We decide to take on the Chateau Chillon today. On the way there, we drive along the shores of Lake Geneva. It was a beautiful, very scenic drive. Located a couple of miles from Montreux, Switzerland, Chillon is a foreboding 12th century castle built on a rock slab extending into Lake Geneva. The counts of Savoy first occupied it, controlling the route along the shores of Lake Geneva, followed by the Bernese and the Canton of Vaud. Now it belongs to a historical foundation. Our friend Rebecca (who, along with her husband Dave, do a lot of traveling) recommended this site to us. My mother had also always wanted to see it, but never had before this. As with many castles of this age, there are countless additions throughout the century making for what seems to be a haphazard design, but actually it was quite effective against invaders.
As we explored the lower levels and prisons of the castle, we discovered that Lord Byron had visited there and was inspired to write a poem about one of it's prisoners. He even carved his name into the pillar he thought the prisoner was once chained to. Lord Byron's house was not far from here although we did not get the chance to visit it. Apparently, Castle Chillon was also the inspiration for the story of Frankenstein by his friend, Mary Shelley.
After the castle, we had brought some sandwiches for lunch. Unfortunately, we later regretted not eating at the castle's restaurant or one of the many other adorable places we saw along the way. I guess there are moments where one simply must splurge on a trip to get the full experience. However, sitting by the water next to the castle wasn't so bad either.
We were done by mid-afternoon and decided this was a good time to visit our hostess, Jeannette, in the hospital where she was staying. So we drove to Thonon-les-Bains, stopping briefly in Evian for a rest. By chance, we found the hospital in Thonon and found Jeanette. This was the first time my mother and she had seen each other in over 50 years. Jeanette was looking pretty good for someone that just had minor surgery: a hearty 72-year old woman of Hungarian descent. Her mother was my mother's godmother. My grandmother and Jeanette's mother were both Hungarian immigrants to France. My mother and Jeanette talked while Charles and I looked on. We didn't stay long so that Jeanette could rest.
Now it was the late afternoon, almost evening. I had been near Lake Geneva for 24 hours now and I couldn't wait any longer to see my final destination. So we drove on to Excenevex...and in the blink of an eye, almost missed it. I guess everything seems larger when you're a kid. Now it seemed so tiny.
We had to turn around as we were already starting to exit the village. But where was my grandmother's house? It used to be on the main road across from the general store. We saw the general store and parked the car there. Across the street was now an empty lot with a jerry-rigged wire fence blocking its entrance. It seemed strange that in a land of 900 year old castles there should have been a reason to raze the little stone houses that sat on that lot. We peered in. I could see the edge of the hillside that led down to the lake. I remembered that down below were large, smooth boulders that became a multi-generational perch for my mother, her family and myself as a child. That was the spot I wanted so badly to see again and stand on, right on the rocks down by the lake. But now that seemed impossible.
We walked around the corner near the traffic circle (that wasn't there before either). We saw a couple of security guards just inside the gate of the next door property, now a small mansion. Why on earth were there security guards in my tiny village? My mother talked to them over the fence. They wouldn't say who they worked for and they wouldn't let us through to see the edge of the lake.
Disappointed, we walked further down the road to see the Batteur D'Or (Gold leaf factory) where my grandmother used to work. Then we walked through the village center. My mother saw a woman on the sidewalk and struck up a conversation with her asking if she was a native resident. She was not, but we found out that her husband worked in the kitchen of the Hotel de la Plage. My mother also asked her about the elderly couple we used to buy eggs from when I was a kid. I can't forget this memory since it was the only time I had a goose egg prepared in an egg cup. It was the best tasting egg I had ever had in my life. The woman pointed across the road and said they now lived in that house. She even offered to take us over there. She knocked on their door and we found them finishing their dinner. They looked a little unsure at first, but when they realized who my mom was, they were elated and invited us into their parlor for a visit.
I couldn't believe they were still around. They must be in their late 80s now. Mr. and Mrs. Morel were so adorable. Mr. Morel brought out a bottle of sparkling wine and tea cookies. They remembered my mom and all her siblings and were very happy to talk with us. Unfortunately, it was getting very late and we still needed to find a place for dinner. We took down their mailing address and promised to mail them the group photo we had taken.
We also stopped at the hotel that Charles and I would be staying at the next night for my birthday: Hotel de la Plage. We discovered that the owners were of the original family that started the hotel in 1928. The son and wife now run it and the grandson is the chef in the kitchen. I guess I wasn't used to a hotel not asking for credit card info to hold a reservation so we went inside to check on things to be sure we had a room for the next night. They were a very pleasant, elderly couple and were very laid back about how they ran the hotel. My mother spoke to them a bit and let them know that she used to be a resident of the village. Apparently, they knew of my grandmother by name. I think they were happy to speak with old neighbors.
Satisfied that our reservations were well placed, we continued on to the next town, Yvoire, a medieval village on the lake, that's been turned into a bit of a tourist attraction. Although the original family with the surname of Yvoire still lived in the chateau. My mother had been a governess there in the 50s.
We found a restaurant that was still open. It was 9pm by then and many had closed for the night. It was nothing too fancy. I had the fish and Charles and Mom had the chopped steak and fries.
On our way back home, I made good use of the GPS, cutting through on a forest road and headed for the little house icon on the screen.
No comments:
Post a Comment