Walking the Rhône Valley (Part 2)

A healthy commonweal, and agriculture as art

(This is my second piece on walking in the Rhône valley. The first is here.)

As I walked north out of Valence early on Monday morning I passed two churches, Saint-Jean-Baptiste and Saint Pierre. Neither is as grand as where I’d attended Sunday mass, Cathédrale Saint-Apollinaire, but both have a subdued sumptuousness, with artwork, icons, and a history that in the US would rank as grand.

Each was also open, and empty, with doors swung wide for anyone to wander in and pray, or take pictures. Which is what I did on that morning, and what I did in every church I passed on my two-plus weeks walking the Rhône valley. Hundreds of them, from the well-known medieval cathedrals congested with tourists in the larger cities, to the “lesser” ones in smaller towns that bring few visitors and no longer offer daily or weekly masses.

I had come back to Valence because the small town I’d been resting in, Saint-Vallier, offered no Sunday mass, despite having the sublime 12th-century church, Saint-Valéry.

My apartment was directly next to Saint-Valéry, and in my three days in town I often went into the church for shelter from the heat or rain, and to think in its serious solitude. I could do that because like all the churches I passed, it was always open, from roughly 8 a.m. to 8 p.m.

That these churches, festooned with valuable and majestic works, can be left open without worry of vandalism, or desecration, is a sign of a deep, significant, and important social cohesion in France. Of a real sense of place, and respect, that transcends the written law. Of a healthy commonweal¹.

The open churches are only one example of that. I don’t know where exactly, or why, the French got a reputation as rude, or arrogant², but it’s entirely wrong. They are one of the most genuinely friendly people I’ve met. Who, while at the surface might be a little brusque, really care about each other, and especially care about the common good.

You see that warmth, and graciousness, everywhere. I see it in the cafe in Avignon I’m currently writing this in now, where the owner, who’s here from 7 a.m. serving coffee and croissants, to 5 p.m. pouring beers, knows everyone, greeting them with a kiss on the cheek, or a pat on the shoulder.

I saw it in Valence, as two groups of surly loud teens, each smoking big flavored vapes, dressed to annoy adults, walked towards each other, and as they passed, give each other pecks on the cheeks, and began a volley of differently inflected “Ça va”s before moving on.