I gave in to the calling and finally visited Deityland. No candles were harmed.
First, though, I was on a mission to visit the fort and marvelled at my finding my way to it, only to be thwarted by its opening hours. It’s rare that this happens, but I thought I’d write it down just in case nobody believes me: today, I was too early for something.
As I had not yet had breakfast, mainly due to my sacrifice of such pleasures in an attempt to guarantee an ascension, I abandoned the idea of the fort and instead wandered again to Les Halles where after a little look inside I found a café for a lovely coffee and an acceptable, but not amazing, croissant.
Caffeined-up, I took a new route down to the quartier de la camelote via lots of little windy staircases and streets I’d not previously encountered. I became increasingly aware of the hotels squeezed into every available space, all marvellous French relics of a different time catering for everyone from the most modest to the most glamorous of pilgrim.
On some streets simple open doors lead from the pavement to some stairs, their presence only subtly belied by a panel next to the door or a once-extravagant neon that seems no longer to be working, such that you might miss it. Along the river, pastel buildings have their ecclesiastically-themed names emblazoned upon an end wall or across the roof in giant illuminated capital letters and beg you to spend a little more. Not all, but most, have taken the name of a saint, and there’s at least one Vatican.
My favourite to look at is of the Belle Époque and finds itself right next to the tat supermarket and pharmacy (one shop) and but a first stone’s cast from the entrance to the main attraction. The dining room is visible from the street and looks wonderful and had been a consideration for Sunday lunch until I realised that would have cost me an alm and a leg for little that wasn’t much non-meaty. I imagine the rest of the hotel as is glorious inside as it looks from the outside.
I had another good look at the tat on offer just to take stock of what’s available if you have too much excess money: a variety of different-sized plastic and procelaine Marys, some shrink-wrapped, some glow-in-the-dark, all sure to be comfortable wedged into any nook or cranny; candles of differing sizes from aww to eye-watering; rosaries; fridge magnets (only the classiest, mind); water containers of varying forms and volumes, empty or pre-filled; jerry cans; snow globes (it was winter, after all); crosses (OMG so many crosses); holy clocks, bookmarks, paperweights and keyrings; placemats, plates and cutlery; mirrors, picture frames and calendars; sweatshirts, teeshirts, baseball caps and tote bags; miraculous “silver-style” metal medals, pendants, bracelets, brooches, and rings; soap (to help wash away those sins, presumably works with any water); crystals (really?).
If they can print a cross on it, you can pay for it. Even the tobacconists are in on the act.
Both the town and the sanctuary itself were eerily quiet today, as if everyone’s simply buggered off home again now that Madge has been put back in her box for another year, but that did mean the queues to get into various things were shorter. I first headed to the grotto where (yet another) of the every-fifteen-minutes masses was taking place, hastily stuck my splinter/puppet finger under running water just to see what burning feels like, and then set off to look at the other things.
Like the cross at the top of the Pic du Jer, the place is a wonderul vantage point from which to observe Instagram-generation humans at work.
On the steps outside the lower basilica a woman draped in white lent back, her weight supported on one arm with her legs decoratively bent, rouged lips pouting perhaps piously perhaps suggestively at the camera. I wasn’t entirely sure what the look was that she was desperately trying to achieve, but she seemed to have missed the mark slightly as to me her pose suggested a conception more defiling than immaculate. In any case, she was in my way and there was little time for mercy as the finger puppet needed that bling-tastic photo-opp too, so I marched behind her and took my own photos while photobombing hers.
I like to think he’s an influencer now.
There are three churches in the main edifice. The upper basilica is an elaborate gothic construction built on top of the original church which now serves as its crypt. It’s surprisingly drab inside, and in a way I was disappointed not to have had my senses assailed by wafts of incensey goodness and sparkly wonderment as I entered. The lower basilica was the third of the churches to be completed and verges much more satisfactorily towards the lurid; one enters through glittery mosaics of the Luminous Mysteries. The interior does not disappoint, and the mandelbrot-inspired cupola, surmounted outside by a gilted crown and cross, is well worth a look up.
I didn’t make it into the underground basilica/bunker because it quickly became time for lunch before my train.
One of the other things I noticed was a seemingly omnipresent smell of glorious food , and the diversity of visitors means that much like the hotels, restaurants cater for all tastes and to all budgets. I am normally more geared towards “things I can’t get at home” food and so very much enjoyed my Sri Lankan experience on Saturday, but was a little diappointed I didn’t get to try the African restaurant on the Boulevard de la Grotte which had some sort of plantain dish I quite fancied trying. Yesterday, exhausted from tat hunting, I foolishly had a hearty snack in the late afternoon which didn’t leave me with much of an appetite in the evening.
At lunchtime it was therefore a toss-up between African and something else, which ended up being something else as I’d earlier stumbled across a Tibetan restaurant near Les Halles. The decor was colourful yet restrained and a portrait of the 14th smiled as I ate. I had the veggie option from the set lunchtime menu — dal(ai) sarpo and veg noodles — but almost immediately regretted the decision, not because my food was bad but because the other things coming out of the tiny kitchen behind me looked utterly delicious and were coming out at such speed that my concerns about time-to-train were unfounded.
Ah well. Next time round.
In the criticisms section of the Wikipedia article about the Sanctuary, there’s a quote attributed to Malcolm Muggeridge decrying the shops overflowing with “tawdry relics, the bric-a-brac of piety,” although secretly I love a bit of tat and thoroughly enjoyed the whole gaudy experience. When I arrived on Saturday the Boulevarde de la Grotte was alive and kicking late into the night but I was surprised how much was shuttered today. I’d have loved to be able to try more restaurants, the cuisines available as diverse as the people visiting.
The 13:54 to Bordeaux was not too busy and after the shortest but most successful game of River, Church, Mountain ever, I settled down to enjoy the pretty views leaving Lourdes (sit on the left side of the train in the direction of travel) but the closer we got to home, the more they were marred by the onset of rain. I eventually filled the remaining time vainly trying to establish an internet connection.
In the time spent between trains at Bordeaux Saint-Jean I discovered that the station has a proper restaurant with tables and everything (le Grand Comptoir), and a waiting room with wood panelling and a fireplace. I also discovered a left luggage facility I don’t think the gares et connexions web site mentioned, so that’s all good to know for next time.
