Sure Etnique Travel Newsletter

Tired feet fight their way up on rough cobblestone steps. Not normal steps with equal risers and treads, but a small riser and then four to five paces of rising tread. The edges of the riser stones are worn hollow, almost like smiling faces that tell many a story of pilgrims’ feet.

Only a few brave tiny green clover-leaf creepers survive the permanent onslaught of thousands of shoes. I linger at a turn in the pathway, attempting to catch some breath: looking down at the two strayed cobblers at my feet, wondering what they want to tell me, and then, looking up towards the rugged tower of the chapel above the twin arched stone bridges, I sense a single bird of prey, circling in the open sky.

It is only then that I notice a metal star, flickering in the early morning sunlight – as if to remind the beholder of an important occurrence in the history of this seemingly insignificant mountain town.

Behind me, somebody speaks in a deep French voice. Realising that I have not understood his first words, the person, now next to me, repeats in foreign English.

You need some help with the steps? It can be challenging if you do not ascend them everyday…

When passing me, the old man in his early eighties, wearing a priest-like long faded black garment, mumbles:
Father Philippe.

As he holds his wrinkled hand out, he stops for a few seconds, also puffing heavily to regain his breath. He shuffles towards the low stone wall with his exposed toes in the rugged sandals, and eventually sits down with a sigh. With his leather-like hands he touches his grey-white beard and the deep dark eyes are starring at the distant waving green and yellow landscape of vanilla; almost as if he has forgotten of me.

Moustiers Sainte-Marie has been my home since early boyhood days. As an altar boy I spent most of my free time playing in the brook below the mountain spring that pours forth throughout the year or exploring the Gorges du Verdon.

Today the thirty kilometer long gorge is a popular tourist attraction of the Haute Provencal region, north of the Massif Mountains and Provence. The magical canyons of sheer rock face, plunge on both sides of the valley down to the twisting ribbon of a cascading water stream. At every curve the curtain rises to the splendid spectacle. A region full of poetry -

But the town of Moustiers is not on the ordinary tourist route; only the dedicated investigative traveller will know that the town boasts a very exclusive collection of Royal porcelain. Since the Medieval days artisans were practicing the art of well-ornamented and distinctly decorative pottery.

A secluded town, almost as if enveloped in a deep sleep, with olive groves and luscious lavender fields bordering the clusters of tiled roofs with speckles of brightly coloured geraniums in bloom in the many window pots. Interesting paths wander through Moustiers and visitors will be surprised to find the many little squares hiding behind the aged houses and narrow alleys dotted with stone fountains all lead to the village centre.

I remember that fatal day in the early forty’s; I was still a teenage boy, busy replacing the altar candles, when our Priest called on us all to come and assist with the hiding of the valuable treasures of Moustiers: the porcelain collection in the numerous artists’ studios. The Germans had invaded France and nearby the historical Castle of Gap was converted as regional military headquarters. Like hyperactive ants, all inhabitants of Moustiers were running through the maze of narrow sprawling streets, collecting the works of art to hide them in the secluded caves in the valley above the town. Once the play spots of the children, it had became the secretive hiding place of the treasures created through generations of inhabitants.

Within a week the troops paraded the cobblestone streets of Moustiers. And all they found in the many studios were potters molding crockery for daily use on their pottery wheels. The chain, spanning the valley with the original old star, dating back some centuries, was removed, and the special star taken along.

But within days a new star was sculptured by a local artist, using remnants of the old chain and stainless steel; and that my friend is the star still hanging today above our valley. And you can go and view the glorious pieces of artistic porcelain, been exhibited in the Clérissy museum, inside the chapter house of an ancient monastery. After some thirty years of gradual decline of the earthenware industry, the kilns are ablaze once more.

As one draws nearer the chapel high up in the narrow valley, the scenery seems to sink into the valley. The Notre-Dame de Beauvoir chapel is reach by the tiresome step-path.

Supported by two cables - and spanning the gap between two mountains behind the medieval town, this radiant star stood out against the dark shaded valley.

Sitting like an eyrie on the steep slope of a rocky fault, its majestic albeit humble architecture dominates the medieval village overlooking the valley. In the darkness of the little church, with only a single window allowing a bright ray of light onto the altar, I light a candle. Outside the never ending multi-colour view of yellow and purple, almost like an artists colour palette, makes the tiresome pilgrimage all worth the while.

The Notre-Dame Beauvoir speaks to you of the time of the great pilgrimages; when men came to you in search of love and hope. They hear your voice no longer and know not where the path is that leads to the star. But there you are, between heaven and earth, awaiting the child still within you who will ascend the steps leading to the sun.

By now, after I have quenched my thirst at the fresh cool spring feeding the brook that flows through Moustiers, I have also regained my breath, and start slowly to descend the many steps down the valley leading back to the town below.

My thoughts go back to the incredible experience of the morning: the strange coincidence of personally meeting Father Philippe; the fact that I would not have had a story to retell about the background of the guiding star, high above Moustiers.

Before I realise, I am back within the meandering pedestrian walkways of town. From the town centre, with the typical pedestrianised square as focal point, the narrow cobbled streets lead to the main places of interest: you see small specialist shops and galleries selling original works of art and pottery; picturesque double storey houses with brightly coloured window shutters and rustic entrance doors; and vaulted archways linking the differently dated buildings. And you hear the ever present monotonous tunes of the tolling bells of the chapel echoing through the alleys.

Next to the arched stone bridge that span the rippling brook below the mountain spring, is the Hôtel Le Relais. The entrance is unconventional through a cosy but somewhat noisy bar, where the people of the town meet daily.

A mantelpiece displaying some hats of all shapes and sizes, welcomes the guests. For the past 50 years the Eisenlohr-family runs this no frills establishment, serving country meals en pension to both locals and visitors alike.

The favourite room is on the second floor corner, facing the bridge and capturing panoramic views of the olive groves and distant mountains.

I visit the comprehensive exhibition of porcelain objects in the town art gallery, facing the miniature paved square and bubbling fountain.

Isabelle, an attractive French lady, explains to me some of the techniques of glazing and firing of the porcelain pieces. I share with her my coincidental meeting with Father Philippe, telling his story of the hiding of the treasures.

And then she tells me: My father was the artist who sculptured the new star during the war years; the star that is presently guiding over Moustiers. I am a second generation of artists in our family. The little gallery next door exhibits my paintings.

Needless to say, I could not resist buying one of her limited prints of a Moustiers village scene, signed by her with a special personalised note underneath. Memories are kept alive by virtue of such moments.

In a distance I hear the sound of music. Arriving at the cosy little town square, a blind aged man is playing his seemingly dated accordion. I can sense the passion with which he displays his musical talent. And inevitably I wonder whether he was also a young boy hiding the treasures under the guidance of the serenity of the gilded star, some seventy years ago? Though he can no longer see the star, he can surely sense the ever-presence of its guidance.

- Johann Beukes