A journey starts with a little step, – and in our case two gallons of spare 20/50 oil, loads of coolant, spare plugs, points, a good toolkit, a power pack for the satnav, and an more than healthy dose of optimism. It was time to get the beast out again, for a very special trip.
Blanche’s mum had passed, peacefully, earlier in the year and she and her sister were debating the final resting place of her ashes. I suggested that Ginnette should return to France, she was a feisty French Lady, lived in England since the 1950’s, but never lost that accent, arrogance nor je ne sais quoi of her mother country where she grew up. Not as it turned out that childhood had been particularly kind to her, but that was her secret.
As we were clearing papers we found some documents relating to the war years, a period that was never discussed. These included her school certificate, a letter from her Mother and Aunt , and some other small fragments of her life. We researched the area, but wartime memories are sometimes forgotten, sometimes buried, and although we now had some dates and a family tree the trail went cold.
By chance, (and there’s a lot of luck in this story) we were lucky enough to win a couple of nights at the Fairmont Hotel in Monaco, the one with a helipad on the roof, the chicane outside the front door and that tunnel underneath. Grand Prix fans will know it, as well as any millionaire friend reading this , for the rest of you here’s the picture. Well at 950 Euros per night we were willing to give it a try, but how to get there? Looked at trains boats and planes, but there was only one choice really , we’d drive in the EType. It needed a run, the French roads are magnificent for driving, we’d turn up in style, and Ginnette had always wanted to go in it. Sorted !
So we boarded the dog, crossed the channel , stopped for at Chartres for a blessing, Sancerre for some wine and ended up in our favorite mid-France campsite for a few days. As we set off the next morning we could not have predicted the emotion of the next couple of days to come.
We booked a grand chateau for the next night, run by Jean and his lovely wife, Marie, they had taken on a project and a half. We were shown to a bathroom suite bigger than our lounge, an enormous bedroom and a TV room the size of a small cinema. Jean lent me his tools and workshop to adjust the handbrake, and gave me a beer or two to be getting on with. When it came to dinner we said we would eat out as it was their son’s 21st birthday. Monday – no restaurants open, no problems we’ll get a taxi, Monday – No Taxis ! – Jean gave us a lift to the next village, and picked us up later from a lovely french rustic restaurant, with no menu, no choices, and it was delicious.
Earlier that morning we had driven to a hamlet, there was a deserted church opposite a farmstead and nothing else. After a good while we spotted some movement and I ran after the little old lady to ask if she knew where Chaumant was. We had done some research, and there was a possibility that Ginnette had been under the care of a Louis Aaron, a war hero of the 1st World War, who we understood was one of the Directeurs of the safe houses in the Creuse/Limoges regions in WW2. The lady did not know Chaumont, but did point us to a memorial stone, just down (8k) the road. We got to the stone, it was tribute to the region’s population, who in the war had sheltered refugees from the Nazis. The stone was set by a tranquil lake, just the birds and the occasional bee disturbing the respectful silence. We sprinked some ashes.
As we turned the car we spotted an old sign, “Chaumont”, not believing our luck we ventured down the ever narrowing track, now not even tarmac, but kept going. Eventually we had to turn around, but in doing so saw a house above us, could this be it ? We parked up, ignored the locked gates, and managed to clamber over a part of the wall that had collapsed. The grass was up to our knees as we ventured towards the house. It was an eerie feeling as the house was in disrepair, the roof had collapsed, but somehow it just felt right. Had Ginnette played in the rooms, tended the garden, gone for rambles in the secluded countryside, and had she swam in the lake ? The distinctive brickwork and grand entrances also matched one of the pictures we had got from the internet. There was no doubt this had been one of the secure houses.
Many Photos were taken, not venturing inside because of the obvious danger of the structure of the building and the massive bees nest inside, we left a bit of Ginnette there, it wasn’t certain that she had been here, but the peace and tranquillity, with the humming of the bees seemed right.
