I have failed to take pictures today. I thought I did, or maybe I thought the pictures in my head, but I didn’t document anything today. You’ll have to deal with my storytelling of which I’m not sorry.
I was up shortly before 9AM (3AM EDT). I sat on my bed deciding what I wanted to do for the day. When I went to the laundromat yesterday, I saw a shop with beautiful things in its window. I visited an organic shop where they actually had oatmilk, on the shelf. Apparently this is common and also why I couldn’t find it at the larger grocery. Shelf-stable milk is a thing here.
I promised my return after work which I’m sure that shopkeeper hears all the time, but dude, seriously, oatmilk. Cow’s milk doesn’t taste the way it did when I was younger. Even my excitement at getting cream on the milk didn’t make it any more palatable. I was excited to get what I’m accustomed to back home.
I rode the bus out to my stop, but almost missed it because I was engaged in a book by the author, Frieda McFadden. I recently read two of her books, The Housemaid and The Housemaid’s Secret which were really good books in that they were entertaining with some plot twists that were satisfying. The book I’m reading now is called, Never Lie. I’m pretty sure I’ve figured this one out already, but I’m going to keep reading to see if I’m right or not.
I walked through the countryside aware of the flowers clinging to brightness, the ones who had passed their prime, the smell of the grass and cow flops, the sound of the cars passing me, the taste of the cool water that I refreshed myself with, the air not moving in my damndably hot pants that look so nifty. The stone that got caught in the bottom of my boot annoyed me enough for me to pry it out of the sole. I didn’t take the way my GPS told me, I took the road that passes the horses instead.
On my way to that road, I happened upon a sign that read: Oefs frais biologiques (Fresh organic eggs). My curiousity got the better of me and I wandered up to the small shed that had an open door. The left wall (nearest the road) was filled with decorative hay bales that had a price marked in chalk on the wall above them. On the back wall there was a locked mailbox that said Peiement (Payment). There was an open slot on the top. In chalk on a board were written the prices for the goods layed out on the shelf farthest from the road. There were dozens of eggs, cartons, and pressed oil made on the farm. Above each item, written on the wooden walls in chalk were the prices that were on the chalkboard.
Knowing that my client was having company for the next several days, I decided to bring them a gift. I selected and packaged a fresh dozen of brown eggs. I dug out my handy folded bag and packaged the purchase. I pondered and decided the oil was a good idea too. I put the Euros in the box as requested and returned to my trek.
As I turned down the road that would become the street they live on, I noted that the sides of the narrow road rose up steeply on one side, but were relatively level on the side I was walking on. The shade from the trees granted me relief from the sun, despite the cooling air.
As I was turning the corner, three houses from theirs, I recieved a message asking if I’d work Tuesday and Wednesday. I replied with “Uh, I’m actually at your gate right now. If you don’t need me, may I please use the restroom before I return to the city.” Instead of replying, she opened the gate and welcomed me with a warm hug.
Last week, I worked Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday because I’d just arrived in Caen and she wanted me to get acclimated to my neighborhood. This week, and each week after, I’m supposed to work the three days, more if required. I conveyed that understanding to her and the lightbulb came on over her head (not literally). Ironed out the wrinkles and we have a schedule and a plan.
They asked me if I’d be willing to go with them to a museum called Le musee de la bataille de Normandie. They want to go while their grandchildren are in school since they show little interest in the history of where they’re currently living. We set a time and I will make sure my client is safe, steady, and comfortable.
What I didn’t expect was the conversation after she asked me if I’d been to the Caen Memorial yet. No, I admitted. I went to the Abbey d’ Homme instead. I told her of the things I learned about William the Conqueror. Her eyes lit up. She asked if I wanted to hear a story. Of course I do!
She told me how William’s wife, Matilda of Flanders, came to be wed to him. It was a great story with rejection, acceptance, and love. Then she asked if I wanted to know why William, in his youth, was called William the Bastard. My eyes got big and I encouraged her to continue. I already knew he was called that, but I wasn’t sure why.
The gossipy version of the story told of a young Duke of Normandie living in the Chateau de Normandie with a bunch of his knights. He was in his late teens at the time. One day he was looking out his window toward the river when a group of village girls showed up to wash clothes in the water. One girl caught his eye in a big way.
So much did this beauty capture his imagination that he sent his knights to discover who she was (A Tanner’s only daughter and only child) and to tell her to come to the castle at his request. The knights set out to do their Lord’s bidding.
When they found her father, they asked him to tell his daughter to come to the castle. He said, “That’s really up to Herleva. You’ll have to see what she wants to do.” So they did.
The peasant girl, Herleva, said the only way she’d visit is if there were certain criteria met. First, no sneaking through back doors, she was to cross the drawbridge like a lady. Second, she was to be provided a horse to ride because she wasn’t going to show up all sweaty to this meeting, and finally, Robert I, the Duke, had to personally invite her to his home. The dubious knights returned to the castle with the requirements for the young woman’s visit.
To their surprise, Robert I readily agreed and offered an official invitation, provided a horse, and lowered the drawbridge. They met and talked for several days. Duke Robert I was smitten, and apparently she was too. Shortly after the visit began, she sent word back to her father that she was going to stay in the castle.
Several months after that, William was born out of wedlock to the Duke and Herleva. He was considered a bastard because it wasn’t possible, because of their different stations in life, for them to marry.
That didn’t stop Duke Robert from taking good care of his son. But the weight of his sin, of having a child out of wedlock, bore heavy on his soul. He went to Herleva and told her that he was seeking redemption from his sin. The only way he could see that happening was if he participated in the Second Crusade. She objected because it was basically a death sentence that many didn’t return from. He reassured her that he would return.
To make sure that his son remained cared for, he enlisted his most trusted friends to insure that William would not only be protected at all costs, but that if anything should happen to the Duke, William, as his only son and rightful heir, would be given the title of Duke. His friends agreed.
Ironically, the Duke Robert I was returning from the crusades when he died. His friends had protected the young William and fulfilled their promise to Robert. It nearly caused a civil war because many didn’t want the bastard to be put in a position of power, while the other camp kept vigilant. History tells us, the friends won the battle and William the bastard became William the Conqueror.
My client’s wife ended her story with a flourish. She was delighted that she could share the knowledge with me. Me too, really. When history is told in stories, making the names in history books come to life, to be human, it really gets it for me. I mean, who doesn’t want to learn the stories that make boring dates and names come to life again? Okay, anyone? Is it just me?
Tomorrow there will be pictures, I promise. Thank you for indulging my fascination with this part of the world by following my adventures. It really means a lot to me to see when people read what I’ve written. It motivates me to continue to share what I’m learning, experiencing, and witnessing.
P.S. My mom is still in the hospital because she can’t eat anything. Liquids seem to be okay, but that’s not good for long term. They’re putting her on high powered antacids in hopes of getting whatever is pissed off and causing her pain when she eats to settle down and behave. She sounds irritated that she’s still incarcerated in the hospital (HA!) but she seems to accept that until they understand why she can’t eat, it’s just how it is.
Go in peace.
Mare Martell 