An ancient bastide, the home of a world-famous person,
extraordinary architecture, and more. Did I go to visit this? Nope, I was sent
there to trace a lost parcel.
We live in an area so remote it takes years for posties to
learn where each home is hidden. When one of these experts takes time off, it’s
mayhem in the sorting office. Letters get pushed through the wrong slots, and
parcels regularly go missing, as did mine.
“Go to Beaumont de Lomagne, Madame ‘aslam,” said our local postmaster.
“Why? It’s a long way from here.”
“You must make a claim for your lost parcel. This is where you do it.”
“So, you don’t think it will be re-delivered?”
“Oh, no, Madame. Anael,
your usual facteur, is on paternity
leave again. We have the temporary staff to cover while he is away and there
have been many problems already. It is definitely our fault. I am sure your
parcel will never arrive.”
And that was that.
The following day I drove to Beaumont and found the post
office easily enough. Observing the new standard protocol, I waffled through my
mask, and the lady hooted back through hers. After a verbal tussle, we worked
out what one another was saying.
“You need a compensation claim form, Madame.”
I live in France. This wasn’t a surprise. The lady produced
a dangerously complicated-looking document with many spaces. I had a bash at
filling them in, quickly got stuck and asked for advice. She got stuck too, and
the process ended up as a team-building event with two colleagues brought in to
help.
I left the post office feeling a mixture of mental exhaustion
and relief. It then occurred to me that having come all this way, I might as
well have a potter, and why not? The weather might have been glum, but I
was in a place of great historical significance. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.
The bastide town was created between 1276 and 1279 following
a feudal treaty between the abbey of Granselve and the king of France Philippe
III le Hardi (the Bold). Today, there
is an air of tired crustiness about the place, but therein lies part of its
charm.
As with many ancient towns, the market hall is a centrepiece,
and this one is a favourite of mine. It was a quiet day, which allowed me to
have a proper look.
Although planned from the original 13th century bastide
foundations, it was not built until the 14th century. It became the focal point
for the weekly market on Saturday mornings and still is. Silly though it
sounds, I love having bought goods on the same site used by folks in medieval
times.
I looked up. Talk about a wow factor. The immensely complex
oak frame of this square building always fascinates me.
No wonder it needed 38
posts to support it. Each of these rests on a stone plinth set at a different
level to compensate for the slope. As I was soon to realise, Beaumont is town
suited to those with mountain goat tendencies.
I paused to read an information panel. The base I was
walking on was paved with differently coloured pebbles. It had been
sympathetically restored. In total, about 370,000 stones were placed manually
to recreate the original base. The work took a year to complete. Imagine that!
The hall is sheltered on two sides by arcades. Faded yet
splendid, cafés, fruit sellers, pharmacies and pâtisseries, all the essentials
are represented here. Ahead, on the incline was the Mairie. Pride of place as usual, with plaques of Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité emblazoned
across the front wall. The town hall looked magnificent.
Traditionally, the garlic fête takes place at the end of July, after harvesting and drying
the yield. Over 15,000 devotees flock to this annual festival, keen to immerse
themselves in a packed programme bursting with garlic-related festivities.
A wide selection of local produce is offered during the fête, but nothing can compare with the
star of the show. An estimated three tonnes of garlic are sold every year. One
of the main attractions is the hotly contested garlic-peeling challenge, the
very thought of which made my eyes water. Yes, despite its sleepy appearances,
Beaumont is a happening place.
Keen to learn more about the town, I headed uphill towards
the tourist information centre. En route, a magnificent bronze statue caught my
eye. It was Pierre de Fermat. But just who was he?
Pierre de Fermat (Beaumont de Lomagne 1601 – Castres 1665)
was possibly the most productive mathematician of his era. He is considered to be one of the fathers of
analytic geometry, along with René Descartes. He, in collaboration with Blaise
Pascal, was also one of the founders of probability theory.
