Mists of Rain and Mists of Time

21.5.2013  Veules les Roses 

Wet White Cliffs of Veules les Roses

Veules les Roses is a neat, quaint, pretty little village.  Its name says it all – Veules from the old English for a mill – and there were numerous mills all down its crystal clear, shallow river – the shortest river in France.  Roses?  Well, I am guessing that the riot of flowers, pouring over walls, nodding bright in window boxes, flourishing brilliantly everywhere in gardens and paths, have made the name appropriate. 

Although the sun had not yet consented to join us, at least it was not raining as we followed the village trail, down to a grey horizonless sea merged with a sky of misty grey.  Huge chalk cliffs clawed their way upwards on either side of the inlet in which the village huddled, serried ranks of white beach huts waiting in hope for the absent sun to usher in this year’s migration of tourists.  It’s not just Dover that has white cliffs – they are here too, miles and miles of them.  The Channel – La Manche – has sliced through a solid landmass, splitting the chalky plains into two lands.  But it’s not just the chalk that is reminiscent of parts of England – oak beamed, thatched houses, twisted with age, tell a story of Norman conquerors who took their culture – and their architecture – with them across the sea to those other white cliffs. 

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Nearby, fishermen worked at nets – white fluffs of the thinnest nylon threads, like clouds of lilac and green steam around their feet.  How on earth they stop them tangling is a mystery to all but other fishermen.  The heavy hemp ropes of bygone days must at least have given the fish a chance – undersea, these nets must be totally invisible.

River and waterwheel

Then up into the winding streets, cottages and houses peeping out from the dripping greenery all around.  It all seemed so peaceful, so gentle, so idyllic.  And yet here in 1940, houses were burning, bullets were ricocheting, men were dying as the last battle of the ‘Dunkirk’ evacuation was being fought.  And again, in 1944, the landing craft brought soldiers – Scottish soldiers in fact – to fight and die their way inland to liberate the village.  The town square was renamed ‘Place des Ecossais’ for this reason.  Hard to imagine these ancient flint cottages which hug the river’s bank, their gardens trailing blossom in its gentle flow – hard to imagine soldiers firing from behind each wall, hand grenades bursting into angry flowers of flame, engulfing the huge mill wheel which now again languidly plashes these serene waters.  But that’s the way it was.

 

Lunch was two immense pizzas, at least 15” in diameter – in a tiny cafe separated by the narrowest of streets from the ancient 13^th. Century church.  We went into this later – full of statues rescued after the revolution from a convent and another church which had not survived the new regime. 

The schoolgirl French continues to hold out – no disasters yet.  So far I have not had the experience of ordering two cups of coffee with cakes and ending up with turnip stew, but there is still time....