Although we’re staying the whole month in Paris, we planned to make a number of excursions out of the city. One of those was to go to Chantilly, 50km north of Paris, to eat Chantilly cream (me), see a horse show (Loni), and visit its beautiful chateau. This would be our first train ride out of town. We metro’d on over to the Gare du Nord, the closest one to us and the one from which trains depart, well, north. This train was an intercity train, not one of the speedy TGV’s (Tres Grande Vitesse), but it was pretty posh nonetheless.
I think this probably was one of their newer set of coaches, because the one we got on a later trip was much inferior. Overall, the French train system is excellent. They run on time, they’re not grotesquely expensive, and the equipment is pretty modern. We paid 20 euros each for the round trip. When we got to Chantilly, the first thing we did was to ask at the visitor center where the public bathrooms are. Oooh. So sorree. There are some at the chateau. Uh oh. (There weren’t any at the train station, either.) The chateau was about a mile away, an easy stroll . . . when you aren’t in extremis. We did a slightly faster stroll through the village and out the main path to the chateau. We spotted the building in the top picture below, which I thought was the chateau. It turned out to be the back of what is in the bottom picture. This giant edifice was the stables!
We found this out when Loni went in the front door (by those columns in the lower pic) to ask about “les toilettes” while I did St. Vitus’ dance out front. She came out with not an encouraging look and told me that this wasn’t the chateau, that yes, they did have a toilette, but it could not be accessed for the next hour while the current horse show was underway. We’d have to go down that road you see above, go to the left past that dark car, cross a bridge, buy a ticket, walk further to the chateau, and locate the toilettes in the basement. Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh. No way. Absolutely no way. I almost was at the point of reverting to childhood and clutching my privates. I mean, I had to GO! I’m an old man. We got problems. I couldn’t make it that far. Well, you see those van-like vehicles parked in front of the building, about dead center in the pic above the green lawn? One was parked parallel against a kind of catch fence, and another was parked behind it, providing a bit of cover. Fortunately, the drivers were not milling about. I walked over with, I’m sure, a strange gait and stepped between the van and the fence and, well, let go. That, my friends, is how you spell R-E-L-I-E-F. Out in the open in front of one of France’s treasured attractions. Sorry about the lawn. We beat a hasty exit, whistling casually. What? Who, me? Non, monsieur.
Restored to free ambulation, we walked over to the chateau, which is in quite a beautiful setting.
The original Grand Chateau was completely destroyed during the frenzies of the Revolution. It was rebuilt by the duke of Aumale, son of King Louis-Philippe, from 1875 to 1885. I don’t think much of the exterior of the chateau; to me, it seems clumsy, cluttered, excessively ornate, and without grace.
It does, however, have a ton of paintings and sculptures collected by the duke, and arranged according to his whims.
He bequeathed the chateau and contents to the Institut de France on the condition the exhibits were not re-organized, so it’s a curator’s nightmare. Other than the organization, it’s pretty nice inside. Here’s the entrance hall with the stairs down to the giftshop, a gilded ceiling, and a fireplace. Hmmm. Decorating tips for our place.
I was particularly impressed with the library. It was gorgeous.
Besides the paintings, there were a variety of different media to suit every interest, from illuminated manuscripts, to insanely detailed marquetry, to ancient mosaics made from thousands of tiny tiles. The Duke was a Renaissance man.
The jewel in the collection is a painting attributed to Raphael. There is some scholarly dispute about its authenticity. I don’t know stuff from shinola, but it didn’t look like a Raphael to me. It was way too plain in its execution and lacked subtlety. That’s my take, and I’m sticking to it.
It was getting near time for the horse show to start, so we quit the chateau, checked out a small portion of the extensive grounds,
and hoofed it back to the stables. Down this line of stalls, and then to the right, lie the bathrooms previously forbidden to me. Bah! Loni, who has some strange thing for horses since childhood, was in seventh heaven. Me? I was just glad I didn’t have to go again.
These grand stables were built between 1719 and 1740 to house 240 horses and over 400 hounds, as this was a hunting estate. Today, 30 spoiled equines live in luxurious stalls built by Louis-Henri de Bourbon, who wanted them to be nice because he was convinced he would be reincarnated as a horse, and wanted appropriate grandeur when he came back. Hey, I don’t make these things up. This all leads up to a one-hour horse show performed in the indoor riding ring.
This wasn’t a big production. Most of the time it was just these two riders on a variety of horses, demonstrating training methods, gaits, control, and then doing a few tricks. They were wirelessly miked, and were doing extensive explanations for the benefit of a gaggle of schoolkids seated just to the right out of this picture. The French was largely lost on us, but there was an English language crib sheet we could follow to get the gist.
This was interesting, but not compelling “performance” entertainment. I wouldn’t make the trip out especially for the horse show, but the chateau and grounds are well worth it. After the show, we toured the ancient carriage collection and the private horse parade grounds complete with grandstands.
OK, by now it’s 4:00, no lunch, and another hour and a half until the train back. Where’s that Chantilly cream? This was supposed to be “a deliciously sweetened thick crème” invented here. Well, all right. Just the spot for the ultimate butterfat search. We ambled back along the main drag (this is a small town of 10,000 or so; just one drag), found a recommended place called “Le Boudoir,” and stopped in for tartes and homemade hot chocolate with Chantilly cream. I’m sorry that we devoured most of the mounds of cream that rose well above the glasses before remembering to take a picture. It was as good as advertised. We groaned back to the station, managed to understand the last minute change of tracks, and caught our ride home. A day of contrasts, indeed. From the excruciating to the divine. All’s well that ends well.
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