Category: France

The beautifully named Cathedral of Saint-Julien is like me, very delicate and subtle. This building very much towers above the medieval streets and is part of the Cité Plantagenêt. It’s one of the finest cathedrals in France and it is dedicated to Saint Julian of Le Mans, traditionally regarded as the city’s first bishop during the third or fourth century. When building the cathedral in the early thirteenth century, the church got the permission of the King to move the city walls to ensure that their new structure surprised and delighted with its size. There are also strong links with the Plantagenets, as Geoffrey and Matilda were married here in 1128 and the baptism of Henry II (the English King between 1154 and 1189) took place in 1133.

I spent quite some time meandering around the cathedral, partly because there is a great deal to see and partly because it offered some welcome respite from the rather enthusiastic French summer temperatures outside. There will therefore follow, much to the delight of my two loyal blog readers, rather more posts about the cathedral than anyone strictly requested. Fortunately, it turns out that when a building has been evolving for the best part of a millennium, it generally manages to provide enough material to justify that level of enthusiasm. And, I might not have mentioned the heat, but it was so hot that I spent at least fifteen minutes fanning myself with the cathedral’s guidebook.

I rather like medieval religious art and I accept that I should probably get out more. There is often such an intensity of devotion behind these works that even a relatively small panel can carry considerable weight. This painting of Saint Agatha, attributed to the Sienese master Pietro Lorenzetti and dated to around 1315, is considered a work of national importance and has even acquired its own Wikipedia page, which is perhaps the modern equivalent of canonisation. Lorenzetti was one of the great painters of medieval Italy, although the history of this particular panel becomes uncertain after it left Siena. It eventually entered the collection of the Musée de Tessé in 1863, having travelled rather further than most fourteenth-century wooden panels could reasonably have expected.

Saint Agatha was one of the most widely venerated saints of the Middle Ages. According to tradition, she was martyred in Sicily during the third century after rejecting the advances of a Roman official and refusing to abandon her Christian faith. Here she holds the palm of martyrdom, while her composed expression contrasts with the deeply unpleasant fate described in her legend. Medieval artists often preferred to emphasise a saint’s spiritual victory rather than dwell on the physical details of their suffering, although it is fair to say that restraint was not always a universal feature of medieval religious imagery. Some artists were perfectly willing to ensure that nobody left the church uncertain about what martyrdom involved and there are some rather, er, bloody versions of the beheading of John the Baptist.

Anyway, I’m not sure if it has been restored, but it’s in decent condition and I thought it rather glistened in the heat of Le Mans.

Although this Portrait de famille, painted around 1805, is attributed to an artist from the circle of Jacques-Louis David rather than to David himself, it reflects the influence of a painter whose political journey was almost as remarkable as his artistic career. A committed revolutionary who was excited and delighted by the French Revolution, he voted for the execution of Louis XVI, became closely associated with Robespierre and produced some of the Revolution’s most iconic images. Following the fall of Robespierre, David himself was imprisoned, yet somehow managed to reinvent his career once again after his release. He’s like Robert Jenrick, but with artistic talent.

His greatest political transformation (I mean David and not Jenrick) came under Napoleon Bonaparte. Rather than painting revolutionary martyrs, David became the official artist of the new Emperor, producing vast works celebrating Napoleon’s rule, including the famous Coronation of Napoleon. This portrait belongs to that period, when David’s influence dominated French painting. Although depicting an apparently ordinary family, its restrained composition, clarity and quiet dignity reflect the ideals that David had done so much to establish. A country that had gone through turmoil needed some form of normality I suppose.

David’s political fortunes changed once more after Napoleon’s defeat in 1815. Regarded as too closely associated with both the Revolution and the Empire, he chose exile in Brussels rather than remain in restored Bourbon France, where he spent the rest of his life. The painting itself is rather lovely as well, it’s a warm and convincing family scene produced in the artistic orbit of a man who had painted revolutionaries, emperors and nearly every political settlement in between.

