This October morning at Courtomer
Misty autumn at the Chateau
Below: A late rose blooms against the Orangerie wall.
Chère amie, cher ami,
The solar disk struggles to throw off its silver veil.
We are in Normandy, nearing the end of October. In the heyday of the French Revolution, when even the months had to be remade, the last part of the tenth month was the beginning of “Brumaire,” month of gentle mist. And so it is today...a misty morning in autumn.
Up in the bourg, the lights chez Laurent cast a cheerful glow on the damp sidewalk. Trucks and fourgeons are parked in the place; farmers and artisans drink coffee at Laurent’s bar or stand out on the sidewalk under his striped awning to exchange a bit of news. La chasse opened about a month ago; les battues for wild boar and deer are being organized. Les affaires du monde are also discussed. But standing in the half-darkness, drinking un petit café with un petit sucre, one is far from the madding headlines of the outer world.
With a slam of portes hayon and sliding van doors, the Friday marché in the bourg of Courtomer begins to open. There’s a butcher and a knife sharpener, a fruit and vegetable vendor, local cheesemakers, a man who can fix your computer. Courtomer’s épicerie is already open for business; through the glass window, we can see Madame checking the inventory. The boulanger -- Dieu merci!-- is back from vacation.
Monsieur Thierry, maire adjoint, rubs his hands briskly and nods with satisfaction at the busy scene. Courtomer may be a tiny agglomération, but we hold high our heads in the Communité des communes, the new administrative unit that englobes the old mairies and their communes. Although he is Sagien natif né – bred, born and raised in the proud town of Seés, a bishopric with origins in pre-Roman times – our adjoint mayor holds that Courtomer’s market almost rivals that held on Saturdays in the land of the Sagii.
“Although,” he admitted, “One was inquiet regarding the fishmonger.”
The fish was fresh, no problème -- the Atlantic Ocean is less than two hours away. The poissonnier, on the other hand, wanted to retire. Diligently, the mairie sought a replacement. The new poissonnier, based in Caen, has just agreed to add Courtomer to his round. Spread on his étal are fishes from the coast, oysters, crabs and other fruits de mer, his home-smoked salmon and a seafood quiche maison. A promising start.
After the trêve estivale, the summer break, the life of les assoc’ in the village is also flourishing. The association of bénévoles, volunteers, that animates the public library has sent forth its calendar. On the program is a weekly atelier for knitting and embroidery, a theatre workshop for children, a book club, and a get-together over ancestors, the atelier généalogie. And just before Christmas, there will be a spectacle performed by “Camion Vert,” a folk musician and writer of children’s stories. Le Père Noël promises to be in attendance.
At the edge of the bourg, Courtomer’s horticulteur announces new stock for autumn and winter. There are cyclamen, pansies, heathers. And rows of perfectly round chrysanthemums, full of tight buds.
These will soon fill the cimitière near the Chateau. At La Toussaint, the feast of All Saints on November 1, toute France visits its tombs. Perhaps there will even be a few potted chrysanthemums in the Chateau’s own two chapels. These, along with the grave of the last Comtesse de Pelet, lie behind a tall hemlock fence beside the cemetery; there is one for each of the families who preceded ours at Chateau de Courtomer.
The Brimont de Ruinart chapel at Courtomer, where the Pelet family is also buried. Another renovation project.
Down the road at Le Vieux Courtomer, lieu-dit of the Chateau and where the chapels stand, we too turn with the season to new preoccupations.
New order has come to the old stable block, the haras. Piles of rubble, forgotten and half overgrown with grass, have been scooped up by Monsieur Martyn and taken away. Broken slabs of stone go to the basse-courfor filling potholes in the farm roads. A couple of ancient mattresses, covered in ticking stripe and burlap, and broken chairs from the grenier of the loge have been ruthlessly trundled off to the déchèterie in the bourg. The henhouse, fondly fabricated of wood scraps for a departed flock, has been dismantled. The grass is mown.
This morning, our gardener toils in the flower beds along the stone walls around the haras, weeding, mulching, cutting back. There are espaliered pears that will need further pruning later in the winter. Madame Francine’s fine peach tree, which she grew from seed, to be shaped. The hydrangeas and forsythias, their green leaves already turning red, to be trimmed. And my own raspberries, still yielding a few ripe and delectable fruits, to be neatly trained along the low wall facing the paddocks.
The borders at the feet of the paddock walls were planted with roses fashionable in the 1950s by the châtelaine who rests in the graveyard close by. The pink and red hues are strong and clear, the petals unfurl from stiffly pointed buds, the stems are strong, straight, and sharp with thorns. They survived long years of competition from weed trees and brambles which Monsieur Martyn now yanks out with tireless zeal. As La Toussaint approaches, bringing light and air to the roses is perhaps a truer remembrance of Madame la Comtesse than a potted plant.
As I come into the stable yard, Martyn straightens up. In a month, it will be la Sainte Catherine when, he reminds me, “tout bois prendra racine,” Among our projects for the 25th of November, when “all wood takes root,” is in an allée of trees from the stable block to the Habitacle, the 17th-century Protestant Temple that still stands in what later became the paddocks.
We have other projects, of course. The loge itself must be overhauled before a new gardien takes his place in the cour du haras. It’s an opportunity to update the kitchen, add a bathroom, review the electrical circuit.
The windows of the Chateau on the ground and first story all need to be repainted. The iron grille at the end of the park must be repaired and hung on its stone pillars. The main gates need resoldering and new paint. During the summer, I found four pairs of chauffeuses, little low armchairs, on a vintage furniture website for the Chateau. I need to decide where they will go and choose fabric. The boudoir still needs final touches.
An allée of trees will connect the Temple to the stables.
And, of course, there’s still the Petite Maison to finish.
By the end of the morning, the sun has cut through the grey clouds. The grass shimmers with evaporating beads of dew. Last roses are bright against stone walls. From somewhere up in the bourg, the refrain of a sonnerie de chasse sounds and falls away in the afternoon air.
A bientôt, au Chateau!