Le Doudou

We had been looking forward to this weekend since we first came to Mons and discovered that they had a fantastic festival. We had seen pictures all over and heard stories from friends - the Doudou was an event NOT to be missed. Thankfully, D has a colleague with an apartment overlooking the Grand Place (the location of said festival) and was willing to let his coworkers and a few friends spend the day there to enjoy it. Being good guests, we did not come empty handed. D and I were responsible for baguettes, and D proving what a good provider he is, went out early on Sunday morning (in his very stylish Doudou shirt - it is a dragon embroidered on the front) to procure them. [The noose looking accessory around D's neck is a collier, which literally translates into "collar", and is the way local towns and fests show their town pride - red and white are the colors of Mons.]


The Ducasse de Mons or Doudou is a popular festival that happens every year on Trinity Sunday (57 days after Easter, the first Sunday after Pentecost) in the town of Mons, Belgium. It is recognized as one of the Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity (a list maintained by UNESCO that honors pieces of intangible culture) since November 2005.


The Doudou originates in the Middle Ages. In 1349, because the city of Mons was suffering under the plague, the authorities decided to organize a procession with the shrine of Waltrude (her remains that is - a relic). The shrine was brought to Casteau (little village right next to Mons). At the same time, the shrine of Vincent Madelgarus (husband of Waltrude) that is based in Soignies (also near Mons) was also taken to the same place. A miracle happened and the plague disappeared after this Procession. In 1352, the date was fixed on Trinity Sunday. After 1380, the fraternity of Saint George has appeared in the procession. The reconstitution of the combat between Saint George and a Dragon took his place in the fest. Because of the "less religious" origin, the combat was excluded from the procession in the 19th century. The separation between the religious parts of the fest and the non-religious began at this time.


The procession did not take place during the French revolution, in 1803 and during the two world wars. [This picture shows the construction of the pit for the Battle of St. George and the Dragon. The trucks dumped the sand and a crew of guys with shovels came out and started spreading it around. As the circle was coming together, men, in various states of inebriation, began ripping their shirts off (and the shirts of their friends) and jumped into the ring and began wrestling. Although there was a couple of inches of sand, cobblestones were still the foundation and these guys were throwing each other down on it. Ouch.]


On the morning of Trinity Sunday, the shrine is placed on the Car d’or, which is a gilded dray (pictured in the Mons post from several months ago), and the procession begins. The car d’or is pulled through the streets by draft horses. The dray is accompanied by several guilds that represent the history of the region. At the end of the trail, the car d’or has to climb a steep, cobblestoned street named Rampe Sainte-Waudru. To help the horses with the immense weight, hundreds of people push the dray. Legend says that if the dray doesn't climb the street, the city will have great misfortune. This happened in 1803, due to the French Revolution, and in 1914 and 1940, due to the First and Second World Wars.


The battle is played out on the Trinity Sunday between 12.30 pm and 1.00 pm (about an hour after the parade ends). It represents the fight between Saint George (the good) and the dragon (the evil). The fight is called Lumeçon. This name comes from the old French name Limaçon (old French name meaning a spectacle with horses that made circulars movements.) The combat happens on the central square of Mons. The length of the dragon is about 10 meters. The end of his tail is covered with horses' hairs (mane). The dragon is displaced with the help of the white men (fr:Hommes blancs). Saint George is protected by the Chinchins who represent dogs. The dragon is helped by the devils (fr: Les diables). Each devil is armed with a cow bladder full of air (the balloon in the past before plastic had been developed). With this weapon, they knock the Chinchins and the public that are placed all around the arena. The dragon fights Saint George by giving Tail attacks. The dragon gives also tail attacks in the public.


So, the public is also an important participant in the fight. People try to take the mane of the tail because it gives luck for one year long. Finally, there are also the Leaf men (fr:Hommes de feuilles) that are covered with real leaves of ivy. They help the dragon by defending and supporting his tail. (This means, practically, that they beat the crowd to get the tail back from the thousands striving to get horse hair from the end. Again, ouch.) The combat is a high precision choreography (relatively speaking). Saint George on his horse turns clockwise. And the dragon turns in the other direction. (This is a reference between the good against the evil). Saint George tries to kill the dragon with his lance but the lance always broke on the contact of the dragon's skin. Saint George uses a pistol and finally kills the dragon on the third try. It is 1 p.m., the participants leave the square, people rush in the arena to find the last lucky manes which have fallen on the ground. And the carillon of Mons rings. (That horse was unflappable. I was really impressed at how beautiful he was and how well he handled the absolute chaos of activity, people, noise and then the crowds around him after George wins.)


