Travel Biography - Week 38.

Experience has shown that enthusiasm remains whenever I have visited a natural phenomenon for the first time. Thus, the Grand Canyon is one example. Since my first visit to this natural wonder in 1978, I have always had a fascination with this gigantic gash across the Arizonian semi-desert. The same applies to coral reefs after my first visit to one in 1997, still to be chronicled in a later blog of this biography. And then literally putting my life on the line as I felt the ground quake beneath my feet, as the steam released from the Central Crater of Mt Etna made a hollow, nerve-jangling thunder as I, with one other person, stood on its rim.

At Basilica Sacre Coeur, Paris 1985.

Concluding the 1984 trip to France.

Thus, along with the Canyon from 1978, a fascination with volcanoes developed during the early eighties. With a tighter budget than I enjoyed in the seventies, during that time in my life, travel opportunities were more restricted, but France offered some attractions that were worth visiting.

Mont St Michel was one venue I visited in 1983. A church sitting on the summit of a granite plug of an ancient volcano surrounded by a busy shopping precinct. And a year later, a visit to the Massif Central in the middle of France featuring a chain of ancient volcanoes provided enough motivation to stay at a hotel in the nearby city of Clermont Ferrand.

And the slopes of Puy de Dome could be seen on the horizon as the train I was on made its way to Paris Gare de Lyon. From Paris Gare St Lazare, I boarded another train for Rouen, where I wanted to spend at least two nights before crossing the Channel to the UK. Like at all other venues, finding a hotel in Rouen and asking whether they have a room was not a problem, and by the evening, I checked in. Ah! Wasn't life a lot easier for a traveller before the need for advance online booking!

Admittingly, of all the French provincial towns I have been to, I preferred Rouen above the others. However, I was impressed with the rather newish Church of Joan of Arc, the one saint on which the whole town is centred. Very close to the church stood a large crucifix at Le Bucher de Jeanne d'Arc, the exact site of the execution of this 19-year-old girl who, in 1431 was burned alive at the stake by the English for her attempts to liberate France from their dominance.

France 1985.

Of the three visits to France, 1985 was the most fulfilling, despite not travelling very far. After arriving in Dieppe Harbour from Newhaven, I boarded the train directly for Rouen and settled in the same hotel where I stayed a year earlier in 1984. My preference to base myself in a provincial town rather than Paris itself was due to hotel tariffs being considerably lower. Besides that, getting to Paris from Rouen was straightforward, with frequent fast trains from both Le Havre and Dieppe stopping at Rouen for Paris Gare St Lazare. During this holiday, I alternated a day in Rouen with a day in Paris, along with a day in Dieppe itself, watching the ferries arrive and depart as well as taking in scenic views from a nearby clifftop walk.

At Rouen, not only did I revisit the Church de Jeanne d'Arc but also the Cathedrale de Notre Dame and the museum of Joan of Arc, with exhibits depicting her life, including the visions she had of the archangel Michael, apparently the same entity whose visions had inspired the original construction of the church at Mont St Michel, along - strangely enough - with appearing to Joseph Smith who founded Mormonism in New York State some 400 years later. Joan's vision of this particular entity was debated among theologians of her day whether it was divine or demonic, despite her insistence that she was sent into battle by God to drive out the English from Normandy and Brittany, and to restore the French monarchy.

Jeanne d'Arc, at a museum in Rouen, 1985.

As mentioned last week, I also set apart some time for recreational purposes, mainly to swim in the indoor pool at the leisure centre which was located on an elongated island in the middle of the River Seine, thus crossing the river to reach it. Although not the one for nightlife, especially after my sordid 1972 experience on the Costa Brava in Spain, however, I did spend the evenings at a coffee bar near the hotel, both just off Rue Jeanne d'Arc, the main thoroughfare of the city.

Paris, and a virtually unknown Subterranean Tunnel.

Preparing to visit a foreign destination by buying a guidebook and browsing through, can reveal otherwise virtually unknown locations even in a tourist city. The Berlitz Guide to Paris is a very convenient pocket-sized handbook that has given me some secret venues that are open to the public, but in 1985, still little known by international tourists and therefore, giving me quick and easy access without the need to queue. And so, while I was at a pub with a group of colleagues in Reading, that same year, I was talking to one middle-aged gentleman who lived in Paris for several years. I asked him whether he knew about the Paris Catacombs. Much to my surprise, he admitted that he had never heard of them.

And so, on the morning of every other day, I boarded the same train into Paris from Rouen Station. Well-known sites I went to see included the Pompidou Arts Centre with its unusual glass tunnel escalators and corridors resembling the tunnels of the London Underground, also known affectionately as the Tube. Also so striking was the Sacre Coeur Basilica on the summit of the Butte of St Montmartre, with the dome of the church around 200 metres above the River Seine, hence it can be seen from anywhere in the city. And from it, one has a splendid view of the French capital.

However, the most intriguing was the Catacombs of Paris. The nearest Metropolitan (Paris Underground) station is Denfert-Rochereau in the Montparnasse area of southern Paris. One afternoon, having already known the whereabouts of the entrance, after walking straight in and paying the fee, I made my way down the 131 steps to the entrance of an underground tunnel or corridor, about one kilometre in length. As I strolled alone through this tunnel, illuminated by electric lighting, I compared it to the Catacombs of Capuchin in Palermo. This was totally different.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternal subterranean walk, I arrived at a gate with the words in French, approximately reading, You are about to enter the City of the Dead.