We then went to the village of Croq, pronounced “Crow” and were looking for “Les Granges”, not sure what it meant , could have been a street, building , area. First stop was the Bureau de Tourism, who directed us to a school. We knocked on the door, a young teacher answered , but knew nothing of the history of the building , but she then remembered the memorial stone outside the gates, it had a similar inscription to the one at the lake. Another “Little Old Lady” at the bus stop enquiry , and we were directed to the mayors office.
Parking up we ventured to the Marie, and entered, to the right was a grand office, a studious Mayor behind the desk, and behind him the flags of France and Israel. It transpired that the Mayor had organsed the ceremony at the memorial stone a few years back, and he was very keen to hear of our enquiries, he went through our papers with great interest , copying them for his records. So far we had found Chaumont, and Les Granges, but still didn’t know what we had found. The major then produced a large book, a journal, printed and published, which was the daily record of the caring for the hidden children. And yes – Ginnette was named in there, with her school records. We had found where she had been hidden, not only the buildings, but we had now a record of every day of her cachement , the weather, the hardships, the fun and the fear, the celebrations, the festivals and beyond all , the selfless caring and protection of Louis Aaron, his staff and all the French villagers in Croq, and the surrounding area. Ginnette survived the war, and this diary is replicated in this blog. A story she did not want to tell, but it is told here for future generations.
Spilling over with emotion we departed the next day, for some hard and fast driving through the Cevennnes, towards the South French Coast. Villages scattered the route, and our lunchstop again reminded us how hard live had been in this region under occupation. We underestimated how long that would take, and ended up in very late in Marseille, which was full due to the Football, and eventually found a Travelodge in Aix en Provence. where we gratefully got some sleep, and mused on the previous day’s events.
We cleaned the sparkplugs, and had an easy but surprisingly long drive to Monte Carlo the next morning. The car had so far behaved itself, but started a splutter or two as we arrived, and there was an ominous sound of knocking from the propshaft, or rear axle, possibly from some over spirited driving the previous day.
We rolled into the reception area of the Fairmont, an army of uniformed helpers appeared from nowhere, with luggage trollies, emptying the boot of the two small suitcases and the power pack. Blanche checked in , and I tried to start the car, to take it to the hotel parking. It wouldn’t start , but the Maitre D of the Reception took the keys, as if it was an everyday occurrence, and informed his staff that the car was a “little old lady”, who just needed some recovery time, and that it would be sorted for us. The welcome drink was more than welcome.
As much as we enjoyed MonteCarlo, we spluttered as much as the car about the prices, which were astronomical. It was 25 Euros for a hotdog, and we didn’t even think about the restaurant. We decided that Luxury is something to be enjoyed, but only within ones means. We did take the 40 Euro bus tour, had 30 Euro drinks at Nikki Beach but feasted on pizza, and sunshine, in our Seaview room overlooking the harbour.
This started as a roadtrip, but more and more became a pilgrimage, Ginnette loved the yachts, Monte Carlo Life and especially the Casino, wishing visitors bon chance on the way in , and congratulating or commiserating with them on their way out. We took the boat trip across the harbour, and left some ashes amongst the super-yachts. We decided that her final resting pace would be the entrance to the Casino, and duly entered, and had a final toast of the best champagne to her and our trip.
We asked the manager if it would be possible to scatter the remainder of the ashes, he got his manager, so we asked his manager , who then got his manager. After getting to the top of the management chain the response was “Oh but of course” and Blanche reverently scattered the ashes in one of the planters at the top of the steps, at the entrance to the casino, whilst Steve , and Security respectfully looked on.
It had taken a week to get here, it was road trip no doubt, but a sick car now needed nursing home. We departed early, kept a constant 50 mph for hours on end, so as to minimise wear, and after a worrying 12 or so hours driving arrived in Beaune for Burgundy. Well we thought Monte Carlo was expensive, but the price of the wines matched anything we saw. We settled on the house, amazingly delicious, and followed it with a Beauf Bourgogne,
We did make it back in one piece, Ginnette returned to France, and we still hanker after that second bottle of Burgandy – We’ll be back.