The Rocher is the rocky headland that breaks the path of the Rhone River and sends it twisting and writhing southwards. It was the acropolis of prehistoric Avignon man, the watchtower of the Popes, the industrial windmill park of the Middle Ages and now a lush green garden that sways in the wind.
We looked over the edges and saw medieval Avignon at our feet, the modern city lost to the distance. We looked to the north and see the wild Rhone tamed by tiers of dams. The Fort Saint Andre spreads its angry fortification across a nearby hill and the riches of Villeneuve, where the cardinals made their homes, climb out across the Rhone hillsides. The wind is too much and soon we were forced from the heights, picking grit from between our teeth.
We descended long stairs and spiraling ramps out of the garden. The helpful and cheery park workers urinate in the bushes at the approach of sightseers as if to provide the perfect snapshot of the French Atmosphere.
We made our way through the maze of streets to the base of the Pont Saint Benezet. Benezet was a local shepherd who heard the voice of god command that he descend to Avignon and cause to be erected a great bridge. France and the Papal states would eventually be separated only by the Rhone River and only cities with bridges could become sites of international importance so God was obviously planning ahead. Benezet descended to the town and proclaimed his dream to the assembled faithful during a festival. The crowd laughed and taunted Benezet. The local bishop demanded that Benezet prove he came at the command of God and lay as the bridges first stone an enormous piece of masonry left over from the building of the Cathedral. Without hesitating, we are told, Benezet lifted the rock and placed it in the river. The bridge was finished in the year 1185.
Benezet did not participate in the actual construction of the bridge; the placards describe him as “Not a technical man, but a grand fund raiser and motivator.” The art of building bridges had been lost with the Romans and Benezet founded a Brotherhood of the Bridge, men of God whose mission was to study bridges, including the Pont Du Garde, and recreate one in Avignon. The men lived and died on the bridge and it was their sacred mission to maintain it. Benezet eventually travelled to Rome then returned and built a bridge in Lyon. He was renowned for healing those injured in bridge building. There is a chapel to him beneath the second span of the bridge.
The Bridge of Avignon soon gained a dangerous reputation, for in winter it would ice over and the mistral winds would blow crossers to the water below. It sounds almost funny but it was true. There where no railings and we were almost lifted off by the incredible force of the winds. With ice it would have been a death trap.
Most of the bridge is gone, washed away by tidewaters and floods. Only the smallest nub of the Avignon side remains. The Rhone proved too much despite the flood channels opened in every span. As each span collapsed wood planking was extended until finally too much was gone. The bridge had been a source of contention between the French crown and the Popes over who owned it, but no one wanted to pay the cost of upkeep. Interestingly the river belonged to the king and he taxed the residents of the shore when it flooded. Nice guy.
The bridge proved to be a benefit to the citizen of Avignon in that the ruins provided a place for the sediments to drop out of the river and form an island. It was here, among the bridge’s ruins that a popular café sprang up with lively dancing.
“Under the bridge of Avignon we’re all dancing.” Sur and Sous. On and Under. With the passage of time the words got confused and the song changed from dancing "Under the Bridge" to "Dancing on the Bridge".
So, in complete ignorance of the history involved, Heather and I danced a lively but very short reel above a busy street on the shore of the Rhone.
We returned via the drawbridge and portcullis that led to the Castle of the Bridge and then onto the walls of the city. Behind us was the ancient hospital where the Brotherhood of the Bridge ministered to those traumatized both physically and spiritually by their river crossing.
We descended from the wall through the Tower of the Dogs and returned to our less than pleasant campground. The wind was, if it can be imagined, worse than ever and our night was a nightmare of wind and roaring waves of air. The floor of the tent would inflate with every gust and threaten to carry off the whole structure. We did not sleep well, in fact hardly at all and by the time the Sun rose we were too exhausted to move. If we could have stood another night in the campground, or another night exposed to the mistral we would have happily slept. As it was we packed up and began the difficult trip to Arles.
Next Entry: Day 100. Arles
Previous Entry: Day 99. Avignon.
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