In Flanders Fields (Part II)

The view from Cassel

My family visited our friends friends Antoine and Cecile in Cassel, a walled town that rises almost six hundred feet above the flat land all around. A landmark like that is inevitably steeped in history. Recognizing its geographical importance, the Romans built a system of roads that converge on the town. Throughout the middle ages Cassel was fought over again and again, by dukes and counts and kings of France and Flanders and Spain, the Netherlands… The German advance in World War I ground to a halt just shy of Cassel, and allied commanders used the town as their headquarters. In May of 1940, British forces took a stand at Cassel to delay the German advance, thereby buying time for their comrades to be evacuated from Dunkerque, just a few miles to the north. From the hill on which Cassel is built I looked out over the fields of Flanders. From 1914 through 1918 I would have been able to see the front lines to the west, a shell-torn scar across the land. The rumble of artillery would have been constant, and at night the horizon would have been lit by flares and explosions.

The grave of my great-uncle, Pvt. George Stuart Burchill

Today marks a century since Germany and France declared war on each other and opened the Western Front of World War I. I’ve already written about France’s memory of the war and my family’s connection. My great uncle died in November of 1917 after being wounded at what was left of the small village of Passchendaele during the Third Battle of Ypres – just a few miles from Cassel. Antoine took Julian and me to visit his grave, located in one of the many cemeteries that are scattered throughout the countryside, each one corresponding to a casualty clearing station or field hospital.

One night we walked through the old city of Ypres, which had been the focal point of fighting throughout the war. Commonwealth soldiers headed to the front passed through the city and marched east. That road is now marked by the Menin Gate, a memorial dedicated to the Commonwealth dead “to whom the fortune of war denied the known and honoured burial given to their comrades in death.” The bodies of 90,000 soldiers from Britain, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, India, and other British colonies simply disappeared into the mud of the Ypres Salient. The names of 55,000 of those soldiers were carved into the walls of the Menin Gate before the builders ran out of room.

“The Menin Gate at Midnight” by Will Longstaff

The Cloth Hall in September, 1917. Photo by Frank Hurley

The heart of Ypres had been the Cloth Hall, a magnificent gothic market hall built during the 13th century. By the end of WWI, four years of constant shelling had reduced the building to an unrecognizable ruin. But along with the rest of the city, it was carefully rebuilt, and the city center thrives once more. As we walked past the rebuilt Cloth Hall and through the Menin Gate we heard a low rumble in the distance, but it was only thunder.

The Cloth Hall today, restored to its original state.

For those who are interested in learning more about the First World War, I strongly recommend The Atlantic‘s superb photo series.

In Flanders Fields (Part I)

800 years ago today, one of the most important battles in European history was fought outside the tiny village of Bouvines in northern France. King John I of England (that’s the bad guy from the Robin Hood stories) tried to conquer France, which was under the control of King Philip II. A coalition of soldiers from the Holy Roman Empire, England, and Flanders attacked the smaller French army at Bouvines, but the coalition army was exhausted after a long march and they were decisively routed despite a significant numerical advantage. The badly weakened and humiliated John I was soon forced by his nobles to sign the Magna Carta, which checked the powers of the English monarchy. The opposite occurred in France, where the victory consolidated power in the French crown.

In celebration of the 800th anniversary, the village of Bouvines presented a sound & light show reenacting the battle and the events that led to it. My family was visiting, and along with a few members of the Laurenty family, we got to see the show. The actors were speaking French and I only caught some of what they said, but through noticing leitmotifs in the accompanying score I learned that both Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien and House Lannister of Casterly Rock were involved somehow. Highlights of the spectacle included a joust, lots of fighting, and a guy who I’m pretty sure was Robert Baratheon beating the hell out of his prisoner, the Duke of Flanders, for five minutes straight.

Isaac, Graziella, and Julian stage an intervention about my baguette habit.

But in addition to the sound and light show there was a medieval fair filled with all sort of wonderful medieval things. Medieval booths sold medieval food, a medieval blacksmith showed small children how to forge a lumpy medieval nail, and a medieval band played medieval songs on a medieval electric guitar. There was a guy demonstrating medieval weapons and armor, so of course we headed over to take a look. Graziella, Isaac, Julian, and I donned and armed ourselves with swords and axes. Then, because they are terrible people, they attacked me mercilessly.

The medieval precursor to the Michelin Man was a character named “Gambeson Guy”.

