Nomadness....My Faery Caravans and a Pilgrimage to Sainte Sarah

 

From earliest childhood I dreamed of living a life of freedom in a home on wheels. My parents were confirmed travelers and the love of the open road became an intrinsic part of me almost before I could walk...

It was only natural that the traditional Romany vardo became the symbol of my longing, fueled in part by my grandmother's stories of stumbling across hidden Gypsy encampments in her own childhood. I often drew myself standing in front of my longed for caravan, accompanied by a pair of goats and a grazing draft mare with shaggy fetlocks...

A few years ago I began to make and sell miniature fairytale versions of my dream house in natural materials from field and forest---these photographs are a few examples. (You can learn more at   http://www.pandorajane.etsy.com)
But my real life adventure was just beginning...

For more than fifteen years I carried a small black and white photocopy amongst my belongings as I moved from one part of the US to another. It was the image of a dark faced saint within a low, barrel vaulted crypt filled with glimmering tapers. She was beautiful and powerful, romantic and mystical, more the stuff of dreams than reality.
So was I surprised then---in May, 2007--- to find myself experiencing in person the magic of the festival of Sainte Sarah, patron saint of the Rom people? Yes and no. Perhaps I had set my intention years before, when I first made that photocopy---and out of longing and focus it became inevitable.

           I have experienced the phenomena twice now and it hasn't lost any of its fascination for me...

On her feast day of May 24, after receiving throngs of visitors who kiss her feet and face, petition her for miracles and leave tokens of gratitude for answered requests, Sarah leaves the low ceilinged crypt of the Romanesque church in Saintes Maries de la Mer to travel the brief distance to the sea. Accompanying her are the horseback mounted Camargue guardians and a stream of visitors from around the globe. Small Gypsy girls in the ruffled polka dot dresses of Flamenco dancers play in the gentle surf as the adults jostle and try to anticipate Sarah's exact path into the water, straining to be as near her as possible. She will be carried out to the horses' chest height in the sea, through a narrow pathway that opens through the human crush and then as quickly closes. My daughter and I stand in warm, ankle deep water among the crowd. I feel surprisingly safe (despite being packed in like the proverbial sardines), at peace, and part of something larger than myself. The beach and stone breakwaters are lined with spectators and the cries go up as the figure of Sarah, held high, advances among a sea of outstretched arms. Then it is just as quickly over---she is paraded back to the crypt while around the ancient church a long night of music and dance commences.

Sadly for those of us with a romantic bent, the traditional caravans of the Rom have been all but replaced by the uniform white of Ford transit vans. A few of the craftspeople bring traditional style wagons to the festival, although a bit more of the magic is lost each year.

 

 But sometimes even the dog gets to have his day---in a handmade caravan dog house.

 

                                And the organ grinder's cart yields a moment of baroque pleasure...

As for me, my life has come to be one often spent on the road--no lovely caravan yet, just a white camping car traversing France since May, 2009. This blog is a document of not only my art but also a small part of the overwhelmingly beautiful scenery and historic sites I've enjoyed in the country I now call home. It is also a reminder to be careful what you wish for... it just might come true.

Three out of four cats agree...

My well travelled cats were very curious while I was trying to photograph my newly finished caravan, but only Twiggy Miranda and Midori held still long enough to make more than a furry blur of tail in front of my lens.

And just so no one gets jealous here are the other two lovelies, Mr. Cookie, man about town and Manx

 

and the beauteous Isobelle---

Dolmens and Faeries

On my way walking to the dolmen of Pierre Martine I passed a tiny caravan parked beneath the trees in this magical landscape of stones and moss.

And now it is on a long voyage to its new home in California.

The dolmen of Pierre Martine, just outside the village of Livernon, France, is thought to have been erected about 4000 years ago. At some point in the past the capstone was deemed unstable and so the appearance has been rather spoiled by the addition of two concrete pillars helping to hold up each end.

 It rests in a field of scrub oak and hawthorne where one sees frequent evidence of the passage of wild pigs and hares. Around the perimeter is a natural maze of limestone sheets where erosion has created round sided channels and tiny grottoes to a depth of about eighteen inches. These are full of tiny ferns, reindeer moss and elegant spider weavings but were too difficult to adequately photograph in the intense light of mid-morning.

The dolmen's surface has been altered by some vintage grafitti

and the rain of many centuries striking the flat surface of the stone table.

Saintes and Seas

For more than fifteen years I carried a small black and white photocopy among my belongings as I moved from one part of the US to another. It was the image of a dark faced saint surrounded by tall, glimmering tapers within a barrel vaulted crypt. For me it held a certain undeniable pull---romantic and mystical, more the stuff of dreams than reality. So was I then surprised in May, 2007 to find myself experiencing the magic of the festival of Sainte Sarah, patron saint of the Rom people, for myself? Yes and no. Maybe it was in the back of my mind all along, something inevitable, as dreams sometimes really do become reality.

I have experienced the phenomena twice now and it hasn't lost any of its fascination for me. Although this year and last I wasn't able to attend the fete, I have felt the attraction pulling at my mind and heart and so wanted to share some photos from 2007.

On her feast day of May 24 after receiving throngs of visitors who kiss her feet and face, petition her for miracles and leave tokens of gratitude for answered requests, Sarah leaves the low ceilinged crypt of the Romanesque church in Saintes Maries de la Mer to travel the brief distance to the sea. Accompanying her are the horseback mounted Camargue guardians and a stream of visitors from across the globe. Small girls in the ruffled red polka dot dresses worn by Flamenco dancers play in the gentle surf as the adults jostle and try to anticipate Sarah's exact path into the water. She is carried out to the horses' chest height in the sea, through a narrow pathway that opens through the human crush and then as quickly closes behind. Nearby my daughter and I stand in warm, ankle deep water among the crowd. I feel surprisingly safe (despite being packed in like sardines), at peace, and part of something larger than myself. The beach and stone breakwaters are lined with spectators and the cries go up as the figure of Sarah, held high, advances. Then it is just as quickly over---she is paraded back to the crypt and around the church a long night of music and dance commences.

Sadly for those of us of a romantic bent, the traditional caravans of travelers have been all but replaced by the bland white of Ford transit vans. A few of the craftspeople bring traditional style wagons but a bit of the magic is lost in the likely possibility that the vardos exist chiefly to enhance commerce. But sometimes even the dog gets to have a special day...

And the organ grinder's cart still yields a moment of baroque pleasure...

So I think I will have to create my own magic if magic is to be made...

(My fairy travelers' wagon of all natural materials from field and forest.)

If you would like to learn more about the legend of Sainte Sarah, a quick internet search yields numerous references, with Wikipedia a good starting point...