My Chateau

            by Adam Poole

 

            On Tuesday as morning classes were ending, I decided that I would find a castle that afternoon. There were but five minutes left in class and I began to get excited for my trip. The year before I had gone with my family to the Dordogne valley west of where I was now in the French Alps and had seen there the most spectacular medieval castles. They were perched on the cliff-tops overlooking little villages, the very definition of grace, majesty, and power. I remembered them fondly and couldn’t wait to find other such castles here in Chambéry. I grabbed my backpack as the teacher dismissed us and rushed for the door, eager to be on my way, but as I began to walk down the street I realized that I had no idea where I was going. I stopped and looked around, expecting a castle to appear in front of me. Alas there was nothing. I began again down the street, this time rather dejectedly. After I had walked a block or so I had the most brilliant idea; why not ask someone? (I admit to normally avoiding this course of action, perhaps my host family had been sneaking estrogen into my food.)

         But who would know?

         My teacher, of course! I turned on my heels and headed back to the classroom, hoping she was still there.

         “Bah, oui, there are certainly castles around Chambéry. There is in fact a château just up the road,” she said. I had caught her just as she was leaving. She now pointed with her coffee up a bike path that led to the other classrooms.

         “Vraiment? Well, my adventure won’t be so long after all.” I was a little surprised that I had not seen this castle, if it was in fact “just up the road.” I suspected that I had quite a walk in front of me.

         I filled my water bottle and set out. After about two minutes I passed the other classrooms, they were housed in an old manor. I turned the corner and stopped suddenly; the path had ended. There was nothing in front of me but trees. Confused, I walked back to the manor building to ask them where this castle was.

         Even calling this building a manor was pushing the definition. It was a square two story building with a large garden in front and back. If it weren't for the style in which it was built, I would have just called it a house for its size. The woman behind the reception desk was a young German, like most of the people in the school.

         “I was told that there is a château around here, but I couldn’t find it,” I told her.

         “You are standing in it,” she replied. “Built by General de Boigne in 1847.”

         I must have stared at her in disbelief for a moment too long for she said to me in a somewhat nasty tone, “Is there anything else you’d like?”

         “No, thank you.”

         I walked out the door and back down the bike path to the street. Obviously, the word “château” was more broadly defined than the word “castle.” I had not yet given up, though. In town was a bureau de tourisme and I knew that they would have the answer.

         Although I had seen signs all over town indicating the direction to the bureau de tourisme, I had not yet visited the establishment. I found it right in the center of town near the Place des Eléphants. I walked inside, trying to decided how best to state my question in French. For all the publicity the bureau received around town I expected to see more than the narrow room in which it lived. It was brightly lit with a row of desks along one side, like any good bureau ought to have. I went to the nearest one and asked, “Est-ce qu’il y a un château à Chambéry?”

         “Bah oui, bien sûr,” he responded affirmatively. “There is the Château des Ducs de Savoie, now home of the Préfecture Conseil Général.”

         “How do I get there?” I asked. He pulled out a map and opened it.

         “We are ici,” he said pointing at the bold words ‘Office de Tourisme’ on the Boulevard de la Colonne. “Now you must walk over to the Place des Eléphants and turn onto Rue de Bologne. The château is straight ahead, you will see it.”

         “Merci,” I said, taking the map. I walked outside and over to the Place des Eléphants, following his directions. In the center of this place was a giant statue of four elephants, or rather their fronts. They seemed to come out of a column on top of which was General de Boigne. Apparently he had gone to India and really liked the elephants there so when he gave lots of money to the city of Chambéry they built a statue of him with his elephants. The citizens referred to it as the Quatre sans Culs (the four without asses).

         There I turned down Rue de Boigne and saw the château. It was about two blocks away. There was another giant statue, no doubt of de Boigne again. A massive stone gatehouse stood behind him, its gates wide open. I walked towards it, getting out my camera. I felt my blood rising at the excitement of going inside. At the gatehouse, I saw that the road turned to follow the edge of the walls. To the right an enormous tower with delicate flying buttresses and colorful stained glass windows jutted out. That must be the chapel, I thought. I walked through the gate. There was a small courtyard surrounded by the tall walls on the other side of which was another large doorway. I eagerly pressed on, hoping to find the crowning jewel of any castle; the keep. I looked up as I went under the iron gate and as I passed to the other side I saw it; the parking lot. There in the middle of the castle, was a parking lot. On the other side was a brilliant glass structure which I guessed the Dukes of Savoie had not included in their original plans for the château. Above the door to the modern building were the words Préfecture Conseil Général. I stood disheartened in the doorway. This was not a castle. It may have been at one time, but the damn French ruined it.

