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French Hippie Saint
Not Your Average Holly Roller
He was a Soldier. He was a hippie. He was a Saint. And wherever you go in France, you’ll find a village and/or a church named after him. Saint Martin of Tours was his offical title. But owing to his constant pligrimmages, He was really Saint Martin of everywhere.
Our Saintly saga begins somewhere between 316 and 336. – according to Martin’s disciple Sulpice Severe. The only record keeper of the record of the birth of the Saint to be.
While the date of Martin’s earthly arrival is vague, we can be certain that he was the son of a Roman Legionnaire. And, bien sur, like any Papa, Martin Senior wanted Junior to join the family business. And for a while, he did.
Marching To A Way Different Drummer
However, even during those years, it was clear that Martin was not cut from the same cloth as his fellow chariot jockeys. For example – as a member of the Imperial Guard, Martin was given a horse and a slave. Martin invited the slave to dine with all his Imperial homies. A few raised eyebrows. As you can well imagine.
But the incident that closed the door on Martin’s tour of duty was taking in a starving, partially frozen beggar during the Winter of 355.(An especially harsh one – as any French Winter historian will tell you.) While this naturally didn’t add any Gold stars to his soldierly report card, it was – so “legend has it” -the appearance of J.C. himself with his angel posse the next night at Martin’s bedside, that got him on a new “career path.”
Job Training
Devout, diligent and caring as he obviously was, Martin felt he needed what everyone with more enthusiasm than experience needs – a mentor. Someone who’s “been there-done that”, and, hopefully is still doing it. (Successfully.) Saint Hilaire, the Eveque of Poitiers filled the bill. Giving Martin the inside scoop on all things Holy.
After filling himself with more of the Holy Spirit, Martin made attempted to visit his parents in Italy. No Way. Religious “discord” was the reason. He didn’t belong to the right club. So, he decamped to the island of Gallinara on what is now the Italian Riviera, for a little “r n’ r.” 
Back To The Lambs
Returning to France, Martin established a Hermitage along the river Clain, near Poitiers. (skill testing question : “The home base of what Saint?”) Here he did his Holy/Hermitey thing. Attracing like-minded followers, fans and facebook “likes.” (just wanted to make sure you were paying attention)
Unexpected Promotion
Soon, the word of Martin’s wonderfulness spread, and eventually he was invited to become the next Eveque of Tours. Martin turned them down. Additionally, because he had long hair(like the son of “you know who”) and didn’t have a tailor at the Vatican – the long knives of the established holies were out for him.
But a visit from a Tourangeau ( that’s a person of the city of Tours, folks)and a subsequent visit to a sick woman, eventually turned the tide. And changed his mind. And yea, verily, so it was in 371, that Martin succeeded Lidoine, as Eveque of Tours.
Happily, for the poor, sick, downtrodden and oppressed, Martin was NOT a couch potatoe. If he did indeed have an ivory tower in Tours, he was rarely in it. Shuffling through the land on his donkey,spreading his message of inter-denominational harmony, peaceful co-existence, and performing a miracle or three.
He also managed to found a number of Churches where he thought they were needed.. As well as another Hertimage at Marmoutier, near Tours.
The Last Roundup
Fittingly, it was yet another attempt to do good that was to prove fatal to Martin. After establishing Churchs/Hermitages in many areas near Tours, he paid a visit to a tiny Loire village to resolve a dispute within his clerical staff. It was his last visit. Martin died in that church on the 8th of November, 397.
But of course, our story doesn’t end there. Alive – Martin was the Big Man On the Holy Campus. Dead – he was a Holy trophy. A symbol of the church’s charity and good works. The poster boy for religious harmony.
Sadly there was little harmony (or order) between the Holy “orders” of Tours and Poitier. Who both drooled over the prospect of having Martin entombed in their respective catacombs.
Invasion Of The (Holy) Body Snatchers
And so it was in the dead of night(and isn’t that the best part?) that while the Poitier posse was snoozin’ – the Holy brigade from Tours, snatched Martin, and boated him back to Tours. Where he rests today.
However, there is no rest for the tiny village where he died. It has, understandably become a major stop on the Holy pilgrimmage circuit. Appropriately, it’s named “Candes St. Martin.“
THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!
What are ya thinkin’?
Gourmet Moments – Part One
Of all the French words/phrases that have been universally adopted, one is “first among equals.” It is the phrase that so perfectly describes social sins, that it has joined such mondiale stalwarts as sex, taxi, and radar.
