Before leaving Italy, Anne & I made a daytrip to Genoa, Italian tourism’s biggest secret. We craved a fix of big city culture, and we got it. It’s the size of Manchester, but still very much a working city which has developed and grown: leaving its glittering heart unchanged, focussed and small - a time capsule from the moment the music stopped for Genoa in the late 1700s.
The big attraction is its quarter of baroque palaces, which stand substantially unchanged from its 18th Cent heyday. There are 20 in a row, and perhaps 100 altogether, ranging from complete town hall complexes down to hotels particuliers. They all have decorated exteriors, grand entrance halls and high ceilings: the only questions they each have are how many rooms, and who and what were in them. Like National Trust houses, there are always challenges of physical upkeep (most are in adequate nick, slightly foxed rather than fine), and the appropriateness of their current use (most are divided into residential apartments, some are offices and a few are museums).
Anne & I visited the Palazzi Blanco and Tursi, which have assembled and curated all the artwork collected by the State from all of Genova’s palazzi. And curated is the word, because these museums have made sense of their various pieces, and managed the selection well, over many years. They now present a coherent theme from a Genoa point of view, about how the different artists responded to changing times and influences, to produce the work they did. Anne & I had never heard of Assereto, or di Ferrari, but we have now.
In general, Genoa always had money available those days to acquire art, but not the leading talent locally. So the driving force of change was the people and influences coming from Venice (eg Veronese), or Florence/ Rome, or the Low Countries (eg van Dyck, en route to London).
Fascinating. And then Anne & I marched into three nearby churches, to see the state of the art outcomes there. Fabulous. We have been lucky enough to see plenty of baroque churches in recent months, in Malta and in Portugal, where big 17th Cent money purchased Italian craftsmanship to create series of masterpieces there. These three churches in Genoa, however, were the crème de la crème: with lavish decorations of gold-edged curlicues placed all over; with measured statues in fine white marble carrying gravitas; and with wonderful spreads of red-white-and-green marble (the components of the Italian flag, long before it existed) fascias extending up walls and across floors. But (and this is the surprising bit) there was always a sense of tasteful balance and - dare I say it? - restraint.
There should be a lot more to Genoa than its 18th Cent resting place. For 500 years it was the principal trading power and financier in the known world, the Mediterranean. Its naval victories were one set of dramas. Its underwriting of Spanish profligacy were another. Then Genoa experienced tumultuous changes in recent centuries with Austria, Napoleon, Garibaldi, Mussolini and the USAAF. Yet its museums and memories touch none of these themes: how odd.
Our reader will have noticed by this stage that little French expressions keep on intruding into the narrative - apercus, in fact. This is because the main part of this trip was France, profonde.
Anne & I chose to go for the bottom lefthand corner, and majored on Carcassonne, Aix-en-Provence, and Rodez. These provincial capitals have their own distinctive stories and treasures, of course. In addition, we hoped they might throw light on the complexities that beset our (closest neighbour – Ed) oldest enemy.
Carcassonne lies in the great valley between Bordeaux and Marseilles, containing inter alia the Canal du Midi. There are mountains on both sides, and the town and its medieval walled city float majestically in the centre of that region. Anne & I appreciated the sheer quality and local content of the Musee de Beaux Arts, which is one element of the excellent network of fine art museums organised across France (why doesn’t Britain do that? The National Trust doesn’t suffice). We enjoyed tootling up the valley to visit the picturesque hillside towns with faded stories of one rural industry or another. That land was first colonised by the Greeks, and then the Romans, who regarded it as a land of milk and honey. Anne & I preferred to gorge ourselves on the local Charente melons, asparagus and cassoulet.
The main story about Carcassonne, however, concerns the destruction of the Cathars 800 years ago. That’s as long ago as Robin Hood, and it comes as a surprise to learn the French still don’t have their story straight on this matter. In fact the latest suggestion is the Cathars didn’t exist in the first place, there was no war on them, and it was all a pretext for a northern landgrab.