The day was a little drizzly, but as you can see, that didn't impact the attendance. If you will notice, there is what looks like a grayish mist above those immediately along the ropes holding back the hoards from the ring. This is a sweat cloud - no, I am not kidding. The day was coolish, but the amount of people crushed into that space was small, and hence the perspiration and resulting cloud. We were glad to be up above, away from the madness. We witnessed body surfing (people voluntarily and involuntarily being heaved up top and moved back - it was predominantly male individuals up at the front of the ropes), as well as an almost hypnotic swaying of the crowd. Someone wouldn't have been able to fall down if they tried - which is good because they may have been trampled if they did. The people immediately behind the rope needed to be strong because of the pressure coming from behind them, and the unyielding steel-cored rope in front.


As you can see, we had a FANTASTIC position from which to enjoy the show. We arrived early and stayed until mid-afternoon. Naturally, around 2ish, the sun came out and it was gorgeous - after the parades and dragon-fight were over.


And like that, it was over. This is a picture of people searching through the sand for the horse-hair (and letting their kids play in it). We found it a bit unpalatable given all the activity that had just happened there - I swear I saw the horse St. George was riding relieve himself in that. Not pretty. Clearly, we were not as committed to obtaining the "good luck" hair as the others.


As the pictures show, the crowds were tremendous. And this was just one day (granted the most important day) of a week long festival. We had come down on Friday and Saturday nights and the best description is the feeling of sardines squished in a can. And since most people were drinking (both from glass containers and plastic ones) the streets were a wreck. I was impressed, having come back Saturday and Sunday mornings, at how well the city had cleaned up. This pile of cups was just the one closest to our location - there were a variety of others around. And, with that quantity of people and only one portable urinal (like the one we introduced you to from our first Amsterdam trip) I wouldn't go into the rivers of liquid flowing in the streets. (I feared looking in just about any direction on our walks home given that I didn't want to witness such activities.)


Overall, a really fun and memorable experience. I am soooooo grateful that we were able to see it from the comfort of Tim's apartment. What a show.

Bastogne

D and I have have been watching HBO's miniseries "Band of Brothers" that chronicles several men from the 101st Airborne Division as they prepare for, deploy, and fight in WWII. It is a tremendously gripping and raw series with a realism that is missing in the movie Saving Private Ryan. They start each episode with snippets of interviews from the surviving members of the 101st, which adds a personal dimension that moved D and I very much.


As our time in Belgium as grown longer, we have become more and more aware of the tole that WWI and WWII has had on this region of Europe (specifically) and have been keen to not let the opportunity of investigating sites, memorials and cemeteries slip by. The Battle of the Bulge (as we know it in the US) had its apex in Bastogne. The soldiers memories of this place and battle are vivid and visceral to this day. Bastogne is only about a 2 hour drive away from us, so we decided that since we had a Saturday free, we would regret not going and paying our respects and learning from the memorial, museum and cemetery there.


The Ardennes Offensive (16 December 1944 – 25 January 1945) was a major German offensive launched towards the end of World War II through the forested Ardennes Mountains region of Belgium, France and Luxembourg on the Western Front. This German offensive was officially named the Ardennes-Alsace campaign by the U.S. Army, but it is known to the general public simply as the Battle of the Bulge. The “bulge” was the initial incursion the Germans put into the Allies’ line of advance, as seen in maps presented in contemporary newspapers.


Germany’s planned goal for these operations was to split the British and American Allied line in half, capturing the port of Antwerp, Belgium, and then proceeding to encircle and destroy four Allied armies, forcing the Western Allies to negotiate a peace treaty in the Axis Powers’ favor.


The offensive was planned with the utmost secrecy, minimizing radio traffic and conducting the movement of troops and equipment under cover of darkness. Although ULTRA suggested a possible attack and the Third U.S. Army's intelligence staff predicted a major German offensive, the offensive still caught the Allies by surprise. This was achieved by a combination of Allied overconfidence, preoccupation with their own offensive plans, poor aerial reconnaissance, and the relative lack of combat contact by the First U.S. Army in an area considered a "quiet sector". Almost complete surprise against a weak section of the Allies’ line was achieved during heavy overcast weather, when the Allies’ strong air forces would be grounded.


