View from the Pier

The universe is full of magical things
waiting for our wits to grow sharper.
- Eden Phillpotts, 1862-1960

Etretat, France

This image was taken on the shingle beach of France’s Etretat, a fantastical spot where the shoreline is so dramatic and mystical, it’s easy to overlook little bits of magic at your feet.  This shimmering swatch of foliage pictured, breathtaking in its jewel-like hues, was all the more remarkable given its appearance on a treeless horizon.  It was hard to believe this delicately-veined leaf sailed in on the foaming surf of Normandy’s “Alabaster Coast” unscathed.

My husband Tom and I had parked on the edge of this old fishing village and navigated through winding cobblestoned streets toward the water.  Medieval half-timber houses slouched on one another, and leaned precariously over the narrow lanes, looming above us as if seen through the fish-eye lens of a fun house mirror.  Despite it being early afternoon, it was almost like dusk on the streets, the closeness of the ancient buildings crowding out the light.

We emerged out of the warren into an expanse of bright skies and a brisk wind, immediately shielding our eyes and hugging our jackets closer. A broad boardwalk reached out on both sides of us; below it was a long swath of beach stuccoed in pale, smooth stones the size of a man’s palm, and adorned with a necklace of brightly-painted dories.  Encircling each far side of the wide bay were outstretched chalky cliffs, rising majestically more than twenty stories from the jade waters of the Atlantic, and crowned with verdant green of the Manneporte Hills.

Facing the ocean and looking down the beach to our left, the gleaming white butte met the water with an aesthetic flourish called the  Falaise d’Aval, an enormous arch formed by eons of erosion. Just off it, jutting 300 feet into the sky, is L’Aiguille, or “the Needle,” a 300-foot spike of rock, that reminded me of an exclamation mark.  I imagined Mother Nature’s proud and jubilant “ta da!”  Indeed, Boudin, Courbet, Delacroix, and Isabey were inspired by her sublime artistry on exhibit here. Monet painted scores of Etretat scenes, entranced by the configuration of the cliffs and the ever-changing weather and light.

At age 18, Guy de Maupassant, one of the fathers of the modern short story, saved the poet Algernon Charles Swinburne from drowning here.  Maupassant compared the d’Aval formation to an elephant dipping its trunk into the ocean. He wrote a piece about tagging along with Monet as he “hunted” the sky and shadows, saying “…I have seen him thus seize a glittering shower of light on the white cliff and fix it in a flood of yellow tones that, strangely, rendered the surprising and fugitive effect of that unseizable and dazzling brilliance.”

On the eastern end of the shore, another arch yawned, a huge blue hole of sky gaping in the enamel-colored cliff of Falaise d’Amont, a ridge that bisects this side of the shoreline. Above, as if mirroring the contours of this empty curve in the crag, was the arc of the chapel of Notre-Dame de la Garde.  Its fluid lines rose from the windswept promontory, its steeple piercing purple clouds that swooped in and swirled about, a befittingly Gothic tableau.  

We stood on the boardwalk agog at all this mysterious magnificence, uncertain in which direction to head, flummoxed about which feature of this surreal seascape to investigate first.  Laughing at our own indecisiveness, we threw up our hands and made a choice, setting off to our left and toward the Falaise d’Aval.  Descending stairs to the beach, the ground morphed from pebbly sand to masses of oddly-shaped cobbles, awkward and slow going to step across, forcing us to enjoy periodic pauses to drink in our unusual surroundings.

The surface then changed again, becoming a firmer foundation of limestone.  Nonetheless, we still needed to tread carefully, as the stone was deeply creviced and pockmarked, criss-crossed with strongly-etched lines, like the weathered face of a wise old soul.  Emerald green seaweed was embedded in the grooved ruts and scattered everywhere were oval rocks nestled in sedimentary cups that conformed to their shape, worn into the rock by the never-ending forces of the tide–the overall effect was that of a giant tic-tac-toe board.  

Cut into the rock floor of the beach were deep, car-sized rectangles, the bottoms of which were piled with jumbles of the round stones; the pits nearest the sea were filled by waves with water.  Here and there, smatterings of French families clustered around one of the cavities, armed with nets and pails.  We realized the excavations were intended for shellfish cultivation.        

