“The sunset burnishes the
great curves of the Loire
and lays a plum-coloured
bloom on the slate roofs.”
Edith Warton (1888-1920)
On the approach to Montresor one approaches a medieval style château and experiences a raw feeling of being lost in another era.
Local sheep's wool was spun in the town and sold in the Halles aux Laine from the 17th century.
You enter the château through the ruined 14th century arches and the intimate rooms are mysterious, full of hopes, fears, and superstitions; echoes from people who are long gone.
It belonged to the English Henry II, until Philippe Auguste conquered it in 1888. It was converted in the 16th century into a residency, but little has changed inside since, with Polish objects, Italian paintings, and Napoleon III furniture.
Small curtains hung around old four poster beds, now cold and empty, but it was still dented with the body shapes of previous inhabitants.
They lived surrounded by splendour, but were tortured by nature and the relics left were poignant reminders of the tenuous survival of those generations that gave rise to us.
The hordes of Gap-clothed, camera-clutching, sneaker- wearing, aspirin-fed group of tourists scuffled throughout the rooms peering, pointing, and mumbling to each other, all looked disgusting to me now.
I lingered in the Countess de Montresor's bedroom staring at her bed, which was small in its dimensions and conveyed her vulnerability.
Just off to the left a stone balcony overlooked a deep-coloured and dimly-lit chapel. It held no more than about four to six people and it was a humbling place of prayer. These cold rooms still held on tight to her prayers whispered to God, lonely in her bed full of fears.
Should future generations be privy to these private and personal past lives just because these occupants were once rich? Should these rooms be open to the public?
I was asking myself these questions as my eyes traced the cracks of paint that had peeled away from the walls like old dried skin.
I was also one of many who had violated her haunted abode, and my heart felt touched by a person who had long gone.
My contemplation was shattered by another wave of people tromping past like mindless zombies, and I moved off following the floor arrows.
Outside in the gravel courtyard I paused to watch the serene River Loire flow into the distance like liquid mercury. The valley was breath-taking, and one could only marvel at man’s tenacity of having accomplished such feats of construction.
It was humbling, utterly humbling.