By 21 December, the German forces had surrounded Bastogne, which was defended by the 101st Airborne and Combat Command B of the 10th Armored Division. Conditions inside the perimeter were tough — most of the medical supplies and medical personnel had been captured. Food was scarce, and by December 22 artillery ammunition was restricted to 10 rounds per gun per day. The weather cleared the next day, however, and supplies (primarily ammunition) were dropped over four of the next five days.


Despite determined German attacks, however, the perimeter held. The German commander, Generalleutnant Heinrich Freiherr von Lüttwitz, requested Bastogne's surrender. When General Anthony McAuliffe, acting commander of the 101st, was told, a frustrated McAuliffe responded, "Nuts!" After turning to other pressing issues, his staff reminded him that they should reply to the German demand. One officer (Harry W. O. Kinnard, then a Lieutenant Colonel) recommended that McAuliffe's initial reply would be "tough to beat." Thus McAuliffe wrote on the paper delivered to the Germans: “NUTS!” That reply had to be explained, both to the Germans and to non-American Allies.


The objectives for the offensive were not realized. General Patton's spearhead of the 4th Armored Division (of the Third Army) broke through and opened a corridor to Bastogne, ending the seige and swinging momentum toward the Allies. In the wake of the defeat, many experienced German units were left severely depleted of men and equipment, as survivors retreated to the defenses of the Siegfried Line. With over 800,000 men committed and over 19,000 killed, the Battle of the Bulge became the single biggest and bloodiest battle that American forces experienced in World War II.


It was moving to be in the locations where these important historical events took place. The historian in me thrilled at the opportunity - especially with the chance to view all of the personal effects, notes and military equipment at the Bastogne Museum. We both really appreciated the effort the museum took in keeping in touch with veterans. It was rewarding to see before, during and after pictures of the service men. Many of the veterans also donated artifacts that made the experience much more meaningful.

The men of the 101st Airborne don't call themselves heros and don't like others calling them that - instead they defer and say that the real heros were the ones that didn't come home. Learning more about them, seeing their story from their eyes (so to speak) gives one an insight impossible to gain by reading books. I am not sure of the definition of a hero but these men seem to fit into just about any definition. The courage to face the conditions, opposition, and elements despite their fear places them in a very small percentage of human beings. I am proud of the example they set for subsequent generations. These are the kind of people that we need to hold up, as a culture, and try to emulate. I do not desire the conditions (a world war) that provided the platform for such sacrifice and commitment to country and cause, but I do pray that we don't lose (haven't lost) the integrity, morality and selflessness that was displayed by that generation of Americans.

Searching for Quiche in Lorraine: the Search Continues

Quiche research in our various guidebooks gave a lone clue to locating the target meal. The Parc Regional de Lorraine is a nature preserve southwest of Metz and is said to have "red-tiled cottages, vineyards, forests, cropland, chaumes (high pastureland), marshes, and lakes. Inns in the area are especially noted for their quiche lorraine..." We set a course for Pont-à-Mousson at the southeast corner of le parc and then plunged westward into the French countryside. We quickly encountered a sign for an American war cemetery and decided to visit as it was in the general direction of our planned travel.


Under grey skies we rolled through tiny French villages surrounded by the green of pastureland and immaculate wheat fields. Past Bouillonville ("broth town"), Montauville (which I enthusiastically and incorrectly translated as "overcoat town" which is understandable with its similar spelling of "manteauville"), Regnieville and eventually we arrived at Thiaucourt where the St. Mihiel American Cemetery lies just outside the village. Each American war cemetery has a staffed reception desk (guaranteed English speaking!) and we inquired as where we might find quiche lorraine. The receptionist suggested a small boulangerie back in Thiaucourt, but the time was just after 1PM on a Sunday and it had closed. In our conversation with the receptionist, we had discussed a monument we had noticed off in the distance while walking through the cemetery. It turned out to be the Montsec American Monument from WWI just outside the tiny town of Montsec and we decided to make that our next destination.


