Avignon: France's Windy City

AVIGNON: FRANCE'S WINDY CITY

Posted on May 30 2006 by Englebert Norris

Avignon is just about the windiest place I've ever been. Don't be deceived by this picture taken on a calm summer afternoon. When I visited the place you had to wrap up warm and brave the elements in order to stroll along the 12th century St. Bénézet Bridge to the point where it collapsed into the Rhône some three hundred years ago.

Another driver, Bob, who is particularly keen on sightseeing dragged me out of my pension where I had been holed up for a couple of days. He was determined that I shouldn't miss this chance to see the famous city of Avignon. Although I knew I could write a good posting about the place I was less keen. Wind, rain and spray chafed my face, stung my eyes and bent me double.

Was the pain worth it? Well from the end of this elegant wreck of a jetty I could see the snowy tips of Mount Ventoux to the north and the rocky Doms outcrop to the east while amongst the jumbled pile of stones and boulders scattered across the Doms plateau I was able to make out the battlements of ancient forts and the steeples of mediaeval churches. So the view was pleasant enough, but I would have preferred a warm lounge bar and a couple of hours of sky sports.

My view changed when Bob met up with his sister, Kate, who is studying drama at Avignon. I found that hard to take on board. Big hulking Bob with sailors tattoos and a pot belly and this graceful delicate gazelle-like creature who entertained us by reciting some pretty little sonnets she'd learned for some student show at the Comedie.

All of a sudden Avigon did not seem so windswept. Besides even if the town is windy, it's worth holding onto your hat and braving the elements if you have the right person to show you around.

Jardin des Doms

We started our tour with the charming "Jardin des Doms". Kate pointed out the superb views of the surrounding plains and the distant fortress of Villeneuve-lés-Avignon from where French kings used to launch sorties against the popes who controlled Avignon. Of course I listened politely but couldn't help noticing she'd got her jumper on back to front. Apparently it's all the rage amongst the Avignon theatrical set; I suppose it's just something young actresses need to do to get noticed and cause a stir. To show I understood this I turned my baseball cap the wrong way round. I think she appreciated the gesture because she laughed as I pointed to some waddling ducks struggling to make the shelter of an 18th century rockery. It wasn't until later that I realised my baseball cap had been blown clean off my head and was swimming its way down the Rhone.

Kate suggested we escape the gales by descending into the heart of the town and visiting the famous "Palais des papes". Bob instantly agreed and started to tell anybody who would listen how the imposing façade of the Palais blends aristocratic grandeur and military efficiency. Kate looked bored, sighed and yawned. I decided to inject some humour into the occasion as a counter to Bob's tiresome habit of lecturing upon virtually every topic he's ever read about.

I smiled sympatically at Kate and asked whether size really matters. Of course this was meant as a clever "double entendre". The "Palais des papes" may have huge battlements and pinnacles which dominate the city but the neighbouring "Hôtel des monnaies" is notable for its exuberant baroque style and magnificently sculptured eagles and dragons. Kate didn't appear to understand the joke and simply gave me a queer look.

© Rachel Collinson - FOTOLIA

In any event we continued to the "Petit Palais" which is more in the style of a gentleman’s residence. Perched on a hill, it overlooks the Rhône and houses the famous Campana art collection.

Aware that Kate had been to art college, I attempted to retrieve the ground I'd lost through my failed attempt at humour by explaining how Avignon had been built on the back of the wine trade and therefore it was not unsurprising that its citizens confused wine and the divine. Hence the numerous oil paintings depicting fruit hanging from the cross as Christ writhes in agony. "But I'm sure you'll enjoy the delicate sculpture and there are some exquisite paintings", I reassured her.

She seemed quite impressed by my knowledge and we spent a pleasant ten minutes exchanging opinions on mediaeval art in the large courtyard, adjacent to the Papal Chamber, which houses an aviary. Scores of exotic birds hopped and chirped amidst the branches as we discussed the merits of Hermonyous Bosch.

Later we climbed the steep slope to Papal Chamber. Having learnt that Kate was a catholic, I expressed admiration for the Papal love of life and all it has to offer. My point was proved by the papal cellars which are still graced by many fine vintages. Religion clearly feeds far more than just the soul.

Place Crillon

As soon as the wind slackened we braved the riverbank walk to the Place Crillon. Nearby at a breach in the town’s historic battlements Napoleon's governor Marshal Brune drowned in 1815, but the plaque recording this event fails to mention that the hapless Marshal was chucked into the river by an angry mob fed up to the back teeth of wars and taxes.

"I wish we could do the same today", Kate remarked and realizing that she was a pacifist I made some harsh and disparaging remarks about various politicians who are utterly detested by the fashionable left. Continuing past the low baroque facades we arrived at the glorious Comédie, crowned by a finely sculptured Apollo overlooking the exquisite chapel of the Pénitents-Noirs and the sinister Saint-Roch prison.

At this point Kate announced that she had a matinee performance, apologised for not being able to get me a ticket, and went through the stage door of the Comedie with Bob in tow. Feeling a little stunned at this abrupt departure I looked round the market which offers virtually every type of spice and herb, and is lined by cafes where you can escape the bustle and sample the produce being hawked just a feet away.

After that there was nothing more to do than follow the ancient Rue Peyroline which skirts the rocky outcrop to the south of the Papal Place and climbs 50 metres to the cliff edge known as the Tour de Trouillas where the peasants used to tread the grape harvest. I sat there for a while gazing into the ravine below and feeling rather depressed. But then I remembered that the pension had sky sports and the united game was being shown. That sounded a far better prospect than sitting on a hard seat pretending to enjoy the sound of some art-farty students reciting 17th century sonnets in mediaeval French.