With friends like these, I decided it was time for a coat of chain mail. Whenever anybody talks about chain mail they emphasize how heavy it is. It’s true – it’s certainly not light – but when you wear it the weight is spread out across your shoulders and it’s not too bad. But underneath the mail you wear a quilted garment called a gambeson to protect against shock and abrasion. It’s thick, it restricts movement, and above all, it’s hot. I put this thing on in the early evening after a day that had been cool all along, and within seconds I was sweltering. I can’t imagine wearing that four hours on end in the hot sun, while running around and swinging an axe or sword or whatever. (In fact, this was one of the factors that led to the disastrous French defeat at Agincourt in 1415. French soldiers were so exhausted after charging several hundred yards to the English lines that they were unable to get back up if were knocked over, and many suffocated in their armor.) With a mail hood on my head, the nasal helm no longer fit me, so I was upgraded to the great helm. It looks awesome, but you can’t see a damn thing, and breathing doesn’t seem to have been a big priority for the designers. But it was enough to allow me to take my revenge.

Hum epic music as you look at this picture.

Uh-oh

Once the chaos of hand-to-hand combat ended, the real challenge began: removing the chain mail. I raised my arms and leaned forward, and my trusty squires got to work. The mail coat slipped up off my body and around my head, enveloping me in darkness. And then it stopped. It turns out that I have a very large head (it’s all the brains, undoubtedly) and the mail simply didn’t want to let go. I finally appreciated the full weight of the thing when it was all draped around my head, trying its best to pull me to the ground. But thanks to the help of my trusty squires we were able to remove it without resorting to decapitation. I remember flailing blindly in darkness, the sensation of metal rings slowly slipping over my skull, and then finally a sound like a cork being pulled from a bottle as my head popped free. Blinking in the sudden light, I looked up to see a crowd of thirty people who had gathered to watch the excitement.

Having survived my ordeal with the chain mail, I was given a pair of mail mittens (these ones fit quite nicely, thankfully) and invited to a lesson in the use of the two-handed great sword.

The armorer taught me a few blocks and we ran through a series of strikes. In the last move he showed me, he swiped his sword sideways to block my downward blow, knocking aside my blade with his hilt. He pivoted, punching his pommel toward my face, and it was curtains for me.

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This was not the first time Bouvines has commemorated the battle. One hundred years ago, on the 700th anniversary, the village installed stained-glass windows depicting the French victory in their church. The fact that much of the defeated coalition army was German was not lost on the village, as anti-German sentiments were running high. Archduke Franz Ferdinand had just been assassinated in Sarajevo, and Europe was on the brink of war. Within a few months, the town of Bouvines would be overrun by the advancing Germans, and the fields of Flanders would once again be a battleground.

Talking Shit

One morning in October of 2012 I had to interrupt my work in order to defecate. There was nothing particularly unusual about this, of course, but the moment sticks in my memory because I decided I would explain where I was going to my French coworkers. It was a simple sentence – “I am going to take a shit,” – and I knew all the French words that would be necessary. Je vais prendre une merde.

I’d just opened my mouth to declare my intentions when something made me hesitate. “Taking a shit” is a phrase that any native English speaker would be familiar with. But would it work in French? Translated literally, the sentence conjures up an unpleasant scene: a (hopefully gloved) hand reaches into a toilet bowl and emerges, dripping, with a single turd. And then what? Is it sealed in tupperware and placed in the refrigerator? What possible reason could a person have for taking that? In vast quantities and if treated properly it could be used as fertilizer, I suppose, but one lonely, solitary shit?

I closed my mouth and frowned. Clearly this would be more difficult than I’d thought.

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I’d arrived in France about six weeks earlier with virtually no French. My mom spent part of her childhood in France and teaches high school French, and I grew up singing French songs, but although I had the sound of the language in my ears, I’d never studied it. The words of the songs ran together in my mind into an unintelligible string of syllables, and my vocabulary was limited to little more than thank you, yes, no, and bread. (Oh yes, and shit, which a family friend translated for me as part of a history lesson – it’s said that when one of Napoleon’s generals was asked to surrender, he replied, “Merde!”) A friend had taught me how to say “Would you like to look at the stars with me?” and “Would you like to come back to my château tonight?”, but in a village of sixty people, most of whom are either children or retired, those phrases aren’t as useful as one might hope.

