Fernand Léger and Normandy, Footnote to a Summer Holiday

Pinned to the living room wall of our rented cottage in Saint Julien de Mailloc was this rather faded poster.

Although it showed a painted image, it was only after a few days that I realised that the painting was not the entire image but only the decorative element in a tightly cropped photograph. Most of the detail that would give clues to the scale and context of the painting were excluded, but I suddenly realised that the chevron shape at the top was the gable end of a roof and the band of faded green across the bottom of the image was vegetation.

Although Léger had been a hero, influence and inspiration to me in my student days, I had no idea that we were holidaying in his native countryside, where he returned to live out his final years. Having travelled to France without computers, and with no wi-fi, we were without the means to do an online search for information, so were left in ignorance of the image's significance.

The text on the poster gave the location of the village, so it was easy enough to plan a slight diversion on the next day's trip to the pretty town of Liseux. The winding back roads that took us to Lisores were a delight in themselves as they meandered through fields and orchards sleeping in the Summer sunshine. The village communities in this part of France seemed spread out, like our own village of Saint Julien de Mailloc. Their centres seemed relatively small, little more than hamlets, but with large numbers of outlying small farms. Lisores was no exception, and seemed to be a pretty little community on a steep hillside, scattered around a modest little church. While there, we were sufficiently intrigued by an extravagantly oversized mausoleum in the churchyard to stop and take a look.


There were no signs or clues in the village showing us where to find the building on the poster, nor anyone around in the midday heat to ask. With two small restless boys in the back of the car impatient to get to the swimming pool in Liseux, it was time to abandon mission and press on.

However, my interest in Léger has been revived and I've since been able to find out the significance of Lisores. He was a local man and it would seem that the property was a family farm he inherited. He may have moved there briefly in 1940 following the German invasion of France before emigrating to the USA. He returned to France and Paris after the war and seems to have moved out to Lisores in the final years before his death in 1955. I can't be at all precise with the biographical details as the online sources I've used contradict each other in significant ways. Clearly, more thorough research is needed if one is to get a clearer picture of the part that Normandy and the farm at Lisores played in his life.

What my online searches do show is that we might have been disappointed if we had found the farm. At the time of the poster it was a museum, but it seems to have closed in the 1980's. Alexia Guggémos's Delire de l'Art blog posting in 2008 warned of the decay and dilapidation that was overwhelming the property:


"Elle n’est plus que ruines ! Le panneau indicateur qui y conduit est rongé par les mousses, le chemin d’accès envahi d’herbes folles, la maison elle-même perdue dans les ronces et les orties. Du portail, on aperçoit juste sa façade colorée, encore magnifiquement ornée d’une fresque de l’artiste. La seule qui ait survécu. Tout le reste n’est qu’éventration et massacre."

(It is in ruins! The sign pointing the way to it is eaten away by mosses, the path is overgrown with weeds, the house itself lost in brambles and nettles. From the gate you can see just the coloured facade, still beautifully decorated with a fresco by the artist. It is the only thing that has survived. Everything else is torn out and destroyed.)

More recently, a piece on the Ouest-France website in December 2009 paints a more hopeful prospect for the future. It is apparently being restored by its present owner, art dealer Jean du Chatenet, who plans to reopen it as a cultural centre by 2012.

La ferme musée Fernand-Léger pourrait rouvrir dans deux ans
Lisores Mercredi 30 Décembre 2009

It seems a shame that the world at large seems to have neglected this aspect of Légers's legacy. Though M. du Chatenet's plan cannot bring back what decay and depredation have taken away, it should at least preserve and give new life to what is left. We must wish him every success in his ambitious venture.

Crossing the Firth of Forth

Crossing the Forth Brdge, South to North
(2min 23sec)

Although I've done it numerous times, I still get a thrill each time I take a train across the Forth Bridge. It is indeed a thing of wonder and an object of functional, if brutalist, beauty. Like the Waverley Steps, it also has its place in my family history as something talked about by Dad in his pre-war adventures.