That’s whitewash. We know this because Anne & I made the effort to read the chick-lit book Labyrinth by Kate Mosse (from Chichester- Ed). And we observed the dissonance of the tourist presentation in the walled city itself. On the one hand, the guides presented the case of the brave defenders, and their warm relationship with the local baron: first against Charlemagne - from Paris - when their cunning Carcas queen hoodwinked him into abandoning his siege; and then against the Crusaders - from Paris, too, by the way - who fought over Carcassonne several times, and treated their defeated foes dreadfully. On the other hand, the souvenir shops – perhaps supplied by Paris, who can tell?- in the walled city sold models of many kinds of knights – but all of them were depicted wearing the Christian colours, and none of them were representing the causes supported by the locals: the Saracens and the Cathars. More explicitly, the city of Carcassonne recently signified its institutional sympathies by adding to its public representation the words ‘in the land of the Cathars’: it’s written on the roadsigns.
Most troubling, Anne & I visited a part-ruined monastery called the Abbey de Villelongue in a quiet valley 20 miles away. This was one of the last and least ones founded by the Cistercians, and it ran to just 30 monks max, ever. But its buildings are extensive and grand, in elegant gothic stone; and comprise a church big enough for 300, a refectory for 80, and other accommodation. This construction was mostly financed by a donation from the mercenary northern warlord Simon de Montfort, who was not yet an English nobleman, when he happened to be in the area. But he was a hard man, who was unlikely to give something for nothing. Shortly after, it was Villelongue that hosted the process of interrogation and violent execution of about 40 Cathar leaders, including their bishop. In turn, the procedure they created in this way served as a precedent for the operations of The Inquisition established a few years later. It could be said that Villelongue was therefore an upmarket death camp, and a first step in the ultimate solution that wiped out the Cathars.
Or the matter could be avoided altogether. The current website of the Abbey trills “Villelongue, a place of prayer and meditation…is gradually finding its soul”. That’s unconscionable: even Springtime for Hitler wouldn’t sink as low as that.
Not everything that comes from Paris is repressive to these parts, however. The latest government reorganisation reassembled in one unit all the lands that were administered by Toulouse 600 years ago, ie before Paris took over. They even let the new region select its own name, by ballot. The people promptly chose Occitania, which is a none-too-subtle reminder that the region didn’t used to speak French, they spoke Occitan. And this idea is spreading: when Anne & I moved on to stay in Aix-en-Provence, which is in another region altogether, we noticed they too have supplemented most of the street signs with their ancient names in Occitan.
In other respects, Aix is pure Provence. This means benign pretty rich and satisfied, just like California. The old town is big, spacious and in good nick. Its roads are full of picturesque boutiques and workshops. It’s mainly a pedestrianised place, with a series of public fountains at every street juncture, courtesy of the Romans. Several backstreets house palatial hotels particuliers, originally in-your-face baroque, but soon toned down in time for the Revolution. These date from the days Dukes roamed abroad, and Aix was a centre of power.
Today there are hundreds of streetside restaurants bars and cafes gathered around the half-dozen principal places and piazzas, with hardly any pizza or burger bars. And above all there are friendly crowds of people walking around, enjoying the scene and contributing to it (ie, no noisy ones, and no tattoos).
One reason for all this benign good taste is that it’s French, but without the resentment of those having unhelpful history, unhelpful ancestry, or unhelpful economics. That’s all represented in spades by big brother Marseille, just down the road. But this intrusive presence of Marseille means that Aix has been subsumed, and has by stages lost its sense of leadership in the region: whether via the church, the state, or the university. Today, the historical grandeur of Aix is as far in the past as Winchester’s.
We checked out Marseille for its historical origins. It’s the oldest city in France, but they’re still finding out. Greek settlers were there before the Romans were around, and at a later stage the Romans were invited (!) to see off the Ligurians. Marseille’s Museum of History is built on the antique docks from those days, and the best part of its presentation shows what they found: many items from the early Christian times (which is Anne’s period), and remains of half a dozen ships dating back to 600BC. That’s well before the Vikings, and it was astonishing to see how elegantly made were the Greek boats, with tenon & mortise replacing twine fixings; and impressive to see how solidly the later Roman cargo ships were built, basically with railway sleepers. Way to go, Viking lovers!