Within this gate, the corridor widened out into an underground ossuary. The entire walls were lined with countless femur bones and skulls arranged in decorative patterns. From this chamber, I could see several corridors branching off as if in different directions, as within the one-km-long corridor, every so often, I passed an entrance to a passage leading off from the corridor. But each of these entrances was sealed off by a locked gate, both in the corridor and in the ossuary. Just as well. These tunnels were originally quarries from which stone was cut to build Paris. 

The section open to the public is only a tiny proportion of the total tunnelling. In all, there are about 200 miles or 324 kilometres of tunnels forming a three-dimensional labyrinth under the streets of Paris. First dug as early as 1700, throughout the 19th Century, it was decided that the city cemeteries were not only becoming overcrowded but was also posing a sanitary risk to public health. As such, the bones of more than 6,000,000 individuals were transported from these cemeteries to these quarries. What the public sees is "the crowning glory" - if I could call it that - of the catacombs. There are many more bones buried elsewhere within the labyrinth.

Several secret societies know the tunnels well to wander through without getting lost. There is even an underground chapel where these people meet. They enter and exit through hidden entrances scattered around the city, only they know about. However, they have one rule which they ardently keep: Never ever wander into the tunnels on your own. However, in recent years, several lone explorers were known to enter these tunnels illegally and after getting lost, died deep underground of panic, starvation or hypothermia.

Therefore, I was grateful for the locked gates that kept me on the straight and narrow! Knowing what I'm capable of, curiosity might have drawn me deep into the labyrinth - only to meet the same fate. Instead, I enjoyed a creepy but an adventurous experience deep under Paris, and when I finally emerged into daylight on a street in a different part of the city, I was both relieved and jubilant about the experience itself. Yet, at the same time, I had to sigh over the death of so many people - human beings who all had mothers, who grew up in a world minus the technology we have enjoyed, a world more likely ravaged by illness and disease, the likelihood of warfare, along with a lingering uncertainty of the afterlife, such has always been the central catechism of the Catholic Church.

The subterranean corridor was about a kilometre long.

On and on the tunnel went, deep under Paris...

Until I arrive at the Ossuary.

The skulls are arranged as a crucifix among femur bones.

Indeed, if such discarnate spirits of these dead were lingering within these tunnels or in the ossuary chamber where I was standing, how would they have felt as I gazed at their skulls and femurs? Perhaps - and I can only speculate, that they would harbour a degree of distress, even anger at us, the living, preventing them from resting. Yes, I'm aware that some of my readers who are Christians would immediately think, Come on! The eternal destiny of each one was determined by their faith when alive, or the lack of it. But theological controversies rage on, even to this day, on the eternal destiny of a Roman Catholic who was devoted to the Church. My position has always been that I see this matter as a private issue between the deceased and God, therefore, I'm in no position to decide or judge. Those were my thoughts as I stood in the underground ossuary chamber.

But all three of these occasions - first, the visit to the Catacombs of St John in Siracuse, Sicily. Then my call to the Catacombs of Capuchin in Palermo, also in Sicily. And now here, at the Paris Catacombs. Although no human remains were on display at St John's, nevertheless, the constant reminder of the reality of death, rather than terrify me, instead, they have made me realise the value of life, how grateful to live to see another day, and how much respect and courtesy should be shown to one another. Each of these corpses began life as a human baby, fully depending on its mother for love and tenderness, and fed in close intimacy with breastmilk. This one aspect of Travel, not merely lying on the beach and risking sunburn, but as a self-educated child of God seeking the real meaning of life which not even the most advanced secular philosophers can adequately answer. That is, their attempt to answer the question of, Why are we here?

Hence, the sense of wonder gained by watching the thundering of Niagara Falls as it cascades ceaselessly over the cliff, the awesome wonder of the Grand Canyon with its majestic buttes and cliffs of stratified rock, the anger of the active volcano as it spews out its lava, ash, and steam. By contrast, the delicate petals of a flower as it withstands the wind blowing on it, the bird's nest with the parent just flown in with food for her hungry chicks, each begging with their beaks wide open. Indeed, there is something wonderful about our world that many fail to see or perceive, yet here I stood at places where the ugliness of death stares down and testifies as a repulsive enemy of all life.

Eiffel Tower.

Approaching the Eiffel Tower was easier during the 1980s than is at present, as back then there were no airport-style security barriers as there are now. Here in Paris, there were two contrasts I had experienced - deep underground and 330 metres above the ground. There seemed to have been little queueing up to buy the tickets for the upper viewing platform. Once up, I stayed there long enough to see the sunset over the city and at the same time watch the thousand luminous dots spread right across the city below, transforming the panorama into a set of glistening jewels. Even the combined running track and football pitch stood out from the dark as the stadium floodlights lit up the arena for what looked to be football training.

The Seine at dusk, Eiffel Tower.

Stadium from Eiffel Tower, 1995.

Eventually, I made my way back to Gare St Lazare to board the train back to Rouen, where my homely hotel room awaits. At least I'll either be remaining in Rouen for the next day or taking a train for a day in Dieppe.

If only I bothered to take my wallet with me to Dieppe instead of leaving it safe in my room drawer.

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Next Week: Big changes...