6–30–16, Castellan
Eliza woke up yesterday with a sore knee. We thought it was just the scab from her fall the previous day pulling apart when she moved, but it persisted the entire day, though we forced her to hike and she did her best.
We sat down in a cafe in Castellan, plastic chairs, lots of smokers, did not appear to be “Artisan”. The place the locals went. They were nice to us anyway, and we sat outside where there was a commanding view of traffic going by in cars, bikes and on foot. I noticed many people going by saluted, waved to, or acknowledged a shabby old man smoking at the next table. He didn’t say much but some people came up and kissed him on both cheeks. In this way he identified all the locals around to me and I could see some of the workings of the town. Young mothers with babies came here when their husbands went to work. There was something fishy going on with the restaurant across the street. A jittery young man with no bag was making some kind of rounds and visited without buying a cafe.
Castellan is dominated by a Chapel built on a magnificent 200 meter limestone cliff rising straight out of the town center. The original settlement and a Comandarie of the Knights Templar was built around the shoulder of this cliff, being easily defensible, although sacked by the Saracens in the 15ht century.
On the popular trail up to the chapel, there is a small portal in the hillside supported by a small roman style arch that supports the weight of the hill by transferring force around stone cut at precise trapezoidal angles from a central keystone. It was big enough to crawl into and I poked my head in, some of the arch pieces had fallen down, and much of the stone was porous and soft and looked loose. What was missing was the locked iron cage around the entrance that Americans require. This was repeated over and over again in France. The built world, like the natural world, is very old, and in a state of decay. You have to walk around in town with as much caution as in nature. Another example was the small, easily missed curb near the staircase to a store in Grasse, where I stumbled and Eliza fell while video taping me.
What I liked about the chapel above Castellan was that it was clearly in active use. Outside, there were many signs asking us not to make graffitis. It is a serve-yourself style chapel where you can visit with the virgin, make an offering, light a candle, all of which people were doing in a very normal kind of way. Corny organ music was piped in and the walls were covered with plaques commemorating local organizations and events. I was shocked to see the bell-rope unguarded, hanging down right at the door. Perched above the town as it was, who could question the ringer of this bell? The chapel is gained after strenuous effort. It gets hot, especially for fat tourists, and one stops at the stations of the cross, placed at likely resting points along the trail, to mop the brow. You stop for rest and shade, but the gospel is there, perhaps for the first time accompanied by exertion, fatigue, and discomfort. The story seems different, no? Your fat ass is used to hearing this in an air-conditioned church. By the time you reach the austere chapel, you have a sense of having conquered the flesh, and perhaps having earned something. Ducking into the cool shade, the cord presents itself at eye level, before even the soft music and the image of the Virgin looking down causes you to consider specific life choices. A temptation placed in the very doorway of the church, timed to intercept your vanity and open a trap door to hell. Stay your hand, sinner! Lower your shaking fingers and focus your eyes to the end of the room where She watches. Sign the book. Make a donation. Light a candle. Consider your soul and cover your head, for you will find less mercy outside this room, so close to the pitiless sun.
