❝ It was the end of summer, entrance to golden September and misty autumn. And last weekend was also the Journées du Patrimoine in France, when we turn to the misty past… ❞
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❝ « Deauville! Que de m’as-tu vu!” exclaimed Clementine, as Michel piloted the Thunderbird along the river Touques. Deauville sits along the south back of the river, and its sister seaside colony, Trouville, a quieter, more sedate station balneaire, is on the other... ❞
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❝ One night, after we had been installed in our leaky, freezing château for almost a year, and had seen spring flourish, summer‘s golden gaze come and go, and autumn pass into early winter, I lay awake staring into the darkness and listening to the wind blow the rain against the windows… ❞
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❝ When a provincial comes into Paris, no moment goes unmeasured and unspent. The tenderness of the morning’s light on the creamy buildings…the rosy fingers of dawn upon the grey rooftops…❞
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❝ After acclaiming the newly married pair at the sortie de l’église or wherever the ceremony is held, it’s time to assemble on a lawn, under the shade of tents or tall trees. Naturally, a venue like the Chateau de Courtomer is ideal! Streaming in from the solemnities, guests are ready for cold drinks and champagne. ❞
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❝ Lights move back and forth across the fields behind the Chateau until the wee hours of the morning, as huge machines cut and thresh golden sheaves of ripe wheat. They start again at daybreak… ❞
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❝ Pascal is an anesthesiologist. But Henry didn’t even ask him if he missed his old life in Paris. Pascal was too busy trying to keep a little calf away from its mother’s udder, as he squirted the last drop from her left rear teat into the shiny stainless-steel bucket. When Henry was little, we kept a small herd of Jersey milk cows… ❞
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❝ It’s the Fourth of July, and a lovely day for a pique-nique! And while we wonder where to have it, we think of those immortal words, “Lafayette, we are here!”.., ❞
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❝ “Impossible! One cannot talk about charcuterie without mentioning the Roman Empire,” began Monsieur Roblin, looking over his spectacles with a professorial air, his tone slightly severe as befits a subject as serious as food. But his eyes were smiling… ❞
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❝ Her legs were long, spindly and knobbly. And like any newborn horse, she was already on them. Within a few hours, she was cantering to catch up to her mother…❞
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Here in the peace of the Normandy countryside, we are “au confinement,” like the millions of our French compatriots. We share our fate with some of our family, including two little girls and their parents who are staying in the Farmhouse. We are the lucky ones, we know…
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The Chateau is quiet. Our guests stay home. And so must we.
Today was the last day for the open-air market in the village. It must close, like those in the nearby towns of Seés and l’Aigle. Our little Carrefour grocery stays open, as do the two boulangeries and the cave à cidre. And, of course, the pharmacy.
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"What do you think of this?" asked Madame Mireille, digging into a cardboard box. She pulled out a handful of "passementerie." Pompoms of rose-colored sink spilled over her fingers with the suppleness of a stream of water.
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“What’s Turgot doing here?” asked my husband, standing stock still in front of a portrait of a
cheerful-looking man in a thickly curled wig.
It was a sunny spring day, and we were visiting the Chateau de Courtomer. The edifice was
then on the market for the second time in its long history.
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Devastated…and reconstructed…
Looking at the statue of Marie Harel in the market square, we noticed that it had been donated by “Men and women making cheese in Van Wert, Ohio.”
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About an away from Courtomer, we crossed the bridge over the river Vie at Livarot and stopped for tea at Vimoutiers. Here in the square is a statue of Marie Harel -- credited with the invention of Camembert cheese.
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