         “Monsieur, bougez-vous,” I heard from behind me. I looked around with a start to find a man in a business suit pushing past me. He walked at a clip pace into the glass building, its doors sliding open automatically for him.

         “Pardonnez-moi,” I said in a sarcastic tone after him, walking into the parking lot and over to the walls. I looked over the edge to the narrow street below and funny little cars winding along it.

         Next to me was the chapel tower, its doors half open. I walked inside, hoping to find something that would make me feel as if I had had a productive adventure that afternoon. I walked solemnly around the edge, looking up at the trompe-l’oeil painting on the walls that made them look far more ornate that they actually were. Off to one side in a small alcove was a map of the area. It showed the county of Savoie with its capital, Chambéry, and the other small towns like Aix-les-Bains near the Lac du Bourget. On the map it indicated the location of tourist sites such as the château in which I was standing. Although my series of disappointments that afternoon had left me less than willing to go on another adventure, I scanned the map to see if there were any castles nearby. Yes, in fact, the map said there was a Château de Thomas II on the edge of the Lac du Bourget. I looked at my watch and found that it was only 14:00 (2:00 p.m.); I had the whole afternoon left.

         I quickly left the “château” and made my way back to the Boulevard de Colonne along which all the buses in the city stopped. I paced up and down the street checking for a bus that went to the Lac du Bourget. Quelle bonne chance, the ligne 9 went to the beach at the lake. It had just left, though, so I sat down to wait. As I sat, I stared into l’Amie Jaune, a bakery decorated in yellow. My stomach grumbled and I realized with a start that I hadn’t eaten lunch, the most important meal of the day.

 

         I stepped off the bus and threw away the bag from my tuna sandwich. The number 9 pulled away and I began to walk, but stopped quite quickly when I remembered that yet again I had no idea where I was going. In front of me was la Plage au Lac du Bourget, but no castle. I walked out to the shoreline, hoping I would see it. On the other side of the lake was a castle-style wall with two turrets that stuck out of the trees and loomed out over a cliff. Parfait! I had found it. I returned to the lake side road and began to walk. It would be prudent to mention now that the Lac du Bourget is the largest natural lake in the country of France. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I planned to walk to the other side. The street quickly turned into a narrow twisting road that led uphill above the lake.  After about two hours and several wrong turns that took me too far up the hill away from the lake, I was half way around. I found myself in a quaint hamlet on the water’s edge. I staggered into a café and collapsed into a chair, pleading for un verre d’eau. The waitress returned with my glass of water and asked me where I’d come from.

         “I started at la ville de Bourget.”
         “And you’re just out for a walk?”

         “No, in fact I’m on my way to the Château de Thomas II on the other side of the lake.”

         “Mais le Château de Thomas II is in la ville de Bourget.” I stared at her, confused.

         “Non non, Je l’ai vu, I saw the castle walls on the other side of the lake.”

         “Le pauvre, that is just a façade on the Beaujardiniers’ house, the château is definitely in Bourget.”

         “But…but…oy guvalt.” I looked back along the road. It arched over a hill on the side of the lake and ended at the town of Bourget, two hours back the way I had come. It was now getting late.

         “Qu’est-ce que je ferai? What will I do?”

         “Oh lala, pauvre petit garçon. I’ll tell you what, I’ll close the café early and drive you back.”

         “Oh vraiment! Madame, that’s too nice of you.” I was elated at the prospect of getting a ride. She gave me another glass of water and turned the little sign in her window around to say “fermé.” We went around the back to her little blue Pugeot.

         The ride back in the car was short; I couldn’t believe it had taken me so long on foot. She dropped me off at the bus stop. I waved goodbye and headed off in the direction in which she had pointed. I now noticed signs that indicated the Château de Thomas II right where I had been earlier. I was slightly afraid of what I would find. Would it be another manor house from the 19th century or perhaps a new-age castle with a glass office building instead of a donjon? The path weaved through the woods on the edge of the lake and off to the right was a sign the said “Bienvenue au Château de Thomas II, construit en 1267.” In front of me was a large latticework iron gate that stood ajar, barely on its hinges. Around it were the remnants of a stone wall. Beyond that loomed the crumbling form of a tall tower; the castle keep. I entered the gates; I had found my castle.