A Weekend on the Trail of Monet

The Normandy cider wasn't too sweet but it had a fragrant tone that spread out its almost herby musk across the palate as each sip was savoured. We sat under a tree, shaded from the strong sun, at a table outside the Hotel Baudy in Giverny. Many artists had sampled the hospitality here over the years, but having little talent in that direction ourselves we were simply left to reflect on the works of those who had gone before, drawn here as we were by Monet, the grand master Impressionist.

I like to imagine Monet strolling down to his lily pond with a couple of bottles of the heady local brew protruding from his picnic basket, ready to absorb himself in a day of creativity at the easel. In paying a visit to his former home at Giverny today one can still enter the world of his paintings, following in his footsteps from Paris out to the countryside in a haze of deep contemplation. Departing from the city is like shedding your skin. Gradually you gain the space to move freely as the train leaves the suburbs behind and the sun becomes a giver of bright, sparkling light instead of oppressive, cloying heat.

Monet painted scenes of the Place de l'Europe and the Gare St. Lazare, from whence one still takes the train to the town of Vernon, the closest station now to Giverny. The long-abandoned railway line that the artist once took provides the modern traveller with a pleasant track along which to walk or cycle from Vernon towards his tranquil retreat. In the distance the Seine flows broad and calm, flanked with lush green trees and populated by large industrial barges. We watched their slow passage from a picnic bench, contentedly munching on fresh, buttery pastries to fuel us on the rest of our journey.

It was early and the road was still quiet as we climbed the gentle slope into the centre of Giverny. Seeing a small house for sale we pondered what it would be like to live on Rue Claude Monet, here amongst the warmth, the light and the last of the summer's flowers. Monet's house itself was unassuming from the street, but once viewed from the magnificent garden it looked almost as if it had grown up from the ground along with the riot of sunflowers and rudbeckia all around it. With its green framed windows it had an organic quality, nestled as it was amidst the tightly packed, abundant beds of the "Clos Normand", as the garden closest to the house is known.

The Japanese Water Garden, reached by an extremely unprepossessing subterranean passageway, was even more of an Impressionist painting come to life. The sun was not yet at its height as we walked along the narrow pathway around the pond, so the light was subtle and soft on the pink waterlily buds. It was diffused all the more by the weeping willows that dipped their long, fronded branches into the water alongside the bridge, where a thousand cameras clicked their shutters as every visitor tried to capture that famous view.

The house, filled with family photographs, and the studio (now the inevitable gift shop) were as airy and bright as you would expect any artist's abode to be, so the midday light was not a shock to the eyes as we stepped back out onto the street. We began our slow saunter, via the satisfactions of lunch, back to the capital. Refreshed by cider and nature's rural charms we dodged wobbly American cyclists on the walk back to the station, laughing because they mistook us for French folk and gasped a heavily accented "merci" between frantic moves to control their mounts as we moved out of their way.

The following day we went to see the waterlily paintings at the Orangerie museum, amongst the ordered flowerbeds with well-spaced blooms and neat gravel paths of the Tuileries. The gardens here had been refreshed by overnight rain and as we entered the clean gallery space we dutifully wiped our feet. In the cool, quiet, white room where they were displayed they resonated with the peace and tranquility of that near-yet-far place, of the naturally unkempt joyfulness of Monet's garden in Giverny, where the artist's mind had room to breathe and the fresh country air set his paintbrush free.