My host family speaks excellent English, so communicating with them was rarely a major issue. But my coworkers were another matter. My first days of work consisted of rebuilding the retaining wall of what had once been a moat, and my contribution to conversation was mostly pointing and grunting. Whereas students who are studying French in school might start by learning how to introduce themselves and then move on to ordering food at a cafe, the first words I picked up were those related to the work I was doing: “wall” (mur), “stones” (cailloux), “chisel” (burin). As we shifted to different projects my vocabulary grew to include “flagstone” (dalle), “beam” (poutre), and “radiant floor heating system” (system de plancher chauffant).My personal favorite is pied de biche, the French word for “crowbar”. It translates literally as “foot of the doe”, and somehow manages to sound delicate while perfectly describing a tool used for applying immense force.

Outside of work, the scope of the language was daunting, especially when I would try to understand conversations between fluent French speakers. The process was complicated by little twists in the language that change the meaning from what you might expect. For example, pas terrible translates literally as “not terrible” but actually means “pretty bad”. But the words came, eventually. In an odd way, my lack of background in French was helpful. The fact that dignity was never a possibility freed me to make a spectacular fool of myself, which I did quite happily. People I spoke to were very patient (and no doubt somewhat amused) with my linguistic stumbling, and full of questions and stories. I talked with a coppersmith who had worked in Libya about classical Arabic literature, with a local artist about his father’s involvement in the French Resistance, and with a historian about the challenges of restoration, and through all of these conversations my vocabulary and confidence with the language continued to grow.

And it sort of looks like a middle finger, right?

At times I was reminded that communication is not all verbal. While eating lunch one day I broke off a piece of baguette and placed the rest of the loaf back in the bread basket, upside down. Xavier hooted with laughter while Jean-Claude reached over and flipped the baguette back up again. When I asked why I got two explanations. Flavie told me that bakers used to designate a loaf reserved for the executioner by turning it upside down, so it is considered bad luck. Stephane offered a slightly different version of the story, although no less juicy: a loaf turned on its back was reserved for a woman who earns her living on her back – a prostitute.

By the end of my three months in France, my grammar was still atrocious, and because I’d learned virtually everything through speaking rather than reading, so was my spelling. But I could speak well enough to express whatever it was I wanted to say in most situations, and if people spoke slowly and clearly to me, I could usually understand most of what they were saying. And then I left.

For the last year and a half, I’ve jumped at any opportunity to speak French, but they’ve been few and far between. My desire to solidify what I’d started learning was a big part of the reason I wanted to return to France. And now here I am. My French was a bit rusty but it’s come back quickly. Last night I found myself talking with Marion about prairie ecology and the role of fire in keeping grasslands from being overgrown with trees. My French was far from perfect – instead of “bark” I said, “the stuff that is on the side of trees.” Pas terrible, but also not terrible, which is more than I could have said for myself two years ago.

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Rodin’s “The Thinker”, cast in bronze as he casts a bronze.

As for that shit, I finally decided to go with a more self-explanatory phrase: “Je vais faire une merde.” I am going to make a shit. Stephane gave me a funny look and burst out laughing. It may not have been quite the right way to say it, but he understood what I meant. And sometimes learning from your mistakes can be pretty fun. It turns out that the best translation of “to take a shit” is couler un bronze, “to cast a bronze”. So the next time you’re, uh, making a deposit, think of it as an art form. Just don’t let anybody take your masterpiece.

Le Retour de Moi

Looking down on Château Bussy-la-Pesle

Well here I am, back in France and back in the château-repair business. My host family, the Laurenty, welcomed me very warmly, as did the weather. I was last here in the gray of late November, but now the countryside is a dark, thirsty green. Bussy-la-Pesle has never looked so lovely.

During my time here I’ll be continuing the blog I kept throughout my last visit. As before, I’ll be updating it with some news of what I’m up to. But I’ll also be posting a series about unique architectural features of this region and the historical and architectural questions that make restoration such interesting work.

For those of you who didn’t get a chance to follow my blog last time I was over here, all the old stuff is still available for you to check out. Here’s a video tour of the château, and here and here are some examples of the work I was doing.

If you want to send me letters, postcards, gifts, or cash, you can mail them to me at

Chateau

21540 Bussy-la-Pesle

France

 

Hate mail and death threats should be sent via email as usual. Many thanks! Tell me your address and I’d be happy to mail you something as well. And of course, if any of you find yourselves traipsing through France this summer, please please come visit. It’s always a delight to speak English again, so I’d be absolutely delighted to see you – even those of you who I don’t actually like.