Again into the rolling hills of French farming villages, the roads lined with trees and marked by the occasional stone obelisk recording the achievements of Allied troops in one or both of the world wars. At one point a dilapidated, crumbling pillbox startled us from its roadside perch beside a field of vegetables, a grim reminder of less happy times. At each town, we would stop at any noticeable restaurants and took turns jumping out of the car to read the menu posted outside the door. No quiche lorraine, but we noticed that each local restaurant was crowded with lively diners.


We pressed onward toward the American memorial along single-lane country roads and the grey skies began to clear, revealing glorious sunshine, blue skies and fluffy clouds floating silently above. The memorial was on the top of a hill in the middle of miles of low, flat farmland and provided a spectacular view of the sky and the surrounding countryside laid out below us. Originally built after WWI when over 500,000 Allied troops fought to gain control of the strategic hill, the memorial was damaged in the second war by fighting on the hill and has since been restored.


Though the view was beautiful, there was no quiche to be found so we drove north into low, wooded mountains toward the French Douaumont Ossuary near Verdun and the Meuse-Argonne American Cemetery, the largest in Europe. As we drove the day was fading into late afternoon and we had stopped at several additional restaurants with no sign of quiche. I was told to brace myself for the possibility of failure in our culinary quest but ever optimistic, we prayed for quiche and continued onward.


And then it happened: we came upon a pocket of modern civilization within the bucolic surroundings and a local eatery right by the side of the road. It was the passenger's turn to check the menu, so she skeptically tromped up to the menu, turned around and gave two thumbs up! We had struck eggy gold. Ahh, but it was not to be so easy. We entered and like all other restaurants we had seen it was full of families. The waitstaff quickly turned the Americans over to a nice English-speaking Frenchman who turned out to be the owner. He explained that this day was "all mothers' birthday" which we figured out meant it was Mother's Day in France and all restaurants including his were booked full making our dining impossible. J explained our plight, how we had searched high and low for quiche lorraine and his was the first restaurant we had found serving the local specialty.


"You just want the quiche lorraine?" he asked. "Wait here", and he charged into the kitchen. Returning few minutes later, he smiled saying they would be able to accommodate, ushering us over to a table for two alongside long tables full of boisterous French families.


After our slices of quiche with small salads and a pair of cappuccinos served like ice cream sundays, and with profuse thanks to the proprietor (and a generous American-style tip) we returned to the relaxing task of locating the cemeteries nestled in the hills of northern France. Afterward in the low evening light, I pointed the car northwest and back home toward Mons.


On the way, I even stopped for gas when the tank was only half empty.

Searching for Quiche in Lorraine: the Inauspicious Start

We had passed through the Lorraine region of France last fall, in a late afternoon dash from Champagne to a reserved hotel in Strasbourg (Funny side note: I was looking forward to visiting Strasbourg's castle on the hill and was crushed when we arrived and J realized I had confused Strasbourg with Salzberg, Austria). Because of poor planning on my part, the drive to Strasbourg had taken much longer than I anticipated and we ended up departing France without spending any time in Lorraine proper. After Dublin, we had a free weekend before the Ducasse de Mons, and I was determined to return to Lorraine for a slice of the famous quiche. And perhaps some sightseeing.


We booked a hotel just north of Metz, France and drove down on a dreary Saturday morning, stopping first at the Lorraine American Cemetery and Memorial (http://www.abmc.gov/cemeteries/cemeteries/lo.php), the largest American WWII cemetery in France. From there, we proceeded to the heart of Metz to visit a chapel built by the Knights Templar followed by a trip to the magnificent cathedral in the center of the city. The weekend of our visit Metz was host to a modern art exhibition and several of our stops housed works including Anthony McCall's Line Describing a Cone (http://www.anthonymccall.com/pg1.html), which I had never heard of but was glad to play in and around. We noticed at least one tourist restaurant advertising "Quiche Lorraine" but I passed, determined to search out a more authentic experience. As we were leaving Metz, we noticed a number of Johnny Halliday (who we had heard described as an "aging rocker" of whom the French just can't get enough in a library book about France) t-shirts. Later in the evening we saw a bit of French news covering what turned out to be a Johnny Halliday concert in Metz, explaining the massive backup of traffic coming into Metz as we drove north to our hotel.


