The young TE Lawrence sent just two letters on his 1907 trip. The first was from Evreux, a small city on the Iton River, which flows north into the Eure and then the Seine. As the senior city of the département of Eure, Evreux’s centre is all grand, slightly musclebound municipal buildings, but this is encircled in a charming way by the channelled, clear water of the tiny Iton, in a way it reminds me a bit of Salisbury. The cities, both really towns, are about the same size, and both have a cathedral. Evreux is not as green as its English counterpart, as I discover as I sit outside at dinner. And nor has it seen any goofy Russians lately, as far as we know: spooks who come wildly out of season claiming to be tourists and then feign surprise when pinged for using a chemical weapon and chucking away the container in a municipal park.
As for the cathedral, if I am interested in visiting, unfortunately I can’t, because when I arrive it was all locked up. I thought I’d make it, on a Sunday evening with bells ringing, but no such luck. And it was equally locked up when I tried again the next morning. The young Lawrence was impressed by its stained glass windows, though the ones he saw were actually destroyed in World War II (before restoration in 1953):
“…a fair cathedral, with the most exquisite stained glass, all old, and of a glorious scheme of gold and red. The effect is magnificent, and makes a poor building look splendid.”
He also wrote a bit about his cycling. He obviously had one or two challenges with his luggage, a subject that continues to this day. See more below.
To dinner then, on the Sunday evening. I am sitting outside a glass-walled restaurant overlooking one of the town’s main squares. It is warm, but after my 53 miles I need a puffer-style jacket to keep me warm (which makes me look a little odd in the middle of summer). I mentioned that the town was paved over and this is ongoing - the square ahead of me is an empty grey wasteland, a maze of stacked light grey kerbstones on laid slabs, with small pyramids of gravel and hefty machinery, all cordoned off with that spindly steel fencing that sits in concrete bases. Passers-by have to sidle past one another, or bump into the dining tables. We’re all hemmed together a bit, here.
But it is lively. One woman is having a superbly funny evening a couple of tables away. She’s brunette with a touch of deep red and has surprisingly white skin. And she is draped in a heavy leather jacket. I’d feel kindred, though I suspect it might be more cosmetic than a necessity following over-exercise. She has been laughing for the whole time I have been here. It’s not loud or jarring; instead it’s infectious, so a life-affirming thing - I love it when I make people laugh uncontrollably. She is surrounded by three lads, who are playing off one another, it seems, but she is giving it some too, and has a delightful ability to express something part-pained and part ecstatic. Another table of three men nearby are sad to see her go, as she picks their way among the diners, heading inside to eat. They follow her with hungry eyes.
I wonder if my assessment of these things translates well… Pain and ecstacy, all before nine on a Sunday evening..? How much do I miss? And is it different in French? The basic human instincts can’t be that different across the language barrier. They are younger than me, though. I am a solitary old observer in an inappropriate coat.
And then I wonder how different Evreux would have been 112 years ago for the young TE Lawrence, aged not yet 19 and travelling with his father as a sort of chaperone. The time was soon to come for the young man to fly…
“Our further movements are doubtful. Father will probably reach you in Jersey about the 21st or 22nd. It would be much better if, instead of writing to Mt. St. Michel, you wrote to Poste-Restante Coutances. We will reach there about the 19th and you might give any further directions you pleased in that. Only write a little, but send something, or else father will be anxious.”
As well as logistics like this, he also writes about the organisation of his cycle rides. Here he is on a trip that lasts approximately three weeks, with a folding camera and tripod strapped to his bicycle, and very little room for other belongings:
“Tell Miss Wright that her shirt is going on excellently: the washing has been quite simple, & quite satisfactory; in fact the only superfluous piece of luggage I have is a pocket handkerchief, which so far has not been employed. Also the little woollen vest has had no calls upon it. I really think I am approaching the solution of the baggage question. Stockings only are a little heavy. Ask Miss Wright how that could be improved; I mean by detachable feet etc. Kind regards to Miss Wright & Nelly, & love to self & worms. Will try to get A. some more stamps. Ta Ta. NED
Father is very well, hardly any neuralgia. He is having déjeuner at present.”
A thought occurs to me. Could my hotel in Evreux, the Normandie, conceivably be the same one that they used a century ago. The building, with its black and white, style normand façade, certainly looks old enough. It sits on a main road into town from the north-east, the direction from which they would have arrived. I’d be unfair to it if I said the carpets and general décor haven’t been updated for a century, but it is a bit dark and floral, and goodness knows what happened to it in the Second World War… And the paintwork and plaster does have a feel of er… if you’ll forgive the phrase… yester-century… But hey, it’s not so bad and it’s not expensive. And they let me in: a bloke with no luggage except what he could stuff in two tiny bags, and an unfeasibly padded coat…
