What's it all about?

This year, amongst all the wrapping paper, presents, food prep and celebratory glasses of fizz, I felt there had to be a point where we stopped to think about what this once-a-year madness actually represents.

Some years we have gone to a midnight mass or walked down to a morning service, but as we don't actually visit any churches during the passing months apart from out of a desire to admire their construction and artefacts, joining a service didn't seem particularly meaningful.
Going up to the highest point in the area and really having a think about The World and us in it, did, and up at the highest point near us there happens to be a tiny church which (unlike most churches around here) is always open - probably as there is nothing inside worth making off with.

We drove up the twisting road, let the dogs out for a whirlwind canter around the bald fields (750 meters altitude) had a brisk walk (9 degrees rather than the more balmy 13 down in Limoux) and then visited the edifice with our plaster statue of Christ rescued from a bin at our local recycling place . . . 

I don't know what I believe - agnostic? a confused but interested wonderer more likely, anyway, mindful enough to feel that I wished to mark such a hugely fussed-over event in some way other than presents and eating too much.
The church had its usual festive-time decoration of white plastic tree, tinsel, and small nativity scene. I added Christ to the altar with some olive twigs and a candle and we sat for a moment, possibly not doing much more than trying to imagine how the medieval church-builders had fabricated anything so solid and elegant miles up from the nearest settlement without so much as a tile-cutter but it felt oddly moving, more so than standing within a mass of people who, like ourselves for the most part would probably only be there for the one event.
The day has been wonderful, the hours moving slowly as they seem to on the 25th of December as a rule - time spent with your favourite (hopefully) people, in my case, thankfully, yes; many wonderful gifts, food, reading, walking etc, but somehow all the much richer for sitting quietly for a few moments in that small, seldom visited church.



medieval church in the tiny hamlet of St Salvayre near Alet les Bains.

Day trip to Castres

Following on from previous post.
On a Day Out by myself, I would generally be pulled in the direction of the sea but I left it to Ezra to choose. 'Either Mazamet or Castres', he suggested.
My only recollection of the former was being lost, hungry and that no shops were open. The latter . . . an extremely run-down, and therefore interesting to us, hotel with purple-flowered wallpaper and a mysterious bidet on wheels.
The drive was supposed to encompass a viewing of the now-disused gold mine at Salsigne to the North of Carcassonne. We couldn't find it due to an absence of notices saying Gold mine this way, but I suppose the local population wouldn't want people wandering about in the hope of finding an overlooked nugget. Also, we were too hungry.
I pulled in Starsky and Hutch style on spotting this restaurant on the D118. I love places like this - suspended in a 1960s/70s time warp; the original bar/restaurant sign, the owners disinterest in tarting the place up and an emphasis on good, down to earth grub.
It was better than I expected: friendly waitress, a menu at 13 euros - including rabbit in mustard sauce - and an authentic non-designer interior.

After 'mimosa eggs', the afore-mentioned rabbit and chocolate banana tarts, we paid and continued happily along to Mazamet with that wonderful benevolent feeling that occurs after a great value and overly-ample meal.
Mazamet was a rain blur through the window. Apart from a brief scuttle through a downpour to look at a train (Ezra's request) we moved on, driving through the river valley and observing the various factories, used and disused that had once established the town as a textile centre.

My vague memory of Castres being a place with a crappy hotel and wheely bidet were rapidly replaced by realising that it's a smart town, a little like a small-scale Gerona with its riverside houses. Perhaps it has come up in the world since our visit; it certainly seemed so. The buildings looked well-cared for; the Goya museum, fascinating, except we arrived five minutes before closing time; and the formal gardens clipped and obviously loved.

We Took Tea in a very sumptuous shop that had a menu of a million teas or thereabout. My Assam (presented with egg timer to check brewing time) was perfect and Ezra's Matcha tea milkshake thing deemed to be fantastic.
After this we visited a sinister church, which we liked a lot, where some florists were attempting to brighten the interior for a wedding with huge vases of white lilies.

Shopping never being high on the agenda, I did manage to drag my son into an opticians as he really needs sunglasses. My opinion of Castres being a charming place was confirmed by an excellent example in The Art of Shop Assisting. The young woman spent about twenty minutes assisting Ezra with style, information about lenses etc; then adjusting our final, small budget-choice's arms/frames etc to give perfect vision and symmetry.

Altogether, a good Day Out.

Churches

Following on from the last post I suppose . . .
I've always been drawn to churches: not for a reason of being in need of prayer, of talking to him or whoever it is that resides up there - if they do, but just because they feel different to any other sort of building.
People don't eat within their walls, apart from the odd round piece of flat bread, no chatting, no reading, no relaxing with your feet up; some learning perhaps, if you happen to stumble across a particularly eloquent vicar. A building with no other purpose than to reflect on God, Jesus, Mary, etc. Or in my case, usually, the meaning of life. As soon as I step over the threshold of any church, it starts up - a quiet meandering of thoughts on what's it all about, nothing anxious: something about the smell, the patina of age, the fact that thousands of others have walked around the building in quiet thought.
My preferred edifices are the small, rarely visited ones, like the one illustrated here. I can't even remember where it was now. It was like so many others in this region, the pictures warped with age and damp, the blue paintwork faded and fissured, a few long-dead flowers.
Mark and I visited Notre Dame de Paris recently during morning mass - thousands of people either worshiping or ticking off the tourist trail, the air heavy with incense, a burst of sunlight illuminating the intricate stained glass intermittently. It was a memorable time but not as moving to me as the minutes spent in many small village churches.

One of my most vivid memories of such places was a tiny Cretan church in the mountains on a foggy cold April morning. Unremarkable, white and plain apart from the hundreds of sheep that were passing through it, each one being blessed by the priest.

You learn something every day.

Actually you learn a lot of things, well I do anyway. Like if you leave Toulouse at 5.30 you will get stuck in a huge traffic blob and it's always good to look in your wing mirrors when reversing, to avoid hitting green metal bollards. Before I learnt these things I also learned that Blagnac is actually a rather quaint little town, not just an airport. It has a wonderful species of church: rose brick as Toulouse, newly painted door and ongoing work inside. The painted ceilings are magnificent, but it was a tad dark . . .here are some images of it's old wood-scented interior. After, I wandered to a café in a heavenly state and sat writing for an hour with not a bad cup of tea. Then reversed into said bollard and got stuck in traffic blob. Remained calm and serene throughout.