Normandy: The Scenery & Romance of Its Ancient Towns, Part 3 — A Reader’s Guide

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Authors: Home, Gordon, 1878-1969 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2004 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Normandy (France) -- Description and travel Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 21,718

Reading time 95 min

Text sections 3

Normandy: The Scenery & Romance of Its Ancient Towns, Part 3 — A Reader’s Guide can be approached with a clearer sense of reading commitment from its source measurements: 21,718 words, 1 hr 35 min estimated reading time, and 3 detected text sections.

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Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Normandy (France) -- Description and travel,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #8595

Gordon Home's 1905 travelogue examines Normandy's towns through precise observations of architecture, landscape, and local life, with a critical eye on tourist routes and preservation.

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File: pg8595

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There was no longer that enthusiasm for maintaining and continuing the architectural achievements of the past, for this new series of ecclesiastics seemed to look upon their appointment largely as a sponge which they might squeeze.

In Elizabethan times Mont St Michel once more assumed the character of a fortress and had to defend itself against the Huguenots when its resources had been drained by these worldly-minded shepherds, and it is not surprising to find that the abbey which had withstood all the attacks of the English during the Hundred Years' War should often fall into the hands of the protestant armies, although in every case it was re-taken.

A revival of the religious tone of the abbey took place early in the first quarter of the seventeenth century, when twelve Benedictine monks from St Maur were installed in the buildings. Pilgrimages once more became the order of the day, but since the days of Louis XI. part of the sub-structure of the abbey buildings had been converted into fearful dungeons, and the day came when the abbey became simply a most remarkable prison. In the time of Louis XV., a Frenchman named Dubourg--a person who has often been spoken of as though he had been a victim of his religious convictions, but who seems to have been really a most reprehensible character--was placed in a wooden cage in one of the damp and gruesome vaults beneath the abbey. Dubourg had been arrested for his libellous writings concerning the king and many important persons in the French court. He existed for a little over a year in the fearful wooden cage, and just before he died he went quite mad, being discovered during the next morning half-eaten by rats. A realistic representation of his ghastly end is given in the museum, but one must not imagine that the grating filling the semi-circular arch is at all like the actual spot where the wretched man lay. The cage itself was composed of bars of wood placed so closely together that Dubourg was not able to put more than his fingers between them. The space inside was only about eight feet high and the width was scarcely greater. The cage itself was placed in a position where moisture dripped on to the miserable prisoner's body, and we can only marvel that he survived this fearful torture for so many months. During the French Revolution the abbey was nothing more than a jail, and it continued to be devoted to this base use until about forty years ago. Since that time, restoration has continued almost unceasingly, for in the prison period nothing was done to maintain the buildings, and there is still much work in hand which the French government who are now in control are most successfully carrying out.

These are a few of the thrilling phases of the history of the rock. But what has been written scarcely does the smallest justice to its crowded pages. The only way of being fair to a spot so richly endowed with enthralling events seems to be in stirring the imagination by a preliminary visit, in order that one may come again armed with a close knowledge of all that has taken place since Aubert raised his humble chapel upon the lonely rock. Who does not know that sense of annoyance at being conducted over some historic building by a professional guide who mentions names and events that just whet the appetite and then leave a hungry feeling for want of any surrounding details or contemporary events which one knows would convert the mere "sight" into holy ground. I submit that a French guide, a French hand-book or a poor translation, can do little to relieve this hunger, that Mont St Michel is fully worthy of some preliminary consideration, and that it should not be treated to the contemptuous scurry of a day's trip.

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Gordon Home opens his account of Mont St Michel by quoting Tennyson's Gareth and Lynette, then immediately undercuts the romantic vision with a tart remark about a guidebook sold in the town: 'The majestic splendour of this gulf, its strategetic importance, have at all times attracted the attention of warriors.' He calls this phrasing 'quaint,' signaling a writer who values direct experience over borrowed grandeur. Throughout Part 3, Home blends scenic description with practical judgments on roads, architecture, and the state of historic buildings, often preferring the winding coast-road to the dusty route nationale.

Choosing the Road Less Dusty

Home repeatedly contrasts the picturesque with the convenient. He urges travelers to avoid the 'straight and dusty route nationale to Pontorson' and instead take the winding coast-road from Pontaubault, where 'many beautiful distant views of Mont St Michel, backed by sunset lights, will be an ample reward.' Even on a grey evening, he notes, a 'thin crimson line' may appear behind the rock, reflected on the glistening sands. This preference for the indirect route extends to his description of the forest near Bayeux, where 'the dust and heat of the roadway can become excessive' until the shade of 'slender beech-trees' offers relief. Home's diction—'dusty,' 'glaring sunshine,' 'no suggestion of shadows'—emphasizes the physical discomfort of travel, making his scenic rewards feel earned.

Architecture and Atmosphere in Bayeux

Home's assessment of Bayeux is notably mixed. He finds the city 'rich in carved fronts and timber-framed houses,' rivaling Lisieux, yet he notes that 'the place has altogether a different aspect to the busy and cheerful St Lo.' The ground is level, making it 'difficult to find any really striking views,' and he misses 'the atmosphere of the more favourably situated town.' More pointedly, he observes that 'Bayeux lacks the cleanliness and absence of smells that distinguishes Coutances and Avranches.' This frank comparison reveals Home's criteria: a town's appeal depends on elevation, vistas, and sensory impressions as much as on its architectural treasures. His description of the tapestry museum as having a 'somewhat dusty and forlorn appearance' and being vulnerable to fire further underscores his concern for preservation.

The Tapestry as a Relic in Peril

Home devotes a substantial passage to the Bayeux Tapestry, but his focus is less on its historical narrative than on its physical condition and housing. He notes that the linen has 'assumed the colour of light brown canvas' over nine centuries, yet the 'greens, blues, reds, and buffs of the stitches show out plainly.' He speculates about Queen Mathilda's original colors and remarks that the museum 'seems scarcely adequate' for 'such a priceless relic.' The risks of fire and other mischances, he argues, would be lower 'were the tapestry kept in a more modern and more fire-proof home.' This concern for material decay and inadequate display is characteristic of Home's authorial voice: he is a connoisseur who values tangible heritage and worries about its fragility.

Local Life and Landscape Details

Home enriches his travelogue with observations of everyday Norman life. He notes the 'peasant women riding their black donkeys with the milk cans resting in panniers on either side,' the cans 'of brass with spherical bodies and small necks, kept brilliantly burnished.' In the pottery district, he describes 'great embankments of dark brown jars' visible above hedges, with furnaces 'almost as frequent as the cottages.' He singles out 'quaint, but absolutely simple patterns of narrow necked jugs' sold in Bayeux and Caen. These details ground the narrative in material culture, showing Home's eye for the functional and the handmade. His prose moves from the broad landscape—'the forest left behind, an extensive pottery district is passed through'—to the specific object, creating a layered sense of place.

Home's Normandy is a place of contrasts: between the romantic ideal and the dusty road, between architectural splendor and municipal neglect. Readers should attend to his preferences—the winding path over the straight, the cool forest over the glaring highway—as clues to his method. He writes as a traveler who has earned his views, and his judgments, however dated, remain grounded in the evidence of his senses.

Reading Gordon Home’s careful, almost wistful accounts of Normandy’s fading corners, I kept thinking how much he would have recognized the same gentle ache in Seven English Cities — Inside the Classic. Both writers seem to pause at a doorway or a weathered stone, mourning what time takes, and quietly savoring what remains. It felt like meeting an old friend’s cousin.