The hotel was pleasant enough. It appeared to be run by a French family and though they spoke little German and less English, we were able to successfully check in and then ventured out in search of quiche. We asked one of the hotel staff and after a valiant effort by my wife, we understood the French equivalent of "Quiche Lorraine? Not around here. You have to go south to Metz, or even to Nancy (another city farther south)". A bit disappointed and tired, we decided to skip dinner and play a bit of cribbage in the hotel bar. We had been told to be sure to sample French apple cider, so we inquired of the barman and after a bit of confusion successful communication was achieved and we selected a table and sat down. We were surprised and amused when the waiter walked up with two bottles of fruit juice which we drank, happy to at least have something. After splitting a pair of games we decided on early to bed to allow an early start for Sunday's adventures.


As we left the bar, we ran into a tuxedoed-and-gowned newlywed couple just arriving for their reception, and so the music began. In our room on the third floor, the throbbing disco beats were still going at 3AM, when I woke and realized the hotel room included an additional door to the bedchamber. I closed it and the music was muted enough to allow better sleep until morning. There had been an English wedding reception in our hotel on the Saturday night we spent as part of the Medieval England tour, so we now feel we have well-rounded experience when it comes to European wedding receptions.


The morning came and we descended on a delightful French breakfast of coffee, baguettes, and plateau de fromages (cheese plate, including yoghurt). The agitation (agita for short in our house) began when I had forgotten to print off the online hotel booking receipt stating breakfast was included. No problem, just a few extra Euros. Then we got in the car and I remembered I needed to get gas. No problem, just look up gas stations on the GPS and voila, here is one less than 2km away. Except the GPS was wrong: we found no station. No problem, another lookup and here is another one right off the freeway in the direction we were planning to go.

Pull off, try one debit card, then the second. Then two credit cards...hmmm the card reader only works with the Euro MasterCard or the Euro-centric "Mister Cash". At this point the gas needle is getting concerningly low and the copilot is decidedly not impressed. I begin to get a sinking feeling that is unfortunately familiar and I flashback to the ill-fated Strasbourg/Salzberg trip where we nearly ran out of gas since most local stations are closed on Sundays in France. Another motorist pulled up and I was considering an ill-fated attempt to barter my 50 Euro note for use of their bankcard but my request for a second opinion on this course of action was met by clenched teeth, then a polite reminder that a toddler spoke better French than both of us combined. Oh, I neglected to mention that the skies had opened in a torrential downpour by this time.


The GPS pointed us to a Total station less than 6km away and onward we drove, with me subtlely (and cleverly) shifting into neutral whenever possible. Praying and guided by the GPS, we entered a friendly industrial area next to a large decaying factory and with my heart beating ever more rapidly, finally came in sight of the promised station which--joy of joys--was staffed by a human attendant.

A 50 Euro note and one penny later and our thirst for fossil fuels was sated. We all learned an important lesson that day, which is helpful because I had obviously not been taking good notes the last time this particular lesson was taught. With thanks to God and industrialized petrochemical distribution, we ventured southwest into the heart of Lorraine in search of quiche and a view.

Wild Wicklow and Glendalough

Choosing where to go on our one day in the Irish countryside was difficult. There were the Cliffs of Moher, Newgrange, Malahide Castle, Limerick, Blarney Castle and Wicklow to name a few. Thankfully, Veronica came to the rescue again and recommended Wicklow County.


Known as The Garden of Ireland, County Wicklow is one of Ireland's true scenic treasures with its magnificent hills and mountains, long sandy beaches, rivers and lakes. The name of the county comes from the town of Wicklow, which local history contends that it was founded by the Vikings, probably around 795 AD. The name "Wicklow" comes from Vikinglow, meaning Meadow of the Vikings, or Wykynlo, meaning Viking Loch. (You can see how excited D is to get out of the city. I never would have thought of him as a tree-hugger, but here is the evidence. [Editors note: this display of arboreal love triggered comical copycat behavior by a tree-ringing group of Dutch women])


Wicklow county is also known as having been a historical hotbed of rebellion activity. Our bus driver/tour guide told us that County Wicklow was the scene of intense fighting in the Irish Rebellion of 1798. Militant factions held out in the Wicklow mountains and confounded every British strategy to defeat them for five years. There is a lot of pride in the area over this fact.


