The best memories are always created when with those you love. These are times that stay remembered long after the event. Locked away and treasured for a lifetime.
Places are merely the stage upon which memorable moments are created. No matter how beautiful, or fantastic, ultimately, it’s human interaction that holds notable significance.
Yesterday, we left Cahors with a warm feeling for the town. Not because of its ancient aesthetics. Simply because on three separate occasions, we were politely asked . . . “puis-je vous aider?”. A kind open offer of assistance to two complete strangers visiting their home town.
Before we go pitch up at Camping Le Faucon d’Or, a few kilometres north-east of Montricoux, we go visit the Chateau de Montricoux, which houses the Marcel Lenoir museum. Another unknown [to us] French artist.
Currently owned and run by the Namy family since 1983, its grand, though rather dilapidated entrance gives nothing away to its inner secrets . . .
On first impression inside, our jaws drop to the floor. Weighted down with incredulity. Each room’s display of effects, along with the paintings, seem to have been codged together, with little, or no thought. It’s as if we’ve walked into a hoarder’s house. It seems so crazy, laughable even. It brings on the giggles. Can they really charge €5 entrance?
‘Le Salon’, seems to be a mix of bric-a-brac finds. The stars of the show clutter around the room’s perimeter, as if too shy to enter into the central spotlight. A blue toy spaceship is separated from it’s matching pink twin, hidden behind the easy chair to the right.
Plastic flowers overflow from a couple of vases. Elevated for special effect on pedestals. Untidy gaudy pink wraps feebly attempt to enhance their sad demeanour.
A horse bides its time in front of the window. Presumably brought into occasional play should casual conversation lapse at some point.
The monopolised writing bureau overflows with. . “Ah, now where can we put these?” things – “Ah, yes just the place . . . “
We wonder, have the owners created their own piece of artwork here? A surreptitious allegory mimicking the messiness of mans existence? Or more likely their own?
Just when we think it’s all over, our ‘host’ [the owner’s daughter] leads us across the gravel courtyard to a locked side cavern. We step inside. Once more our jaws drop. For a very different reason. An amazing display of some of Alain Laborde’s works.
Quite how our visit lasted just under an hour, a mystery. We regain our senses with a short walk into town. Short, because we haven’t gone more than an alleyway or two when Diego spots us looking at the CLOSED sign on the entrance to his art gallery. He lives right next door. His lunchbreak is over. It’s a quiet side street that probably sees few visitors. We feel sympathetic. He entices us inside with his bubbly enthusiasm to show us his collection. He has over 500 (bought by him) Marcel Lenoir paintings, spread over three floors! Some he’s paid more than €2,000 for. He’s a lifetime collector and has stories to tell about many of his acquisitions. He’s rightly proud. We imagine he’s been able to finance his purchases on the back of a ten year stint working as a commissioned sculptor in Saudi.
He recounts the time he travelled to Anfield in 1977 to watch St Etienne play Liverpool in the Champions League semi-final second leg. His lasting memory less about the match. More about being firmly told by a horseback bobby “Shut up!”