Very little has changed on the outside since I left in November of 2012, but my host family has made significant progress on the interior in my absence. Elecricity has been expanded into the Rennaissance wing. The room where Stephane and I installed the flagstone floor is now more or less finished, and rooms that were almost done are now complete. Rooms that had been crumbling, peeling, and collapsing for decades are now in that advanced state of chaos that looks like disaster but is in fact progress in disguise. But as always, there’s lots of work to do here, and the Laurenty family will keep me busy.

Stay tuned…

Farewell to France

I’m posting this from my home in Vermont, in a town that, while small, dwarfs Bussy-la-Pesle and its 60 inhabitants. I’ve said my goodbyes to the château, to the beautiful little villages of Burgundy, to croissants and baguettes and wine, and to all the people who made the past three months such an incredible experience. I hope to go back, of course, although when that will be will depend on what real life brings. But whether it’s in a few months or a few years, France is very much a part of me now.

Even though my stint in France has come to an end, this blog has not. My posts were few and far between in the later half of my visit. As my French improved I spent more time speaking and less time writing, and the blog suffered as a result. But now, back at home with no stone to cut, I’ve got much more time on my hands. So in the coming days I’ll be posting a few more things that I never got around to writing about while I was in France: reflections on learning the language, the natural history of the fields and forests around Bussy-la-Pesle, the architecture of the château, and more. So check back soon!

But first, a few thanks-yous:

To Quico, Martine, and all the other inhabitants of Bussy-la-Pesle who welcomed me so warmly into your beautiful little village.

To Guy Lachot, for painting guidance, great conversation, and an awesome quad.

To Brigitte Colas, for immersing me in the history of the region.

To Laura, Jose, and Turner, for a bit of ‘Murica.

To Jean-Claude and the two Stephanes for all of the wonderful conversations and your patience with my broken French.

To Xavier, for introducing me to pastis, teaching me how to make lapin au moutarde, and being such an enjoyable companion and friend.

To Caroline, who makes the most wonderful purring neckwarmer. Sorry we didn’t notice that you’re actually a guy a little bit sooner.

To the centuries of masons, carpenters, and architects who have left their mark on Château Bussy-la-Pesle. I am in awe of your work and it was an honor to join your ranks.

And above all, to the Laurenty family, who have been the most wonderful hosts I could have asked for. I can’t tell you how much these past three months have meant to me, and they could never have happened without your generosity, encouragement, and friendship.

Merci beaucoup!

Au revoir, France. A la prochaine!

Paragliders over Savigny-Sous-Mâlain

I saw this on the way to work a few days ago:

Not a bad way to see Burgundy!

In Memoriam

Today goes by many names. Veteran’s Day, Armistice Day, Remembrance Day, or here in France, simply “The 11th of November”. It was on this day in 1918 that that World War I ended. In France, even far from where the front lines used to be, the effects of the war are still very much present. In almost every village, no matter how small, one can find the monuments to the war dead. In Bussy-la-Pesle, which had only around 120 residents during WWI, the monument lists six names.  It’s hard to comprehend the impact that so many deaths must have had on these villages.

* * *

This day also holds special significance for my family. While serving with Canada’s 25th Infantry Battalion, George Stuart Burchill – the brother of my father’s mother – died ninety-five years ago today from wounds received at the Second Battle of Passchendaele.

Aerial photos of Passchendaele before and after the battle.

In a war that is infamous for the inhuman conditions in the trenches, the situation around Passchendaele stood out as being particularly miserable. Aerial photos of the village taken before and after show that the village was completely obliterated by artillery fire. Combined with heavy rain, the artillery churned the ground into an almost impenetrable morass of mud and craters. In his superb book To End All Wars, Adam Hochschild provides a quote from a British officer that gives a glimpse of the difficulties of simply moving in such an environment:

Canadian machine-gunners in the front lines at Passchendaele, late October or early November 1917.

“A party of ‘A’ Company men passing up to the front line found … a man bogged to above the knees,” remembered Major C. A. Bill of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment. “The united efforts of four of them, with rifles beneath his armpits, made not the slightest impression, and to dig, even if shovels had been available, would be impossible, for there was no foothold. Duty compelled them to move on up to the line, and when two days later they passed down that way the wretched fellow was still there; but only his head was now visible and he was raving mad.”

