Day 81. La Rochelle Oct 26 2001.

Breakfast was joke. Not a quick slap on the knee joke, but a comic farce that was elaborately staged and set, delivered by unsmiling kitchen staff who had missed their calling as straight men for an army of comedians. “Why?” it was asked by a bevy of puzzled hostellers, “Why is there a menu, when our choice is between sauced apples and apple sauce, sliced baguette or a baguette in slices?" With a choice, it must be added in fairness to the hostel, between minuscule containers of jam or microscopic containers of honey. But we were given a full choice of drinks; water with our orange juice, or orange juice – watered down. The hot chocolate was a hit with the desperately hungry inmates sopping up the dregs with stale bread, desperate to preserve every drop of flavor. The offered cereal and yogurt never materialized and the only toast was dried bread left in the sunlight. To quote Mel Brooks: “What a world.”

The hostel was crowded and some of the youth seemed barely into their teens, how they could afford to travel a mystery. They filled the cafeteria and the front office but seemed strangely absent elsewhere. I got a strange feeling from them, as if they were at the hostel because it was cool and not because of any real travel needs. The same way as adolescents we would tune in to the university radio station and read the Gauntlet, not really understanding the content but sure in our hearts that if university students did it, it must be cool.

We left quickly, leaving almost everything in three stainless steel drawers locked by our feeble locks. We followed the boardwalk back into town, enjoying the sound of calmly lapping water broken by the ringing of bells or the slap of steel cables against metal masts as a breeze swept through. By the maintenance shed of the pleasure port a great orange beast of a machine had lowered its slings into the water and we paused to watch as it hoisted a small dis-masted craft from the water, its owners watching anxiously. The boat broke contact with the water hesitantly and looked forlorn as it rocked in its cradle, dripping water like tears. Behinds us boats of all description lay in hard metal cradles and shed water like artificial rain as proud proprietors cleaned and scrubbed and painted.

There was an air of activity, as if being near their boats made the owners feel more alive and they scrubbed with an enthusiasm that made it seem more pleasure than chore. Something about the sea air perhaps. We passed slowly, reluctantly, as if wanting to partake of their energy and by the time we passed we felt more awake and revived.

The Saint Nicholas tower leaned over us like a drunken soldier of fortified tower of Pisa. A long walk up the stair of the rampart walls brought us to the office, a space filling the second floor and reached by crossing an ancient wooden drawbridge. The center of the room was a stone circle around open air, covered by glass and looking down on the first floor, closed now as it was too dangerous to visit. Above us a similar eye looked down. We were given a badly translated guide in English and left to our own devices. We climbed the stairs and found ourselves in the governor’s chamber, a large circular room occupying the centre of the structure, an ornate carved merchant’s ship of stone hanging over the fireplace.

The governor of the tower swore never to leave the building during his tenure and was paid with a portion of the profits from every ship that entering the port. Around this room was a series of modern collages detailing the first exploration of the Mississippi. As France's largest Atlantic port La Rochelle is, appropriately enough, obsessed with the New World and many of the new world’s explorers have set out from the area.

The displays led us in a ring to the stairs that climbed higher to the roof and we followed the hallways that cut through the walls like mites in worm’s tunnels. Everywhere was ancient graffiti, much of it religious. La Rochelle had seen some of the worst fighting in the Wars of Religion and was once France's strongest Protestant stronghold. The stairway to the Protestant dungeon had long been walled up, to protect the governor and his family, so we took the stairs to the roof instead. The view from the roof was fantastic, looking out over the rooftops of La Rochelle or out to sea. A distant red pillar in the channel to open water marked the spot where Richelieu had built a massive dyke to cut off the Protestant La Rochelle from the rest of the world, especially aid from Great Britain. 20 000 French died of starvation in that siege and only 5 000 remained when the finally surrendered. 10 days later a tidal wave opened a breach large enough for the British ships to enter, too late.

From the main rooftop we climbed even higher to captain’s lookout. Even more impressive and a little nerve wracking. We could look out through the crenellations and see everything on down to the green water far below. Looking down on flying birds is an interesting experience. From here we could also look across and see the chain tower a stones throw away, closed for renovations. We climbed back down and explored a little. Tunnels honeycombed the main level so that the activity of the tower could continue without disturbing the governor’s family. One such tunnel widened unexpectedly into a small chapel, ornate once but now eroded with age. The font drained directly out of the building. From there stairs led down in a spiral so tight that my feet did not fully fit on the stairs, a bit of a dangerous descent. Then we were back in the office, the tour complete.

Just behind the desk was a giant iron rectangle bound in iron strips and studded with enormous bolts that held the thing together. The door was almost invisible so well did it blend in and was only discernible because of the hinges. The locking mechanism made no send sense at all and seemed almost like belt buckles. Not at all how I pictured a medieval safe.

A beautiful painting hung above it, Richelieu on his dyke. “siege de 1628, Richelieu sur la dique” by Henri Motte.

Our tour at an end we returned the guide and walked out into the city. We made out way to the Cathedral of St. Louis. From the outside it was ugly, a low bunkerlike building looking more like a train station than cathedral. Inside it was ugly too, except for the fantastic decoration that transformed ugly stone into mere frames for beauty. The church had been built over the ruins of a destroyed Protestant one in the 17th century. Richelieu’s final nail in the Protestant coffin. While it was being built they excavated the nave of a Templar church and displayed the vault covers and gravestone in a niche near the front. Eleanor of Aquitaine had granted the templar’s two tidal mills in La Rochelle.

From the church we wandered the streets aimlessly and found city hall, an old fortified building with an elaborate clock tower and a memorial from the second world war.

La Rochelle had been the centre of a massive Nazi submarine base and so had been the last place in France liberated. From city hall we walked into the gardens by the remains of the templar mills.

We are still undecided about our future. Do we continue on our journey or head home? Heather is feeling very homesick, but beyond family it doesn’t feel like I have much to return to.

Next Entry: Day 82. Rochefort
Previous Entry: Day 80. La Rochelle