The old city, and there is no other, covers the top of a hill, one of the foothills of the Vosges. The wall still stands, and one may walk on top of it, around the city, and on the outside is the fertile plain, those white roads lined with poplars, on hilltops, red-roofed villages set off with stately trees, surrounded by farms that make patchworks of color in concentric bands. Inside the city you will find the Middle Ages you have heard so much about, and you will learn that they had something we have lost, and lacked much we have discovered. There is nothing else remarkable about Langes, few relics in museums that bring pilgrims hence, no restaurants whose specialties are watchwords of gourmets. The food is excellent and plain, and not expensive enough to be frenzedly praised. You will tread stones that were old when Columbus sailed the seas, if you care for treading stones. You will look into windows out of which the age of chivalry has passed, leaving behind its aroma and flavor. You will feel the ache of wondering what was the past, of what is now, and what, if anything, shall be. You will not be talkative on the way back toward Paris, and home.
That passage describes better than anything I've read or written, why we travel. "...The ache of wondering what was the past..." seems most alive in the smaller places, which haven't felt the push for constant updating and modernization. Places like Langres call to us.
Since I read that passage by Paul, I've wanted to visit Langres, not knowing if it had changed or what it might have become.
Langres has, of course, changed, but I think Elliot Paul would easily recognize it, and could write the same passage today. Not knowing what to expect here, we stayed only a night. We will return. I think Langre could become a favorite for both of us.
 |
| The walls of Langres at sunset. There are two miles of these walls. |
No comments:
Post a Comment