So one Saturday a few months ago, I got up at stupidearly o’clock, and at a time when I am usually checking my Facebook and vowing that today I’ll be on time for work, I was on a train out of Paris. I changed trains in Poitiers, the only glimpse of the city I’ve ever seen snatched from the platform. The sun was out, but the cold air snapped me awake.
Shortly after 10am I was in Niort. I hadn’t been on a day trip in ages, and it was exciting to walk out of the train station with a whole new town to discover ahead of me. All small towns in France resemble oneanother – a road stretches straight ahead from the train station to the centre, usually lined with various dodgy takeaway joints. So I forced myself to do a hard right turn, towards a park I had spotted on Google Maps the night before.
On the wall outside one of the ubiquitous station hotels, I spotted a map of the town. I slowed down to have a closer look, and take a photo of the hotel. The owner standing in the doorway called out to me “Mademoiselle est jolie en rouge” (I was wearing a red scarf and hat). Hah, I had a feeling I was going to like Niort.
I walked up the hill and round the corner. The alleged park was a construction site – being turned into a multimedia, multi-purpose entertainment area. So I skirted around and headed for the shops.
The town centre was bustling with Saturday shopping, but the town seemed to have a nice anarchic character as well. Old shops restored, giant snakes guarding the shopping street, and the postie popping in for a quick tattoo… just opposite this shop, I stopped to take a photo of the church tower (I love towers). A passer-by said “you have to pay for that”. I gave him a look meant to convey “yeah right” and he gave me a sheepish look and kept going. Hah, do I look like a green tourist to you?
The centerpiece of Niort is its beautiful wrought-iron market, and shopping was in full swing. I passed people handing out leaflets for the upcoming regional elections, and stopped to watch a group forming, apparently about to burst into song. I thought they might have been musical campaigners, but in fact they were promoting a new show in the local theatre.
I passed through the market. The area that Niort is in is called Les Deux Sèvres, as two rivers flow through it, one the river Sèvre nantaise, a tributary of the Loire, and the other the Sèvre niortaise, which runs into the ocean. I found out later that it is also known as Les Deux Chèvres, in honour of the vast quantity of goat’s cheese produced in the region. I looked longingly at the local speciality, but refrained from buying any – it was only 10.30 and I didn’t want to carry it around all day. I like my cheese to smell like old socks, but only on purpose.
Next to the market is the donjon, the old castle keep. I was particularly looking forward to visiting this, as living in France stokes my fascination with castles. And a donjon always reminds me of Les Visiteurs, Jean Reno with a ridiculous haircut exclaiming “mon donjon!”
I walked up the main stairs at the front and past a poster promoting night visits of the donjon with the slogan “Vivez donjeuresement”. I also went past a poster promoting a pottery exhibition inside the castle. Eh? Well it turns out that as well as being recently restored, the donjon also showcases local arts.
I walk in through the entrance door and through the narrow hallway, presumably easily defendable. I push open a wooden door into the enormous reception, and am dazzled by the morning light coming through the windows. I can only see silhouettes of the staff against the bright light, and so I launch a tentative ‘bonjour’ when I am halfway across the creaking floor.
I get closer to the desk and the shadows resolve into one man and two young women. It is much warmer inside, and I peel off several layers, to their suppressed amusement. No, there isn’t a vestiaire for me to store any coats on bags in. Would I like to buy a combined ticket for the museum and the donjon? It’s two euros cheaper than buying them separately. I am only in Niort for the day, and I have other engagements, but I acquiesce. Yes, I can get onto the roof. But first I should start with this room, and then this other one. The man hands me a map and painstakingly points out the recommended order of the visit.
I just want to get onto the roof and survey the town from a great height, but I dutifully take the map and trudge through the rooms in the order specified. The pottery, by
Francis Vincent, is exquisite, organic forms that seem too light to have come from mere clay. I regret travelling by train and the lack of space in my flat, and buy a catalogue rather than one of the beautiful objects.
In another room is an exhibition of what appear to be completely unrelated paintings, but are all testament to the restorer’s art. I skip the convoluted explanations of the miracle of restoration, but I am fascinated by a painting of market women in front of an Egyptian statue which looks oddly familiar. Of course, it is the water carrier on the rue de Sevres, a stones throw from my apartment. In yet another room is a random assortment of wardrobes, and I wonder fleetingly if I can open a door and fall back into my apartment. But I’m not done with Niort yet, or even the donjon, so I press onwards and upwards.
The staircase to the roof is a tight spiral, impossibly steep and in lieu of a handrail, it has a rope, and a sign blithely urging you to watch your step. OSH would have a heart attack. I inch up it and emerge onto the roof which lurches in angles with barely a flat portion to stand on, like a ship in a storm. The view is fantastic.
On my way back down, I return the laminated map to the front desk, and the man on the counter asks me where I’m from. When I mention New Zealand, he becomes suddenly animated. What am I doing in France? How come I speak French so well? Wasn’t it terrible about the earthquake? He’s a few years older than me, perhaps, and has glasses and a neatly clipped black beard. I find myself switching into auto-flirt mode – a reflex any single girl learns in France. At the very least it might smooth the way at checkouts or customs desks, and in the odd case it might result in an invitation for a drink. I’m laughing at his jokes and – what’s this – actually blushing.
I catch myself – I am meeting a friend for lunch shortly – what am I doing standing in a castle 400 kms from Paris, bantering with the guy on the desk. I put my coat on and leave. I pause in the anteroom to put on my sunglasses, and he bustles through the door with a clipboard. Ah, I forgot to ask for your name. He looks at me expectantly, and a little, rarely-used signal light starts flashing in the dim recesses of my brain. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say “would you like my phone number too”, but my reflexes are too rusty after months and months of nun-like existence. I carefully spell out my name, give him what I hope is a dazzling smile, and step out into the bright sunlight.
I meet a friend for lunch and we go back to the grande place under renovation, to have lunch in a glass-fronted restaurant bathed in sunlight. After months of winter, I crave the light and the warmth, but halfway through the meal I am fanning myself and taking large gulps of water, as my internal temperature shoots up. Leaving the restaurant is a relief, and as we walk through the town to his car, I realize the Saturday morning bustle has died away, as everyone has gone home for lunch. The weekend quiet settles over the small town like a blanket of cotton wool. It reminds me of endless Sunday afternoons in Armentières – yes, there was ample time to read and reflect, but it could get a little depressing.
But I have a full schedule. I spend the afternoon catching up with some other friends. My supplier of goats cheese does not let me down, and then I am on the 6pm train back to Paris, with my booty wrapped in a paper bag and hoping it doesn’t get too warm on the journey.
You’re probably wondering why I’m blogging about Niort now, given that it was three whole months ago and I’ve probably done a lot of other interesting stuff since then. Well, one reason is that things have been so busy lately that recent activities are a bit of a blur, and looking back on Niort seems easier than summing up what I did last weekend.
The other reason is that I am getting up stupidly early tomorrow to go back and do it all over again – and that may just include another visit to the donjon. Will I capture the castle? Stay tuned…