“The Mule Track” – Paul Nash

The phenomenal online collection at the Canadian Great War Project provides a detailed record of the actions of the 25th Battalion during the battle. Every official document that was preserved is there – orders, plans for the transportation of food and ammunition, arrangements for the synchronization of officers’ watches. The battalion’s war diary describes the weather, enemy activity, the way the mud softened the impact of artillery and gas, and, of course, the casualties. With the use of these documents, I’ve been able to piece together the last few days of my great-uncle’s life.

“The Ypres Salient At Night” by Paul Nash

On the night of November 7th, the 25th Battalion was ordered to move up to the front line trenches just east of the ruined village in order to relieve the soldiers stationed there. It was a distance of under 2 miles, and all of it through Canadian-controlled territory, but it took the 25th Battalion more than seven hours. Sometime during that journey, in a flare-lit landscape of shell-holes, shattered trees, and rubble, George Stuart Burchill became separated from his company.

He spent the night in an area that was being heavily shelled by German artillery, but when the morning brought enough light for him to see, he continued on to rejoin his company in the front lines. As he moved forward he was shot in the right arm and thigh. He was evacuated to a casualty clearing station behind the front lines, but that was not enough. Three days later, exactly a year before the war would end, my great-uncle died of his wounds. He was 19 years old.

The record of George Stuart Burchill’s death.

* * *

Ninety five years later, I’m standing in front of Bussy-la-Pesle’s memorial with a group of other villagers who have come for the Remembrance Day ceremony. Before the service begins I chat quietly with Quico, one of our neighbors. I tell him that I was impressed by the high turnout. Out of a population of around 70, roughly 35 people had come for the service. He nods, looks thoughtful, and then tells me, “Yes, but it doesn’t hurt that afterwards we’ll all go to the town hall for a drink.”

Two men step forward out of the crowd and go stand by the memorial. One of them, the mayor, clears his throat and tells us that it’s eleven o’clock, so we might as well get started. The other man places a pot of flowers in front of the memorial. The mayor presses a button on a remote control and music plays from a speaker in a nearby window. It’s a military march, the kind of thing you’d hear while watching old newsreel footage. The mayor reads the names on the monument while the other responds:

The monument for the citizens of Bussy-la-Pesle killed in WWI.

“Toitot, Louis.”

“Mort pour la France.”

“Fertat, Julien.”

“Mort pour la France.”

“Rousseau, Georges.”

“Mort pour la France.”

“Vachon, Charles.”

“Mort pour la France.”

“Soupet, Joseph.”

“Mort pour la France.”

“Poupon, Emile.”

“Mort pour la France.”

 

There’s a moment of silence, which to my mind is far better suited to the occasion than the military marches, then more music, similarly peppy. The mayor pulls out a piece of paper and reads something. We learn that this year France decided that Nov. 11th would be dedicated to those killed in all its wars, not just WWI. The mayor presses the button for the last time and The Marseillais plays.

The gathering after the memorial service.

And then, just as Quico promised, we all walk over to the town hall for kir (blackcurrant liqueur and white wine) and snacks. Even after two months in the village, this is the first time I’ve seen some of these people. But even to an outsider, the warmth of a tight community comes through clearly. We talk, me with my broken French, and they with their patient curiosity. Yes, it is a charming village. Did you know that there are seven artists who live here? You come from Vermont? That’s near Quebec, isn’t it? How long are you here? Oh no – you leave so soon!

It’s a good thing, this gathering.

* * *

“We Are Making A New World” – Paul Nash

Paul Nash, a British painter who served in the First World War and was commissioned as a war artist, produced some of the most striking imagery to come out of that war. One painting in particular resonates with me. Titled “We Are Making A New World”, it depicts the sun rising over a war-torn landscape of shattered trees and shell holes. The title by itself suggests optimism, but paired with the image, the result is bitter irony.

This century is still in its infancy, and who can say what new world the coming years will bring? There are certainly reasons for hope. But a hundred years ago, few could imagine that they would soon be engulfed in a conflict that would dwarf all earlier wars. And in 1919, when we spoke of “The War to End All Wars”, few guessed that twenty years later would come another, larger still. We’ll face our share of challenges in the coming years, and I hope that we find a better way to address them than did our predecessors.

For me, that is what today is for. To remember the awful cost of war, and to commit ourselves to finding better chisels for carving out peaceful tomorrows. And if it means that we get a bit of kir while we’re at it, well, I can live with that.

