Like Adam and Eve, this fragile circle of stained glass captures a beginning. Gathered from the ash, a relic of what was, as the first beautiful breath of Notre-Dame’s rebirth.

Inside the sacred heart of Notre-Dame de Paris, the 14th-century northern choir screen holds scripture carved into stone. The colors are reborn. One panel captures the Nativity with intimacy. The polychrome panels stretch around the altar.

The entrance door to Notre Dame.

If these 13th-century iron scrolls could speak, what secrets would they tell? On the massive oak doors of Paris’s Notre-Dame. The central ring held an extraordinary power—any fugitive who grasped this Sanctuary Ring was instantly granted legal asylum.

But it’s the fluid design that carries the deepest mystery. Legend tells that the blacksmith, Biscornet, sold his soul to the Devil to forge something so impossibly beautiful. Centuries later, restored by Eugène Viollet-le-Duc.

Peek a boo surprise.

“In medieval theology, placing human figures, kings, or angels directly into the structural fabric of the church signified that the community of believers was spiritually built into the house of God.” 

Maybe it was the bright colors, that sense of joy they seemed to bring, like the song of spring after a long winter, that made me smile. It wasn’t that the cathedral felt depressing before, not at all. But there was something different about it now—an immediate sense of happiness, a shift in energy, a welcome hug, like coming home. I liked it. The church, in a way, seemed to focus on the death of Christ to me—the need for forgiveness, the weight of sacrifice. But with all this new color, it felt more like Easter, the Resurrection, a celebration of life. And why not?

To read more click here- Where I https://www.frenchlavie.com/2025/01/08/my-visit-to-the-restored-notre-dame/wrote about my first visit to Notre Dame after the fire.

               

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A welcoming drizzle after a sweltering summer accompanied us to the brocante. I felt sorry for the books, paper and fabric, silk flowers, and all the fragile, sweet things left out to endure the weather. 

Aubusson woven arm rest pieces: cost 200€

Pass I did. Though wishing they were mine. I have an armchair that would have made them a happy home.

Even so, I bought a few things—nothing big—I haven’t posted here as they are Christmas gifts. I don’t know if I have the patience to wait until Christmas to give them. That is an easy dilemma to have; waiting to share a gift.

Another reason I didn’t buy much was the cost. Most of these bits and pieces I can find less expensively in Provence. Thant soup tureen was reasonable – but carrying it home was not.

What little treasures have you found recently?

                

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They say there are 250 steps to the top of the donjon at Château de La Roche-Guyon. That’s true… if you don’t count all the steps it takes just to get to the beginning of those steps.

My friend Erika and I have been wandering through France without planning every detail. When we came upon Château de La Roche-Guyon, we hadn’t intended to climb anything. We thought we’d stroll through the château and gardens, admire the views, and continue on our way.

But then we read Donjon.

The donjon has stood watch over the Seine Valley for centuries. It was carved directly into the chalk cliff itself. Imagine that—workers chiseling their way through solid chalk more than eight hundred years ago, creating a passage through the rock. The donjon’s steps have been worn smooth (duh), most of the steps are nearly knee-high, uneven and slightly slippery.

Had I known what was ahead, I would have dressed differently. Instead, I was wearing low-heeled shoes with absolutely no grip and a long, full pant/skirt that I had to gather up in one hand just so I could see where I was going. Not exactly the outfit one chooses for climbing a medieval donjon carved into a cliff.

Whenever I climb more than fifty steps, I have a little tradition. I say the name of those I love and care about. Sometimes I add a prayer. Sometimes simply speaking their name is enough. If there are more steps than names, I start again.

By the time I had gone through everyone’s names more than once, I reached what felt like step one thousand, I decided it was time to pray for my shoes to hold on.

When I finally reached the top, the Seine Valley stretched out below me— the view was spectacular. The climb was forgotten…

Almost.

Because then came the walk back down.

And there I was, descending a medieval staircase carved into a cliff I wondered if people coming up were questioning my attire, “…look at white haired lady is in a ridiculous get-up for climbing.”

Again, duh.

But then I thought—maybe I gave them a laugh.

And that made me laugh too.

Donjon in English is Dungeon

                

Comments

• Dear Corey, I love your 'super help' whilst climbing. Mine WAS ... by Leonie
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Being at Hambye Abbey, a place built in the 12th century, looking at the carved stone, I find myself overwhelmed by the immense challenge of creating such a place.

Everything speaks in silence. The arches. The trees surrounding it. The clouds drifting overhead. The leaves changing with the seasons. Everything seems to exist with a certainty that has nothing to prove.

What is my life amongst all of this?

I think about the people who lived before me—the stonemasons who carved these walls, the hands that shaped each block. Did they ever question their own lives the way we do? Did they wonder if what they were doing mattered? Or were they simply part of something larger than themselves, practising their craft to earn a living, to feed their families, to create a life?

Perhaps that is what moves me most. They belonged to a work that would outlive them. Many of them never saw the abbey completed. They carved stone knowing someone else would place the next stone, someone else would continue, someone else would finish.

Their reward was not the final result. It was the contribution itself—the knowing that they were part of something worth building.

Today we often measure our days by what we finish, what we achieve, what we can immediately see. Yet these walls remind me that some of the most meaningful work is built slowly, one careful stone at a time.

Did they ever imagine that, centuries later, someone like me would stand here and wonder about them? Probably not. And yet here I am, grateful for a gift they never knew they were giving.

 I have inherited so much from people I will never know, whose names have disappeared but whose work remains.

What, in return, am I leaving behind?

Perhaps I don’t need to discover one grand purpose. Perhaps I simply need to carve today’s stone well, trusting that I am part of something larger than I can yet see.

                

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You know how people always say you need a vacation from your vacation? Apparently, I do. We’ve been out exploring all day for the last couple of days, and every time I get home thinking, “Now I’ll finally write,” my brain says, “Yeah, no- sleep.”

The adventures have been worth it… but my word count is currently losing to my eyelids. Hopefully, I will have more time somehow to share.

                

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Our destination? A carefree wander toward Normandy.

Sometimes you simply follow the breeze.

There are rooftops, streets that invite wandering, and views worth every step.

The air carries hints of salt, stone, and history. Hum, and butter in many forms.

We found places that feel both familiar and wonderfully unexpected.

It isn’t about checking off landmarks; it’s about soaking in the moment and creating shared memories.

A few days in France with my longtime friend, Erika.

Are you a traveler with a carefully planned itinerary, or do you prefer to follow serendipity? Erika loves having every detail mapped out, while I enjoy stepping out and letting the moment lead the way. This week, we decided to blend the best of both styles—and set off together to see where the wind would take us.

                

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