Maths fans will be aware that Fermat's most
important work was done in the development of modern number theory, a favourite
subject of his. He is best remembered for Fermat’s Last Theorem. I don’t
profess to understand it, but for those of you who do, here is the link.
My mind bristling with unfathomable theories, I headed into the
tourist information centre. Unsurprisingly, it was based in the quadrangle of another
magnificent mansion, which appeared to be part of Fermat’s old home.
A masked-muffled exchange took place between the girl behind
the counter and me. Now hopelessly inspired by the history and determined to
share my photos with you, I asked for further information about the town. Her
eyes lit up.
“Here you are, Madame,”
she said, thrusting a wad of leaflets in my hand.
“Lovely, thank you.”
“You are welcome, and I can show you a 360 degree view of
the town. You must see this, come with me.”
Intrigued, I dutifully followed the girl out through the
quad, down several steps and along a dark passage. Just as I was beginning to think
something had got horribly lost between the folds of my mask, she abruptly stopped.
“Here,” she said, plunging an enormous key into an archaic
lock. A clunk released the internals,
and the door swung open. “Take these stairs,” she said, pointing at a stone spiral staircase, “at the top, you will see the view. Please
close the door when you return.”
And with that, she left.
So, there I was, down a shadowy passage looking at a set of medieval
steps. Not exactly The Raiders of the Lost Arc, but I did feel slightly
intrepid. I started climbing the stairs. Up and up I went.
And up and up.
Still going up, I paused to take a photo of an extremely
short person’s door, but I was kidding myself. I was trying to catch my breath.
Inexorably up, and finally, there was light – a skinny flight
of steps which I presumed led to the top.
Thigh muscles screaming, I finally made it. Two thoughts
occurred to me. This was very likely to have been where Fermat’s theory of
probability was hatched. That being the probability of the stair climber having
a heart attack before reaching the top. Secondly, the brilliance of the suggestion
made by the lady, who had wisely decided not to accompany me. Mind you, those
views were fantastic.
I grabbed my camera and started clicking. A bastide town built on hills, I could see it all, and the gorgeous Gers countryside in the distance. Another half turn and a mass of geometric roofs lay before me. The pic could make a terrific jigsaw puzzle.
Another turn afforded a stunning view of a new focal point –
the massively imposing red brick church, what a remarkable building that was.
After another few turns, it was time to retrace my steps. For
someone who spends hours and hours rambling with dogs, I was surprised how
wobbly my legs felt by the time I reached ground level. Extreme stair climbing evidently
requires the use of niche muscle groups.
Still puffing, I returned to the tourist office to thank the
girl for her help. I was about to stagger out when she had another bright idea.
“But have you seen inside l’eglise Notre Dame de l’Assomption yet?”
“The church? No,” I gasped.
“You must! It’s around the corner and up the hill.”
“Yes, I did see it. Oh, another hill?”
“Yes, you can’t miss it.”
The French are a forthright lot.
But she was right. It was such an imposing building I
couldn’t leave without at least having a peek. I’m so glad I did.
Building work on the catholic church began in 1280. Withstanding
wars, famines, religious struggles and storms, like many buildings of its age it
suffered. Restoration work has been almost continuous throughout its history,
the aim always to maintain the magnificence of the construction.
There wasn’t another soul about as I walked down the bevelled flag stoned aisle. It was dimly lit, but I could still see how magnificent the alter was, as were the side chapels. I paused to admire each one – some extravagant, others unassuming.
I looked up at the vaulted ceiling way above. It was
contrastingly simple. Tranquil. Yes, the wear and tear were apparent, but it
couldn’t detract from the inherent beauty of the architecture. The purity of lines
and arches were intensely appealing.
I turned back to face the doorway. Above, was a magnificent
organ, one day I would love to hear that played. I could easily have spent much
longer enjoying the serenity and artefacts, but time was against me.
I headed back downhill over the cobbled streets, passing
crumbly shutters, massive oak doors and truly outstanding buildings. It had
been a wonderfully unexpected adventure, one to remember. Oh, and did my parcel
ever turn up? No, of course not!
