Musée des Maisons Comtoises, Nancray, France

Dear Mother,

Yesterday we drove from Montbéliard to Nancray to see the collection of old farm buildings etc. that an abbot started about 30 years before it finally opened in the 1980s.  He realized that an old building was about to be torn down and he hated to see that link being lost to the past, so he saved it somehow, found land, and kept on collecting old buildings.  Janice was in her element.  It reminded her of the Sauder Museum in Ohio, but much older. You can visit the website for the Musée des Maisons Comtoises and then click on the British flag for English.

On the way, we took the tollway, stopping for petrol ($65 to fill up the tiniest little car with no lungs).  I looked longingly at the food (it was noon), some of which looked better than what we see in our local grocery store at home, but Janice wanted to eat at the museum.  Guess where we ate (one guess only).  So the special sausages, terrines, cured ham, etc. will have to await another day.

We had wondered whether renting a GPS would be necessary, but by now we are absolutely convinced it has saved us time, trouble and likely even our marriage.  That comforting UK accent, loud and clear is great:  "The exit is approaching."  "Go through the roundabout, on the left, and take the third exit."  Works for me.

Once we were off the tollway (after saying some naughty words to the machine which attempted to collect my toll while cars lined up behind me), we started enjoying the farms.  I was impressed by how much wood these men stack for the winter, possibly cutting and stacking several years ahead so that it is well cured.  We saw this everywhere.  Clearly, the communally operated forests are well tended and harvested carefully.  We saw none of the disastrous clear cutting that plagues the mountains in British Columbia.

The rolling hills, possibly foothills, can be farmed in spots, but at other places have steep drop offs, gorges, and are too steep to cultivate.

We eventually found the museum, got our tickets, and walked about 7 minutes to the restaurant.  The outside tables were not crowded, but the single man about my age was almost literally running around, trying to serve everybody.  They were clearly understaffed for the long weekend.  Unfortunately, he was strictly a linear thinker rather than multi-tasker.  He could only nod at an empty table for us After putting down some dirty dished in the kitchen . . . twice.  The food was local and traditional, filling beyond belief.

The sausage on the plate was thinly cut the long way, beautifully seasoned with herbs I could not identify.  The three smaller new potatoes were boiled just right.  You are to open them and then drown them in the white sauce which looks like a soup.  The sauce seemed to be heavy cream with melted Swiss cheese and herbs.  The potatoes slid right down, and even though I Know I don't need much heavy cream, there it sat and we used about 2/3 of it.  The fresh lettuce salad was very much like what Janice's mother used to make:  cream, salt, spices (and Grandma Aeschliman added sugar).  This reminded us that she learned to cook from her mother, who learned from her ancestors . . . all without cook books.  So it is only natural that some of the ancestral traditions from this part of France were retained in her cooking.  Our extensive collection of cookbooks has brought that tradition to an end.  The rosé wine and sparkling (petulant) water helped to cut all the grease and cream.  We were ready to take on the farm buildings.

I found one barn with beams sufficiently exposed to light that I could take a photo.  The structures are quite similar to beaming used in NW Ohio and elsewhere, so the immigrants most likely brought their traditional ways of building with them to Ohio, where wood was more than plentiful.

We all knew that rain was predicted for all of France, and nobody dared complain because rain is so badly needed.  But most of us got caught in a truly impressive rainstorm before we got to see much of the museum.  I found shelter in a little chapel, originally from the 18th c (if my memory is correct), torn down and then reconstructed on this site.  During the storm, there were very high winds in the mountains, the rain blew in waves, we were surrounded by lightning, and it was quite the display.  I had lots of time to shoot this doorway, propping the camera against the chair on my little bean bag.

Lighting kept coming, I kept counting, wondering when I could dash back to the main building (4 minutes, I figured).  I figured there had been no lighting for 3 minutes, so I stood in the doorway to look out, and there was one heck of a strike--right at my feet, for all I knew.  The local horse took off in fright, I jumped back, and realized that the main building was now dark.  It had been hit, the bolt apparently followed the water running off the tile roof to the ground, then followed the ground to a cement box with reinforcing iron bars.  People inside the building saw the lighting go across the ground and hit the pillar.

You can see the small trench in the ground, and where chips of concrete flew off (going for yards).  All the buildings were blacked out, light switches had black smoke marks around them, nothing was going to working in the near future, restroom doors were open to get a little light.  Slowly, people cam straggling back, each with stories to tell (a dog cowering under cover, old roofs which leak, streamlets to walk around).  Before long, we could see the rain elsewhere across the valley.  The museum was closed early, so we really did not get to see very much.

On the way back, Janice turned off the GPS and opted for truly rural roads, with hairpin turns, narrow bridges, local yahoos zipping around, and great scenery.  We saw a sign for a former Cistercian Abbey, so we stopped, enjoyed walking around a bit (founded in the 1200s) and seeing the buildings.  The monks left about a decade ago once their numbers were insufficient to maintain and justify having the property, so it is now in the hands of another lay group of celibates under Rome.  We stayed for their sung evening prayers.  I was astonished at how wonderful the acoustics were.  There were not more than 18 women and 5 men, all singing chant.  The chapel just made their voices swell as if each was miced, only without anything but a natural sound.  It was especially good when the women sang along, full-voiced, like one great big shower.  There is absolutely nothing as satisfying as hear Gregorian chant, or any unison singing, done in the right acoustic.  This is something I remembered from other monasteries in France and Germany, but I have yet to experience it in North America, anywhere.

We then wended our way home, walked into Montbéliard, and were having dinner by 10:00 p.m.  Very civilized . . . very much on holidays.

Today, we are on the lookout for areas formerly inhabited by some of Janice's ancestors.  Meanwhile, love from us both,
Evan