I arrived in Le Mans with very little knowledge about what was there, just knowing that there was a motor race that went on nearby at some stage during the year. It transpired that the real highlight for me was wandering through the remarkable Plantagenet City which is something of a survivor. This beautifully preserved medieval quarter is a maze of cobbled streets, half timbered houses, grand stone buildings and quiet squares, all enclosed by one of the finest collections of historic architecture in France. It’s of a decadence that I hadn’t anticipated and it was surprisingly quiet when I walked around, although it was very hot.

The district takes its name from the Plantagenet dynasty, which has strong links with Le Mans through Geoffrey Plantagenet, Count of Anjou, who married Matilda, daughter of King Henry I of England. Their son became Henry II of England, founding the Plantagenet royal house that ruled England for more than three centuries. Although the medieval streets predate the dynasty itself, the name reflects the city’s important place in the family’s history and its close historical connections with England.

Today, the Plantagenet City is one of the best preserved medieval centres in France, so this was something of a treat to meander around shortly after I arrived in Le Mans. Although I did have to sit in the cathedral, although more on which in another post, for nearly an hour to cool down. Medieval architecture is all very well, but when the temperature starts climbing into the mid-thirties, even my enthusiasm for wandering has its limits.

Anyway, just lots of photos below.

The calefactory, or warming room, was one of the more immediately appealing rooms at the Royal Abbey of l’Épau, largely because it contained something that would have been in relatively short supply elsewhere in the monastery, namely heat. This would normally have made it especially welcome, although when I visited Le Mans it was oppressively hot outside and the prospect of gathering around a large medieval fire had lost some of its charm. I think I have mentioned the heat already, so I shall resist documenting it further.

The room opens directly from the cloister and would have provided a practical refuge during the colder months. Its enormous fireplace dominates the space, with a broad hearth and a monumental stone hood projecting from the wall. The blackened interior shows that it once did rather more than merely provide an attractive architectural feature, although the fire was presumably managed with greater competence than I demonstrate whenever given responsibility for one.

The rest of the abbey was deliberately austere and largely unheated, in keeping with Cistercian ideals of simplicity and discipline. I suspect I would have coped reasonably well with that, as I am generally better with the cold than the heat. I might even have regarded the calefactory as unnecessarily decadent to be honest.

As an aside, the word ‘calefactory’ comes from the Late Latin ‘calefactorius’, meaning something with the power to warm or heat, itself derived from calefacere, ‘to make warm’. This combines calēre, meaning ‘to be warm’, with facere, ‘to make or do’, which is all rather neat.

Not every building at the Royal Abbey of l’Épau was devoted to prayer, contemplation or the careful storage of books. The monks also required somewhere to keep the agricultural produce generated by the abbey’s estates, including cereals and wine, and this fifteenth-century building served as the cellar. It stands slightly apart from the main monastic complex, to the south of the former refectory range and close to what was once a fishpond. The ground floor provided a cool and secure space for produce, while an upper level increased the available storage. Its position away from the main abbey buildings would also have made it easier to bring in goods without carts, barrels and agricultural workers having to traipse through the cloisters.

As an aside, the French name for the building is ‘le cellier’, although this did not necessarily mean an underground cellar. The word comes from the Late Latin ‘cellarium’, meaning a store room for food and other provisions, and a French ‘cellier’ could be at ground level or stand separately from the main building. The English word “cellar” has the same origin, but later became more firmly associated with somewhere underground.

I was able to peer through the doorway into the lower room, although the darkness prevented a particularly comprehensive inspection. It nevertheless looked exactly as an old monastic cellar ought to look which was cool, gloomy and slightly damp. I rather like these administrative buildings, they are a reminder of how large the whole abbey operation would have been. I did think about trying to get in, but it was evident that this was positively discouraged and I was worried that there might be snakes inside. Historical curiosity has its limits.