COLUMN
Woody’s worries
In a world of rapid change, it’s refreshing when things stay the same, fi nds Ruth Wood
W
hat colour is the Eiff el Tower? I quizzed my teenage daughter
Mabel on this last summer on the train to Paris. We were on our way to
watch beach volleyball at the Olympics. Not that we’re beach volleyball fans or experts or anything. My husband Jon is not even a fan of bare feet. Also, we’re British and our nearest beach is known for its treacherous sinking mud. But the tickets were reasonably priced and we couldn’t resist the chance to sit in an Olympic stadium below the Eiff el Tower watching elite athletes leap barefoot around a sandpit. So, in the middle of our
summer break at our holiday cottage in Brittany, we hopped on a high-speed train from Rennes and spent a day in the French capital. Naturellement, when Paris
hosts a world-class event they do it with panache but also a certain Gallic shrug. We thought the city would be buzzing, that the metro would be jammed with over- excited tourists and prickly commuters, that the streets and cafés would be heaving with entrepreneurial locals making a fast buck from their international visitors. But not a bit of it. The Parisians had evacuated the capital and gone on their summer holidays as usual, because it was August and that’s what Parisians do in August. C’est la tradition. I kind of admire this
nonchalance, their refusal to change plans just because the world’s biggest sporting event was in town. You could see it as party-poopish. But I see it as an extension of the
determination with which the French uphold tradition, for better or for worse. At the worst end of French
tradition, in my opinion, is the school system with its rigid and old-fashioned atmosphere and teaching methods. Far worse too are the stern looks you get if you commit a cultural cardinal sin – such as daring to enjoy a winter dish like raclette on a hot summer’s day. But in many ways, the
French amour for tradition is for the better. I love the way the townsfolk of St-Malo faithfully reconstructed their medieval citadel brick by brick between 1948 to 1960, so that an untrained observer today might never know it had been bombed to bits by the Allies in World War Two.
The same can be said for
Sarlat-la-Canéda in Dordogne. Rescued from decay in 1962, it could so easily have become a poster child for postwar modernism. Instead, it became the trial town for a new law to protect the country’s architectural heritage and is now celebrated as the Pearl of the Périgord Noir. And back in Paris, I admire
the way Notre Dame cathedral has been painstakingly restored to its former glory by talented artisans. After the roof and spire were devastated by fi re in April 2019, architects from around the world proposed all sorts of modern makeovers. A giant rooftop swimming pool! An educational greenhouse! A sculpture of a massive fl ame which looked more like a golden dog poo. Mais non. All these fandangled ideas were rejected. At a cost of €850m and with
not a small amount of physical risk, some 2,000 artisans stabilised the Gothic landmark and reverently restored it to its original form as precisely as they could, relearning the skills of their 12th and 13th-century predecessors along the way. On a recent trip to the
capital, Jon, Mabel and I stepped inside and stood with gaping mouths beneath the towering vaulted ceiling. The
Watching volleyball at the Olympics
limestone walls have been wiped clean of hazardous lead dust and decades-old grime and now stand luminous and magnifi cent. The great rose windows have been meticulously cleaned and 29 freshly painted chapels radiate out from the choir. Otherwise, it looks very much like it always did. Beautiful. Which brings me to the Eiff el
Tower. I could have sworn it had always been grey. But I learned last summer that the Dame de Fer has worn her coat in many colours since she was built to celebrate the 1889 World’s Fair. Venetian red was the original choice and since then she’s been reddish brown, ochre, orange-yellow ombre, yellow-brown, red again, and now – as Mabel correctly answered when I quizzed her – a very chic ‘Eiff el Tower brown’. The Iron Lady, it seems,
is not so much a symbol of French tradition as a Parisian fashion icon. ■
“We stood with gaping mouths beneath the towering vaulted ceiling”
Mabel, Ruth and John on a recent trip to Paris, to witness the rebirth of Notre-Dame following the 2019 fi re 106 FRENCH PROPERTY NEWS: March/April 2025
© RUTH WOOD
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