Election 2012: Thoughts From Over Here

This morning I woke up at 5:00 AM, without an alarm. This is very unusual for me, but it has happened on the morning after each of the 4 debates this election cycle. It’s an absurd hour in France, but back in the United States the debates have just ended. For half an hour I scan Nate Silver’s twitter feed, Slate.com, Google News, and my Facebook news feed, which is covered in posts from those watching the debates. Having gotten a sense of the night’s outcome, I return to bed to snatch a couple more hours of sleep.* It’s not the same as watching myself, but it has to suffice.

Following the election from Europe has been a strange experience for two reasons. First, I feel disconnected from the major events of the campaign. I still follow the news closely, but the time change makes watching the debates live out of the question, and anyways the château’s slow internet means that watching anything more than the highlights after the fact is more trouble than its worth. So this morning I chuckled over an 80-second clip featuring Obama’s “bayonets and horses” line, but that’s all I’ve seen. I’ve read quite a bit of analysis, but I wish I could be with those of you watching in real time.

The second strange part about following the election from Europe is that despite the distance, people here are following it closely. This morning I came downstairs and started to tell Xavier about the bayonets and horses, but he laughed and said he’d already heard about it on the radio.

Yesterday I went out for a long walk and on my way back I ran into Monsieur Reymond, an elderly man who lives across the street from the château. We chatted briefly about what I’m doing in France, and then he asked about the election. He was thrilled to hear that I’m voting for Obama.

Jean-Claude, who worked with us on building the stone wall, respected Clinton and loved Kennedy. In his broken English he told me again and again “Obama, for me, the best. The best! I hope he will be elect.” I’ve promised to buy him a celebratory drink if Obama wins. He still stops by the château every once in a while, and each time he asks about the latest news in the election.

It’s not just France. When Julian and I were in Scotland we were asked about the election by most of the people we had extended conversations with. They were curious about the relationship between the president and Congress, fascinated and appalled at the role of money in campaigns, and anxious to hear my prediction about who will win.

In the nine weeks I’ve been in Europe, I have yet to hear anybody say that they don’t want to see Obama reelected. He is admired here, he is respected, and those sentiments carry over to the United States as a whole. This alone is not enough of a reason to vote for Obama, but it would be a mistake to disregard it.

* * *

Today I filled out my absentee ballot and placed it in an envelope to which I taped a signed statement affirming that I am, in fact, me, and that nobody else had filled out the ballot for me. This went inside another envelope addressed to the town of St. Johnsbury, VT.

I walked three miles through the woods to the post office in the nearby village of Blaisy-Bas. The trail was muddy and I had to crawl through barbed wire fences twice. When I got there, I found the post office closed. I didn’t have a stamp for the envelope, so I had to turn around and come back, ballot still in hand.

It’s a funny thing, this election business. It can be a miserable ordeal, and the outcome isn’t always what we hope for. But when that happens we try again.

I’ll go to the post office again tomorrow.

*I didn’t get much sleep after the first presidential debate. I’d already had a bad night, bothered by dreams in which I checked news sites and read that Obama had lost the debate. When I woke up I checked news sites and found reports that were eerily similar to what I’d dreamt. As cool as being a seer may be, that’s not an experience I want to repeat.

Video Tour of the Château

It’s finally here! Check out the video below to join me on a tour of the château and see the rafters, rooms, and ruins where I spend my days.

Flavie wants me to point out that this tour neither shows you everything nor tells all there is to tell about what it does show. If there’s a particular part that you want to see more of, let me know and I’ll try to show you more.

And if that doesn’t satisfy, come visit!

The Flagstone Floor

We’ve been busy here at Bussy-la-Pesle, and here’s video to prove it! This shows our latest work laying down a flagstone floor, and it also includes some adorable bonus footage. You’ll have to watch it to see what I mean.

As some of you may have noticed, a couple days ago I tried to upload another version of this video which included extra minute of footage accompanied by Bob Dylan and Neil Diamond. But due to intellectual property laws, that video was blocked just about everywhere except for South Sudan and a few obscure islands in the South Pacific and the North Atlantic. For the record, it was very well-received in South Sudan, where it has been selected to open the Juba Film Festival next week. But those of you who live in more repressive societies will have to make do with this version of the video without musical accompaniment. I’ve saved a copy of the original version, so when you see me in person I would be happy to arrange a screening of the Director’s Cut.

The blog’s been pretty quiet lately, but there’s lots going on here and I’ll have more updates for you soon. Tomorrow I’m going with the Laurenty family to visit Guedelon, a château being built from scratch using only techniques that were in use during the 12th century. So stay tuned!