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It was a cold and bright February morning when we walked the steep stone path to the church. We each carried a heavy bag, and were preoccupied with missing our train to Lyon. It was our first “weekend” break during our three-month stay in the Loire Valley, and we had planned the trip unaware of the need to book in advance. The next train was not for another three hours, so we carried our bags into the tiny town of Montrichard in search of something to do to pass the time.
The church door was imposing, with 18 foot wooden doors surrounded by an ornate boarder that resembled rope intertwining itself. The shade under the entryway was inviting, and we dropped our bags to the ground beside the huge stone columns. The entire interior of the entryway, from the floor to as high as the eye could see and the arm could reach, was covered with what looked like strange decorations. Upon closer inspection we discovered them to be names, dates, comments, scribbles, all drawn and etched into the stone. Protected from the sunlight and the rain, these little parts of history were perfectly preserved.
“1935” one boldly declared. Most were in French, others in various European languages. Some bore the usual graffiti-type language--Francis loves Jack (or Francoise loves Jacques!)--while others gave interesting insights into the society in which they were written. A number of inscriptions of English names were written beside dates spanning 1939-45; most likely written by soldiers, I thought, as I traced my fingers over the words. These people, so far away and possibly no longer alive, left a part of themselves here on this wall for the future to read. Why did they do it? What made them take out their pocket-knives and patiently engrave their names into the stone?
The idea of engraving a personalized mark into a hard cold wall is not a new one. For centuries masons would chisel their specific symbols into the stones as a way to gauge how many stones they had laid and therefore how much they should be paid. These mason’s marks are found throughout Europe, most specifically on churches and cathedrals. The masons laid claim to the stones through symbols. Even more elaborate symbols were engraved into stone centuries ago by the Ancient Egyptians and Sumerians, who used hieroglyphics and cuneiform to proclaim their devotion to the gods or to record history.
Politics and religion have also been expressed in stone. In many châteaux throughout the Loire Valley we found the symbol of the French Resistance, and in one corner of the Château of Amboise was a swastika carved deep into an outside wall. Throughout France you can find crosses engraved into church walls. In the Château of Chenonceau there are engravings dating back to 1543-46 in the chapel. Left by Queen Mary Stuart’s Scottish guards, they read “Man’s anger does not accomplish God’s Justice” and “Do not let yourself be won over by Evil.” It is a testament to their durability that they survive today.
Churches, it seems, are the most popular place for these engravings. Perhaps it is because it is in a church where one begins to think solemnly, and there is a wish to record a thought on the solid structure that bore it. Perhaps it is the architectural splendour of European churches that produces the natural wish to be a part of that splendour. In some cases this need can verge on vandalism, and many historical monuments are very particular about you engraving your name on an 11th century wall. It is understandable. But what about that name that was engraved on that pillar in 1590. Surely, by its very persistence, it has earned its right to residency, and has become a piece of the history of the pillar itself.
Sometimes the names become more important than the architecture itself. At Shakespeare’s birthplace in the English town of Stratford-Upon-Avon there was once a window on which visitors gave in to the temptation to etch their name during the 19th century. The window was removed and is now on display as a historical exhibit in its own right, as it proudly displays the signatures of Sir Walter Scott, Ellen Terry, and Henry Irving, to name a few. Those wishing to record their presence in the house must now use the visitors book instead—the new solution to the urge to etch.
But why is it that people have this need to record their presence in a place? The answer may be different for each engraving outside that little church in Montrichard. Do they write there to be seen by others? Perhaps not. In the little chapel beside the Abbey where we were studying, names were carved into the tiny winding stairwell that led up to the tower. Very few people climb that tower. It is not lit and it is steep and difficult to manoeuvre; but perhaps that was the beauty of it. The only people to climb that stairwell would most likely be intimately connected to the building. Certainly, when I climbed its steep dark stairs to look out over the rooftops of the little town of Pontlevoy that had been my community for three months, the Abbey itself was home to me. Perhaps whoever carved their name was claiming a piece of their Abbey.
Nowadays, when we visit a new place, we come with camera in hand. We ritualistically collect postcards to send back home as “markers” that we have been somewhere. We like to have records to show to friends and family, and so we stand in before the lens and wave in front of the Eiffel Tower, or we pose throwing a coin over our shoulder into the Trevi fountain. On any given day you will find at least three tourists standing beside the walkway up to the Leaning Tower of Pisa with their hands held out as if pushing a huge weight. A few feet in front of them you will find their loved ones, crouching down low with camera in hand and shouting out instructions: “Left a little… now up! That’s it! Hold it!” The result is a prized possession—a picture to boast to friends showing them proudly supporting the weight of the tower.
This may be an extreme case, but we are all subject to the need to possess what we see. It is the very essence of photography—the wish to capture in a still shot everything about a given moment or place, so that when we come back to that photograph the sensory moment returns, and we recall the emotions we felt standing right there.
Personally I am an avid photographer, although I rarely put myself in pictures, preferring instead to capture moments or people doing characteristic things. However, my journal sits in my bag and appears whenever there is a quiet moment in a café where I can sit and write. I like to capture places in words—to describe the emotions, the sensory elements: the feel of the sunshine or the smell of the wisteria in the breeze. Just that one phrase conjures up an April morning high on a hilltop in the tiny French town of Troo, where standing in a very specific spot in front of the eleventh century church of Collegiale Saint Martin produced the most heavenly scent of wisteria that had the very colour blue in its smell.
Everywhere we visit has its own essence. Usually, when we are travelling and just visiting a place for a few days, the essence is still foreign to us. We try to capture it in words, pictures, memories. It is fleeting. When we look back at our photographs we sometimes feel separated from it, as though we only captured the surface, but have lost part of the feeling of the place. Perhaps it is in this that we find the reason behind the engravings upon the wall. Perhaps there is part of us that knows it is not enough to try to capture the essence of a place, but that we must give that place a part of ourselves as well.
It is through impacting a place that we become part of it. We want a place to become part of us, and we want to become part of a place. We want to interact with the people and know the customs, and we want to know when we return that a part of us is still there on that wall beside the church in Montrichard.
As we picked up our bags and headed back down the stone slope from the church after almost an hour of studying the stones, we paused to add our own name. With no pocket-knife in hand we resorted to a thick pencil, and found a small space between two recent “entries.” We wrote what we felt fitted the reason we had to add our names to the “visitors book” on the church wall. As we walked away the words faded into the distance, and yet when I open my photo albums or read my journal and look back on my days in France, the words on the church wall are still there, and I know that a part of me is still there with them. | 