The region includes large areas of mountain blanket bogs, including the Lugnaquilla and Liffey Head Bog complexes and Glendalough Wood Nature Reserve. The National Park provides protection for the landscape and the wildlife, from rare orchids to the wild and beautiful Peregrine Falcon. The heather wasn't in bloom yet, but the bogs are covered by them and I can imagine how beautiful it must be when you see the lavender color as far as the eye can see.


It was surprising to me to see the numerous creeks, streams and rivers so high up in the mountains. Given how much it rains in Ireland, I shouldn't be surprised to see water anywhere but the bogs were unique and fascinating to me. Bogs occur where the water at the ground surface is acidic, either from acidic ground water, or where water is derived entirely from precipitation. Water flowing out of bogs has a characteristic brown color, from dissolved peat tannins. Our guide pointed this out (saying that it looks just like Guinness, which amusingly, it does) and I found it beautiful and interesting. And, to add to the humor, much of this land is owned by the Guinness family foundation. The next picture shows the lake and groomed grounds of a Guinness family home built over 100 years ago, and because they wanted a lovely sandy shore, they trucked in tons of the sand. And, as time and waves took hold, the driver commented that the lake now has the look of a pint of Guinness and the sand is the foam on top. Clever bloke - with Guinness on the mind.


The road going through the mountains is remarkably narrow and, as you can imagine, the bus took up more than its fair share of space. There is a fearlessness needed for driving anywhere, but I would give a medal for those that had to share the road with our bus. I didn't realize how dangerous the bogs could be on mountain tops until the driver commented to one of the drivers trying to get out of our way that they had better not go any further off the road otherwise they wouldn't be able to get out of the bog (they were only, at most, a foot off the paved road)- and even though there was a lot of traffic (meaning people around to help), I imagine that getting a tow truck would be nightmarish.


We wound our way through the mountains and over to the other side for our arrival at Glendalough. Gleann Dá Loch, in Gaelic, means "Glen of Two Lakes" and is a glacial valley renowned for its Early Medieval monastic settlement founded in the 6th century by St Kevin, a hermit priest, and destroyed in 1398 by English troops.


The largest and most imposing of the buildings at Glendalough, the cathedral had several phases of construction, the earliest, consisting of the present nave with its antae. The large mica-shist stones which can be seen up to the height of the square-headed west doorway were re-used from an earlier smaller church. The chancel and sacristy date from the late 12th and early 13th centuries.


After enjoying the buildings and cemeteries, we decided to take a walk through the property. There are many walking trails of varying difficulty around Glendalough. We followed the crowd through the fantastic forested path leading to the lower and upper lakes. I love this picture, it just really captures the natural beauty of the place.


The walk was so peaceful. The shade was wonderful and comfortable (it had gotten down right hot!) and gave us the chance to take in the scenery. I liked this view because it looks like a river or stream had previously run through here and had dried up leaving the grass to take it's place.


This lake was just so inviting. There were hundreds (if not thousands) of people visiting along with us (this is a national park) and given the weather, I could well see why. It reminded us both of Lake Tahoe. We did notice, however, that since the irish rarely see the sun, they didn't seem to know how to protect themselves much from it. We saw A LOT of really sunburned people.


This was the path leading us back to the monastery. Again, just such a lovely location.


This was a great view in which to reflect on the Great Tower and St. Kevin's church. The sheep added ambiance. I wanted to get a picture of this weed as well. (It is the bit of yellow in the foreground above and the yellow bush in the pic below.) Our driver educated us a bit on it - it is called gorse. (Think "horse" only with a "g.") Apparently the EU wouldn't let the local farmers burn it in order to clear the land to farm it, which results in hillsides covered with it. I don't know if you can see in the pic or not, but this is about 5-7 feet high and imposing. It looks lovely from a distance and apparently this disagreement has had the side benefit of helping sustain and bring back the local flora and fauna that over-farming had previously destroyed.


I have to say that a bit of my heart was stolen by Ireland. The history is tragic and engaging. The people are warm, funny, friendly and a bit melancholic. The food was lovely (we had a lot of Chinese - super good - and a little bit of pub food and one proper Guinness stew), the drink was satisfying and the music entertaining and thoughtful. I hope that this will not be my last visit to this remarkably beautiful country. I desire to experience more of what she has to offer.