No, this is not about my writing being overlooked, that’s a given, but a town in the Dordogne known as Albi. As far as traditional towns in the South of France, it is quite the unsung story. In the English speaking world it is more overlooked than looked over. At least in the circles I move in.

We were lucky to have a rare, warm February day for our visit. Despite negotiating a funfair taking over the streets which played merry hell with our satellite navigation. Didn’t pay attention to the dates posted at the time, but apparently it runs from 15th – 23rd February. Every year. So much for being out of season. Despite that, we navigated our way into the Cathedral car park, which formed the beginning of our visit. straight into St Cecile cathedral.

The cathedral of Albi, to not put too fine a point on it, is stunning. An epic story in brick and stone, displaying the apogee of any gothic stonemasons skill. Delicate stone fretwork at the very limit that limestone can be dressed to. Painted walls surpassing even the famous St Chapelle in Paris. In short, the high church magnificat. Saved from the iconoclasm of French revolutionary zeal by one man, an engineer, who had the foresight to squirrel the finest carvings away from the revolutionaries before it was all destroyed in a fit of anti-catholic pique.

While the institution of religion, whatever form it takes, can prove toxic to the greater mass of humanity, some of the values it teaches will always remain worthy. Respect and tolerance for those not quite like us. Respect for those giants upon whose shoulders we all stand while knowing that we will benefit all the more by adding, rather than subtracting from their legacies of knowledge. Using that understanding to weather any storms that might afflict us in our lifetimes. Because storms there will be. That is a fact of life.

The weather has been warm and sunny

Of late I have found myself leaning on cemetery walls, reading the names on French war monuments, and coming to the conclusion that these memorials are not an act of mindless worship, a love of monuments and corrupted institutions, but more of a deep love and respect for those who have gone before. Love for those whose lives, small grains of sand, laid the foundation of our futures, so that those future people, like us, have no need to re-invent society from the ground up at every generation. Understanding this simple truism, we can find stability, a sense of belonging from our forefathers and reasons to keep the march of the generations going. Not to be frightened all the time. To discover love and happiness on our own account, subsequently passing on the baton before our own brief candles are snuffed.

As we visit the hilltop villages of southern France, with their eclectic histories, wonderful scenery and patchwork architecture, grown organically down the centuries, I cannot help but reinforce my view that we have to embrace our pasts to produce a worthwhile and wonderful future, and perhaps that is what being human is all about.