We later learned that these beds were dug in 1777 by the Marquis de Belvert, at the request of Queen Marie-Antoinette, who was very fond of oysters.  Millions of the bi-valves were brought here by two sloops, “La Syrène” and ”La Cauchoise,” from the Bay of Cancal.  An underground river runs here, responsible in part for the quirky geology; it was believed this current, combined with the salt water of the sea, gave the oysters that rested in tanks here a more palatable flavour.  The delicacies were then delivered to Paris on the backs of donkeys.

I was captivated with all these nooks and crannies but Tom was eager to explore a much bigger cleft a few hundred feet away, across a large tidal pool where the cliff curved around to encircle the bay.  Just before the D’Aval formation at its tip,  the mouth of a cave beckoned–the  trou a’ l’homme,  or ”manhole.”   According to lore, in 1792 a Swedish ship was thrown against the Etretat rocks by a fierce storm, and the bodies of the unfortunate shipwrecked sailors washed up on shore.  Discovered at the bottom of this cave was an apparently drowned seaman who, when picked up to be placed in a grave with his comrades, suddenly came back to life. He told the story of how he had struggled against the waves for such a long time, that all of his strength was exhausted.  Commending his soul to God, he fainted and it was then that a wave took him and threw him onto the ledge of the cavern.

After pleasurably poking around for an hour or so, we climbed back up the stairs to the boardwalk, and stopped at the Casino restaurant for coffee, where we sat in the sun, savoring the steaming mugs and scenery.  Eyeing the steep path up to Falaise d’Amont and Notre-Dame de la Gard, we opted for an easier approach, deciding to drive.  As we trod along the cobblestones toward our car, the skies opened up and a passing shower rained down on us.  We ducked into Brasserie Bio La Salamandre, a cozy restaurant with low ceilings of exposed timbers, a huge red-bricked hearth, glowing lamps, dark wood banquettes and red-checkered table cloths.  We enjoyed a big helping of moules while the weather moved through.

When we stood atop Falaise d’Amont, we saw as Monet had the spectacle of light from these heights, shimmering off the iridescent water and illuminating the sheer white wall extending down the horizon.  We wandered along the contours of the cliffs, each step an effort, as strong gusts buffeted us.  The grasses waved violently, and the sea roiled below.  I felt like Catherine on the Yorkshire moors in Wuthering Heights–it was exhilarating.

Far back behind the church, its spire was echoed in another elegant peak, an immense, white streamlined arrow stabbing the sky, almost 80 feet high. This monument was erected in 1963 as a tribute to French World War I heroes Charles Nungesser and Francois Coli, who in 1927 attempted to make the first non-stop flight from Paris to New York in L’Oiseau Blanc, or ”the White Bird.”   The plane disappeared somewhere over the Atlantic, giving rise to one of the great unexplained mysteries of aviation.

Etretat is featured in the works of mystery author Maurice Leblanc, who lived here for twenty years. His best-known character is Arsène Lupin, a gentleman thief and master of disguise, whose criminal activities seemed designed to make a needed point or serve a worthy cause.  There are more than 20 novels about Lupin, and his adventures have been the basis for several movies and television series.  In Francophone countries, Lupin has enjoyed popularity as enduring as that of Sherlock Holmes.  In fact a contemporary of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Leblanc (1864-1941) was a prolific writer, publishing over 60 works.

Eden Phillpotts, quoted above, was an English author, poet and dramatist, and equally prolific as Leblanc. In another parallel of sorts with his French counterpart, Phillpotts’ literary circle also included Doyle, as well as Agatha Christie.

Phillpotts is best known for his series of novels about Dartmoor, which focuses on the villages of the moor and their relationships with each other and the land.  The series is comprised of eighteen novels, beginning with Children of the Mist, published in 1898. With each work, Phillpotts set the stage by expounding on the attributes of the moor. 

 In the series, Phillpotts sought to diligently record all aspects of Dartmoor life and in doing so created a detailed period portrait of country living.  When beginning a new novel, it’s said he always spent time in the specific locale where it was set to be sure to capture the true essence of the land as well as the characters.  He often took the actual names for his characters from gravestones in the town cemetery.  Phillpotts’ time out on the moor in observation and contemplation translated into what has been termed “landscape paintings.” Immersing himself in the communities that he was writing about is what gave his stories their richness and detail.

Taking a page from my Etretat experience, and the works of Phillpotts, I aspire to pay attention to the magical details that are always afoot, whether I’m amid the theatre of spectacular surroundings, or ensconced in the long familiar terrain of my own backyard.

For images of Etretat, see Travel Photos.