Fair Stood the Wind for France

de Bonhomie Dominic

Description

Young Dominic de Bonhomie departed university with neither degree nor prospect. Wondering what it meant to have truly lived, he was drawn to less trodden paths to seek adventure and connections.Driven by his maternal blood he chose France for his next stomping ground. This account of travel on foot covers the first portion of his French saga. Encountering the unexpected and the delightful, it is a charmed tale of vim exploration through Normandy and Brittany.From pastoral nights under the stars to the cosy sanctuary of a monastery, Dominic weaves his prose as if a tapestry whose threads are visual and sensual impressions, portraits of colourful characters, and the fables of history which come to his attention as he walks through the land.

Sujets

• Spaniel Bretón
• Travel writing
• Normandy
• Brittany
• France

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 20 août 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781803133683
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 6 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2022 Dominic de Bonhomie

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 9781803133683

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With special thanks to my loving parents for all they have done for me
&
Laury Dizengremel, for spending five weeks of her life, with me and wine, poring over my book.











Fair stood the wind for France,
When our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance,
Longer will tarry.

Michael Drayton
The Ballad of Agincourt
Some years ago, whilst perusing the shelves of my Granny’s little library, I came across a little novel by H.E. Bates. The novel was written during the Second World War for a readership of soldiers, and it is about some airmen of a bomber, who after coming down in occupied France, attempt to smuggle themselves out. At that time, I was thinking about the title of my own book, so I was especially piqued by the one it had, Fair Stood the Wind for France . When I opened the cover, I discovered therein scribed in ink my great-grandfather’s initials, along with a location and a date: ‘ A.J. Newsome, Cattolica, Feb 45’. I was immediately transported back in time and could see him there finishing the book. Only just the year before, he had been fighting up through Italy, expelling the Germans. I had to read the novel myself and as I turned a page, I found a little bit of tobacco preserved between its leaves, which could have very well been from a cigarette my great-grandfather had smoked in February 1945. I knew then that I had to borrow Michael Drayton’s words for the title of my own book, as H.E. Bates had done.



If you would have a portrait of Man you must not depict him… with lined brow on a high bench watching a hand that is pushing a pen, nor with pick and shovel on the road. You cannot show him carrying a rifle, you dare not put him in priest’s garb with conventional cross on breast. You will not point to King or Bishop with crown or mitre. But most fittingly you will show a man with staff in hand and burden on his shoulders, striving onward from darkness to light upon an upward road, shading his eyes with his hand as he seeks his way.

Stephen Graham (1926, P.1)
The Gentle Art of Tramping



With not an eye to elder years the lad does take his chance,
In further fields beyond a sea: a daughter they call France.
His feat begins amongst bocage of Norman tracks unknown
And there he finds himself a path to walk upon alone.
Not burdened least with things that weigh the earth beneath his boots;
His mind does fret, his soul does yearn to find his mother’s roots.
The campfire burns, the chateau haunts, the woodland nymph delights,
There is a hall where hallowed prayers are sung before the nights.
His tongue is weak for words to speak to frogs who always croak
Beside canals and in the towns, along the paths of oak.
And little are the miles between the quarts of flowing gold
Which quench and spur his soul’s reserve before the evenings’ cold.
Behind the green of hilly vales ascends another spire
And such is the grace of each place to him his mind inspires;
No gargoyle sneer in lofty air above his merry way
Can own the ear of he who hears the drums of morning play,
Who counts the sum of twenty-leagues and says ’tis his to seize:
The youth of time, each sip of wine and blessed days like these.

Dominic de Bonhomie


Contents
Proem

Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII

References
Proem
Préface
I long for a life coloured in the wash of yesteryear. I long for ways and customs now gone by. I long to live in a world where mere living is not the only object, where there is meaning beyond the necessities of life.
I have heard tales and read stories, and been fascinated by history and many of its vivid characters. All of this has filled me with strange dreams, and those dreams have left me with the longing to embark on an adventure worthy of words; if not for anyone else, then at least for myself.
For the words I have written down for you to peruse, forgive me. I have been advised, and perhaps rightly so, to prepare my reader for the archaic nature in which this travelogue of mine has been put together.
Although few today believe that souls transmute from body to body, from death to life after life, I have found my soul more and more anachronistic as I have grown up, and I often wonder whether I find myself in the wrong era, or whether the world has just walked on without me being able to follow.
I recall one day when I was at university living in my student digs, I was watching Michael Portillo’s Railway Journeys on our shared television. A bunch of girls who shared the house entered the room to watch an episode of Made in Chelsea , commanding me peremptorily to relinquish the remote control. I exclaimed I could not possibly cut off Portillo’s wonderful monologues depicting his discovery of little England via rail. Whereupon my dear friend Gina looked down upon me and said, ‘Dom, I have never known anyone who could be as old- and young-minded as you; now get going!’
We laughed because she spoke a poignant truth. There is a convergence in me of old and young souls. Old because I admire those objects that I believe my generation forgets to admire; young because I more than embrace the revelries that my generation are keen on.
There is a sense in our modern world that everything is coming together, with rapidly expanding communication capabilities. At the same time, our world seems to contract evermore space-wise, with the enchantment of the undiscovered world diminishing as everyone has greater access to everything everywhere. Those things that were once foreign to us are become natural or the new norm. We are minimising intricately delightful complexities into dull, common simplicities. This is, of course, only my opinion, which perhaps ignorantly diagnoses the situation. I see a world attempting to mould all societies and all cultures into the same square, mundane and – God forbid – utterly efficient format. That is beastly to my own fallible sensibilities. Why? Because of the endearingness of humankind – all the unique, wonderful ways in which it is manifested.
My soul yearns for the complex beauty of a world that cannot be boxed in, nor yet fully rationalised. It cherishes instead the nuances found in the innumerable ways and fashions of nature and people. Whilst reading ahead, some may think I am just a romantic fool because I have digested too many fables or read too many monumental histories, that my grip on science has been diluted by the reading of too many wild theories, and that my rational side has been superseded by the adoption of superstitions. I say to them that they would be half-correct, for I am that romantic fool, but they have probably failed to grasp that even before all that reading, I was always a romantic fool, as if I were born to be one from the very moment of my conception. (Madre, please forgive me.)
For a long while, I resisted the romantic foolishness that raved in my blood. I allowed instead toe-the-line ideas – ideas that thrive on the shackling and persecution of dreams – to try to still my raving blood. Sensible things were said by sensible people in attempts to shape my sensibilities; the unwitting hands of well-meaning devils tried to squeeze my soul into the box of a stiff white-collar profession or into a life that I would consider purgatory rather than vocational.
My blood is the blood of a rover – and painfully, my heart has, in youth, languished in resisting its force. My heart hoped there just might be a world of romance out there to live in. To me, romance itself is a construct to live with as a friend and relish as a lover. Finally, I was convinced it could be the case. Thus, I had to escape the box because I believe that romance shouldn’t be confined to the past – or in dreams – but can live as the blood in my veins pulses and swells!
I resolved to endure a foolish romantic life.
Be merciful. Be clement. Pardon the excesses you may come across. Preparez-vous! The romantics have not gone; I know that now (I am one!). Man is not an island. I am romantic; there is romance in others, and there is romance in the world.
What does being ‘romantic’ mean to me? One could be forgiven for thinking that the word is synonymous with being idealistic, being out of touch or having one’s head in the clouds. These opinions all denote a certain condescension, for many think they have grown past such adolescent perceptions and are mature in a mechanistic modern world – because they have science and they have