It’s just a small technicality. We have to get to and from Slovenia and Croatia someway. Almost forty per cent of our tour is in neither. “Pas de probleme” as they say over here. Gives us the opportunity to visit previously missed places – such as Grenoble.
With GB’s wet and cold heading our way on Saturday morning, we time it just right. Coincide our Thursday and Friday with two days of glorious low 20s autumn sunshine.
Since 1934, visitors and home birds alike, have been flown up to the Bastille Fortress. For over four hundred years it’s dominated the growing city spraw below. A higher than usual crow’s nest that we visit today.
Technically it’s now winter. So it’s four ‘bulles’ rather than the summer’s five. It seems the locals don’t come out to play until after lunch. As the second couple in the queue we get the second bulle in the queue. These must have seemed ultra-funky when they replaced the old cable cars in 1976 – in fact they are still ultra-funky. Like true icons – obviously the ‘Bulles is here to stay.’
Up-top we take an audio tour of the Museum of Mountain Troops. It adds another important piece to the ever growing World War picture jig-saw in our minds. Earlier we spot some young troopers on guard. Their head worn ‘Tartes’ create quizzical and comical comments between two passing plebs. (i.e. us). The tartes resemble the standard French beret, but look as if they’ve been flattened, like navy blue Jus-Rol puff pastry. Post visit, these same jaunty berets proudly bear witness to the 150,000 comrades ‘lost’ in conflicts.
We tram back into town on Friday. Our bottomless brains happy to cram in our last bit of culture at The ‘Art’ Museum of Grenoble. Like yesterday we’re practically first in line. Nobody about. There are many fine paintings on display that grab our attention. We while away the hours. They also have a contemporary section. We take a gamble. We’ve been taken for fools before. Been disappointed. This time however, we get our reward. We never thought we’d live to see the day . . .
You can keep your Pablo, Vincent, Monsieur Monet, Rembrandt, Caravaggio, Rubens, Goya, Botticelli, Salvador, yes, and even your Jackson Pollock . . .
You can wait a lifetime, sometimes longer. You can pay millions, even billions of dollars and fail to find another like it. Yet for a mere five euros each, we are able to actually stand and admire. We can boast – we were just inches away. Overwhelmed, we stand in front of THE greatest work of ALL time – past, present and future. Would we dare to touch it? Maybe a small kiss? Or should we simply bow down to venerate this Royal Master-piece. This genius work. It takes all of our energy to hold back the sobs . . . tears slowly form in the corner of our eyes then gush down our cheeks. Two flowing foolish fountains. The security man on the corner chair can see we’re cracking up. His eyebrows raise in concern. We can see he’s trying to restrain himself too. But then he cracks up. He understands our emotion. He has to go through this umpteen times every shift. How does he do it? Then Mrs S ‘advises’ me to control myself. Reminds me where I am. This is a place of serious art. Brings me back down to earth. To my senses. But it’s useless. I’m lost. Words can’t express what I feel . . . .
ONLY LAUGHTER DOES . . .
As Mark Knopfler brilliantly penned during his Dire Straits days . . . ‘Then you get an artist, says he doesn’t want to paint at all. Just takes an empty canvas. Sticks it on the wall’
What a load of balls . . .