The phrase, of course, is “faux pas.” We’ve all made them dear reader. Have We not? From the harmless tie in the soup, to the irretrevieable whisper of the wrong name at the magic moment. (If you get my drift. And I think you do.) In my gourmet ramblings, I’ve committed many. Here is one :
I am the guest of a Father/Son chef team who run a medium sized/priced hotel restaurant in the Provencal Alps. After a welcoming verre with Dad and junior, I settle into my ground floor palace for a short siesta. (Hey….I’ve just ridden five mountainous hours in forty degree heat!)
As the Sun lowers the wattage and dinner looms, I torture myself with some Tai Chi exercises on the lawn.The hearty “Bonjour” of Papa Chef pierces my zen-not concentration. He waves in passing; adding with a wagging finger : “Fait attention du Soliel!”
The dining room glows with a genuine familial ambience. Two waiters fuss over Me during the prelimlinaries. Then junior chef himself appears to take my order. The tourists from Des Moines at the next table freeze in mid-forkful. I chose the lamb. Snatching my menu with an Imperial grin; junior chef does a half bow from the waist and scurries stove-ward.
The Iowa escapees have now abandoned eating for furtive whispers. I sniff my wine regally. Impressed by the first round of the dual chef’s efforts, expectation (and saliva) are rising as the lamb arrives.
Three velvet medallions. Partially submerged in a pool of aromatic essence. Rosemary. Thyme. Unknown herbal wonders. First bite. The doors of gourmet heaven opened. Second bite. I saw Escoffier himself. Surfing the room, I groked We were all happy campers. Even the Des Moines. Now eagerly destroying their dessert.
Then, a feeling came over Me, to which I know, dear reader, you will relate. A feeling that rarely emerges. But when it does, is unmistakeable in both intensity and intent. A feeling that is truly undeniable. It is the feeling that informs you, that at this perfect moment, in this perfect place, in front of all these strangers, that you, are going to bring up your cookies! You – Bicycle Gourmet – exotic stranger from the far away lands….are about to – HURL!
The waiter sussed my discomfort. (My color, perhaps?) I rose slowly, casually, with my best always-turn-this-color-when-I-eat-lamb smile. And strode confidently toward the exit stairs. The feeling persisted. But I was in control. A jaunty wave as I passed reception and reached the stairs. Suddenly, I was not in control.
Bolting down the stairs, I reached the bottom in two giant leaps. Just as the door opened and my lamb exited. Decorating the shoes of a well coiffed matron just entering. Fortunately, head down, I was unrecognizeable as I stumbled forth into the starry, starry night.
Any respectable Asian, would, of course, have fallen on his sword then and there. But, alas, I, white trash with no blade, was destined for a more extreme punishment. Lying awake all night, wondering how I was going to face my hosts in the morning!
The night’s agony produced no solution. Naturally, I passed on breakfast. Brain immobile. Body Fragile. I hid in my room ‘til just before noon. Then, after successfully slithering unnoticed to the middle of the lawn – they got Me!
It was Papa chef. He beamed a big smile. Then, again wagging his Fatherly finger intoned : “Fait attention du Soliel, eh?” Hal-a-freakin-loo-yeah! Saved by French culinary hubris! Bien sur…….it would never occur to a French chef that his cooking could be responsible , so, it must have been, too much sun!
Lamb and I now have a distant relationship. I pass them. In their fields. At a distance.
THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!
What are ya thinkin’?
French Cathedrals
They’re big. They’re awe-inspiring. They’re colorful. Magnificent minglings of stone and light. Man made wonders at which to marvel. And they’re all over France. French Cathedrals.
Not churches, mind you. Which are more numerous and range in size from tiny chapels to good sized houses of worship. But Cathedrals. The largest of the breed. The Big Men on Campus. The football stadiums of Religion. Monuments to whatever King/Pope was in the mood to be remembered.
French Cathedrals. A very large part of the country’s History. And, along with food, wine and scenery, one of the main reasons the rest of the World visits. Particularly we folks from the excited states who be way lower on the Historical heritage totem pole. It is here, in these massive edifices, that we get our History fix.
And sometimes, when you talk a walk on the cathedral side……you can stumble upon something a little out of the ordinary……….but good……
French Cathedrals from bicyclegourmet on Vimeo.