The Forth Bridge also figures in the notebook he used to record his wartime experiences as Sapper CT Pearson of the Royal Engineers. His Company were being moved to Comrie Camp in Perthshire and having boarded their troop train at 7pm on November 2nd, 1942, they travelled through the night and crossed the Firth of Forth the following morning. This is what he says:

"Outside Edinboro we crossed the Forth Bridge and quite a few men carried out the old custom of throwing coins over the Bridge into the Firth of Forth far below. I remember one party who were playing cards at the time and someone threw the whole of their 'kitty' overboard which I understood amounted to over £1. It may have brought them luck."

From Comrie, his Company boarded the ill-fated liner SS Strathallan for their journey to Algiers in North Africa.

The Forth Bridge
from North Queensferry Station

One other piece of railway-related memorabilia came to light the other day when I rediscovered Dad's old wartime wallet. In it, alongside his army pay book and various newspaper cuttings, was this photograph:

On the back of the photograph is written: "Top of Ben Nevis 4400 ft". Fort William was another place Dad had visited on a free pass in pre-war days. I wonder who his pals were? Dad himself is second from the right (with the top of his head torn off).

A Sunny Day in Edinburgh

Although my Dad (Cyril) was never a great storyteller, I do have some fragmentary childhood memories of him telling me about his trips around Britain when he was young. When he left school, he followed family tradition and joined LNER (The London and North Eastern Railway). LNER's main route joined the two great capitals, London and Edinburgh.

As a railway worker, free rail passes opened up all sorts of opportunities for travel. It's hard today to recapture the sense of adventure there was in simply moving from one place to another. Fragments of tales he told me are brought back by a variety of inconsequential things. Whenever I'm in Edinburgh and am walking out of Waverley Station, Dad is always beside me in spirit as I walk up Waverley Steps. I remember him telling me of the great winds that would almost sweep you off your feet. These winds are a matter of legend.

Even on a balmy day in June there is a noticeable breeze.

It seems that where ever you are in the city centre, there is always the sound of bagpipes in the background. Even in the tranquillity of Princes Street Gardens, the birds compete with (or are perhaps encouraged by) buskers.


Behind the Royal Scottish Academy, an historically kitted-out boy band appeared to be getting ready to strut their stuff. Desultory drum-taps and much moving of kit backwards and forwards seemed to be designed to attract a crowd. As a Man On A Mission that day I got bored and left after ten minutes waiting for them to actually play something. They reminded me, perhaps unfairly but irresistably, of Life of Brian's Popular Front of Judea. (Much posturing but little or no action.) They were probably good when they got started, but here's thirty seconds' worth of my fruitless wait:

Ye Jacobites by name
Let your schemes alone
(from Burns)

Stone Fruit

It is a stone fruit. Each one yields me a thought. I come nearer to the maker of it than if I found his bones.
The metaphor was Thoreau's, writing in his journal about the Indian arrowheads he would find in the freshly cultivated fields around Concord, Massachusetts. However, he was making a broader point about the importance of being aware of the historical evidence that surrounds us.

It is too easy to overlook Cromford in Derbyshire as you speed along the busy A6 towards the more obvious charms of Matlock and Matlock Bath. This busy arterial road, once one of the nation's most important highways, bisects the community, leaving the village on one side of the road and the remnants of its industry on the other. Both are largely hidden by the rocky and wooded landscape on either side of the road.

While the village is well worth exploring, it is the Mill buildings that mark a key stage in the early development of the factory system of production.

The first mill on this site was built in 1771 by Richard Arkwright to mass-produce cotton yarns for weaving. The mill was powered by water from a lead mine drain and a warm thermal spring, giving a reliable year-round source of power. Arkwright's spinning machines were known as 'water frames', after their source of power. The weaving industry for which these yarns were produced was still a cottage industry and the surplus of yarns that Arkwright was able to produce provided a spur for innovations in weaving and the supply of constant and reliable power by water and steam.

The Mill is maintained by the Arkwright Society. It's a great place to visit and spend half a day at least. A nice tearoom, bookshops, walking or just chill out by the banks of the old canal. I've posted pics of it on my Flickr stream (it was an unseasonably gloomy day in June).