Many of the great tourist regions of France and elsewhere draw the crowds thanks to the sheer drama of their landscapes. Think of the sweeping grandeur of the Alps, the power of the Grand Canyon, the majesty of the Ayers Rock standing in solitude in the heart of the Australian outback. Were we to imagine the musical accompaniment to these landscapes, it would have to be a grand orchestral score with plenty of violins, percussion, and clashing cymbals that build to an awesome climax. The landscape of Normandy on the other hand, brings to mind a gentle piano sonata. The fields and woodlands that stretch from Alençon to Cabourg and from Granville to Giverny are an endless source of quiet harmony and serenity.
As I sat down to try and sum up the essence of the region I call home, an image sprang to mind : a laughing, sunlit stream in a flower-strewn meadow. The grass is lush and green. The stream meanders gently across the fields, not because the contours of the land force it to, but simply because it is in no hurry to reach the sea. The rivers of Normandy flow gently through fertile pasture lan, their calm waters reflecting overhanging boughs laden with fruit. Driving along the road that follows the sinuous coastline of the Channel between Trouville and Honfleur, I always admire how the opulent green of the meadows and orchards melds harmoniously with the grey and blue of the sparkling waves.. Here in the Pays d’Auge – the geographical heart of Normandy – the grass grows tall and lush. This is the département of Calvados – picture-postcard Normandy, where fat cattle roaming free in emerald-green fields provide the rich, creamy milk for the superb cheeses for which the region is famed.
But this is only part of the picture. Normandy also has its wild and untamed corners. Movie directors such as Polanski and Truffaut have re-created the windswept heaths of England and Ireland in the far reaches of the Cotentin. The lofty heights of La Varende in the distance blend into the blue haze of the pays d’Ouche. The shrouds of mist that veil the forests and the lakes of the Orne département and the melancholy solitude of the beaches lying along the northern coast towards Le Tréport create an ambience very differently from that of the sunny meadows and cheerful market towns.
Normandy is al land of contrast, where driving past lonely fields and copses you turn a corner and suddenly you find yourself in a bustling fishing port. Honfleur is such a port; an absolute jewel in the crown, with its tall, narrow slate-roofed houses and its colorful fishing smakcks lined up at the quayside. Nestled at the foot of a green sircle of hills, it is a truly delightful spot. Normandy is rich with such gems. There is the medieval heart of Rouen, miraculously preserved almost intact despite being severly bombed during the war, and the majestic curving reaches of the river Seine after Jumièges, renowned for its succulent cherries. And the monastery of Bec-Hellouim, where the monks in their simple white robes can often be seen strolling in the dappled woodlands dotted with clusters of hyacinth, or the evanescent beauty of the fields of flax, where the wind creates shimmering ripples of white and blue…
The people of Normandy live in homes as modest and unpretentious as they are themselves – long, low farms protected behind stout walls, ancient half-timbered houses, and buildings built from bricks, mellowed by the sun. Normandy reminds me of a fine old lady dressed in pink-and-white finery remembering the dances of her youth, or a fragile blossom on the gnarled branches of a venerable old apple tree. Every spring, the crooked branches of the old apple trees disappear under under an avalanche of snowy white blossoms, as cheerful as a peal of laughter. the flowers huddle on the branches like gaggles of schoolgirls sharing a secret. Each bloom – five petals of almost transparent white tinged with delicate pink – shakes off the morning dew and lifts its velvety face to the sun. they remind me of rosy-cheeked country maids dancing a merry round…
