having been reconstructed about fifty years ago, the chief
attraction to the place is the view, which in tolerably clear weather,
includes Mont St Michel towards which we are making our way.
A perfectly straight and fairly level stretch of road brings you to St
Hilaire-du-Harcout. On the road one passes two or three large country
houses with their solemn and perfectly straight avenues leading directly up
to them at right angles from the road. The white jalousies seem always
closed, the grass on the lawns seems never cut, and the whole
establishments have a pathetically deserted appearance to the passer-by. A
feature of this part of the country can scarcely be believed without
actually using one’s eyes. It is the wooden chimney-stack, covered with oak
shingles, that surmounts the roofs of most of the cottages. Where the
shingles have fallen off, the cement rubble that fills the space between
the oak framing appears, but it is scarcely credible that, even with this
partial protection, these chimneys should have survived so many centuries.
I have asked the inmates of some of the cottages whether they ever feared a
fire in their chimneys, but they seemed to consider the question as totally
unnecessary, for some providence seems to have watched over their frail
structures.
St Hilaire has a brand new church and nothing picturesque in its long,
almost monotonous, street. Instead of turning aside at Pontaubault towards
Mont St Michel, we will go due north from that hamlet to the beautifully
situated Avranches. This prosperous looking town used, at one time, to have
a large English colony, but it has recently dwindled to such small
dimensions that the English chaplain has an exceedingly small parish. The
streets seem to possess a wonderful cleanliness; all the old houses appear
to have made way for modern buildings which, in a way, give Avranches the
aspect of a watering-place, but its proximity to the sea is more apparent
in a map than when one is actually in the town. On one side of the great
place in front of the church of Notre Dame des Champs is the Jardin des
Plantes. To pass from the blazing sunshine and loose gravel, to the dense
green shade of the trees in this delightful retreat is a pleasure that can
be best appreciated on a hot afternoon in summer. The shade, however, and
the beds of flowers are not the only attractions of these gardens. Their
greatest charm is the wonderful view over the shining sands and the
glistening waters of the rivers See and Selune that, at low tide, take
their serpentine courses over the delicately tinted waste of sand that
occupies St Michael’s Bay. Out beyond the little wooded promontory that
protects the mouth of the See, lies Mont St Michel, a fretted silhouette of
flat pearly grey, and a little to the north is Tombelaine, a less
pretentious islet in this fairyland sea. Framed by the stems and foliage of
the trees, this view is one of the most fascinating in Normandy. One would
be content to stay here all through the sultry hours of a summer day, to
listen to the distant hum of conversation among white-capped nursemaids, as
they sew busily, giving momentary attention to their charges. But Avranches
has an historical spot that no student of history, and indeed no one who
cares anything for the picturesque events that crowd the pages of the
chronicles of England in the days of the Norman kings, may miss. It is the
famous stone upon which Henry II. knelt when he received absolution for the
murder of Becket at the hands of the papal legate. To reach this stone is,
for a stranger, a matter of some difficulty. From the Place by the Jardin
des Plantes, it is necessary to plunge down a steep descent towards the
railway station, and then one climbs a series of zigzag paths on a high
grassy bank that brings one out upon the Place Huet. In one corner,
surrounded by chains and supported by low iron posts, is the historic
stone. It is generally thickly coated with dust, but the brass plate
affixed to a pillar of the doorway is quite legible. These, and a few
fragments of carved stone that lie half-smothered in long grass and weeds
at a short distance from the railed-in stone, are all that remain of the
cathedral that existed in the time of Henry II.
It must have been an impressive scene on that Sunday in May 1172, when the
papal legate, in his wonderful robes, stood by the north transept door, of
which only this fragment remains, and granted absolution to the sovereign,
who, kneeling in all humbleness and submission, was relieved of the curse
of excommunication which had been laid on him after the tragic affair in
the sanctuary at Canterbury. In place of the splendid cathedral, whose nave
collapsed, causing the demolition of the whole building in 1799, there is a
new church with the two great western towers only carried up to half the
height intended for them.
From the roadway that runs along the side of the old castle walls in
terrace fashion there is another wonderful view of rich green country,
through which, at one’s feet, winds the river See. Away towards the
north-west the road to Granville can be seen passing over the hills in a
perfectly straight line. But this part of the country may be left for
another chapter.