More exciting yet, just off Marseille they’ve discovered a large cave with an underwater entrance, which leads to galleries of Stone Age art of extreme age: 200 animal images about 20,000 years old. Only accredited divers have seen them, obvs, but (as the French will do but English Heritage will not) they’re presenting a fibreglass version of it all in the museum… next month. Way to go, Aborigine lovers!
Our visit to Marseille was on 8th May, Victory Day as the French call it. There was a special exhibit of the town’s own song The Marseillaise, describing its origins and different kinds of reception over time. When you get to the later verses, it’s a bit of a blood-curdling rebel-rousing march: Napoleon thought it was anti-government, and so he banned it. But the French love it, particularly when they’re rowdy. The exhibit mentioned the only person who satirised the song Serge Gainsberg (the chap who upset the establishment once, with the explicitly erotic song of our youth, Je t’Aime - Ed), who sang a reggae version of La Marseillaise one day, and was confronted by 20 shaven-headed French Paras the next, to help him remember the correct version. And yet the exhibit made no mention of the Beatles’ 1967 No 1 hit, which asserted that nations should promote love, not war. Perhaps they judged their audience is not ready for that thought.
Another explanation for the good vibes Anne & I have enjoyed at Aix is given by the countryside around. The city is at the edge of a fertile plain, and was indeed the Romans’ first choice of settlement outside Italy. But – as in California, too - it’s surrounded by a set of scenic mountains which offer inspiration and rural escape. Altogether, Aix appears to be a paradise, and has served as the preferred destination of such discriminants as Peter Mayle, Picasso and Nine Simone.
As expected, Anne & I made a beeline for the art museum. And, as expected, it was wonderful. For 150 years, and mostly without state aid, Aix has enjoyed a quality selection of local and classic art presented by its Musee Granet. This has been abetted by two personal legacies (imagine! The museum holds 9 Picassos, but keeps them in its annexe!).
Our next cultural foray was less satisfactory. I should have anticipated this one, because I’d been reading Julian Barnes’ short stories about the frisson that always accompanies Anglo-French events. In this instance, Aix is twinned with other classy cities around Europe, obvs, including Grenada and Bath. So naturally Anne & I stepped up to attend the first post Covid concert that was held to unite these three upmarket places. Two of the teams behaved as expected, and put forward their finest choral ensembles, to entertain an earnest audience assembled in a 15th Cent church. But, oh dear, the English…were represented by a self-satisfied but stale bluegrass band of a sub-pub standard. They blithely played ukuleles (etym: Hawaiian jumping flea – Ed) to an audience that was stone-cold sober. Before experiencing the silence to test the pin-drop, Anne & I left.
The big name of Aix is Paul Cezanne, local boy made good. Now he’s regarded as an all-time Top Ten Artist, and the pilgrimage route comprises eight sites around town. Anne & I were looking for that, and so we dutifully went. We ended up thinking Cezanne should be categorised as A- rather than Post-Impressionist, because he stuck with stolid old subject-matter, and didn’t do light, movement or joy. Nor did he behave badly, like an Impressionist would. But he’s still a breakthrough artist, as Picasso and Matisse acknowledged. One highlight of our tour was to inspect the spot from which he painted the same Mont Ste Victoire 15 times. From there we visited the restaurant at the foot of the mountain (where the Michael Morpurgo book is set – Ed) to look at the view more closely, and to have a slap-up lunch in Cezanne’s honour.
For personal reasons, Anne & I were shocked to learn that Cezanne was supported by his banker father throughout, and didn’t sell a single piece until he was 33. His own local Musee Granet turned him down. And his first successful show came at 67, by which time the honour was posthumous. That’s scant encouragement for those of us who hope our best accomplishments can come in our 60s.
The shameless retro groupies that we are, Anne & I continued in our efforts to hunt down glamorous figures from yesteryear. Hemingway drank at a bar in Aix, but it burned down a couple of years ago. Everyone’s dancing on the Avignon bridge, according to the song; but (maybe confused by the other song, about London Bridge) several of its arches have now collapsed. Picasso recorded the exotic posturing of the young ladies of the same place, though there’s no evidence he ever visited. And we were left lamenting the fate of possible young movie starlets in St Tropez post-Bardot, doubtless still clad in teeny weeny polka dot bikinis.
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