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The first time I visited Chateau de Chaumont was in the winter of 2003 - a brief visit that lingered in my imagination for years after.  Since the castle was closed to tourists, I wandered the grounds alone in hopes I might encounter the spirits of inhabitants past.   This might seem an unusual pastime unless you pause to consider the castle's rather unusual history.  Chaumont was once the home of Catherine de Medici, queen to Henri II of France.  Catherine practiced what some called "the darker arts" at Chaumont, inviting astronomers, numerologists, and a host of shady characters.   The astrologer  Nostradamus was one of the member's of Catherine's shady squad.  He  visited her at Chaumont on several occasions.  Legend has it Catherine attended ritualistic animal sacrifices in the castle's front hall (this told to me by a groundskeeper I encountered) .   On that first visit, when the wind eerily whispered thro...

map-generator.net Day 5: TGV from Paris to Montpellier I woke to the sound of the bells of Sainte-Marie Des Batignolles, their enthusiastic tolls coaxing me awake with the persistence of an eager lover.  Any other morning, I would have slipped my legs out from beneath the blankets, raised my arms above my head, and stretched, before hopping out of bed and running to the window to witness Paris bathed in dawn's decadent glow.  I would have opened the window, leaned out over the wrought iron balcony, and strained to catch the last of Sainte-Marie's delightful tolls. On this particular morning a brutal cold held me within its taloned clutches.  My body was bathed in a feverish perspiration.  My throat felt raw when I swallowed.  I couldn't breath out of my nose or hear out of my left ear.  I pulled the covers over my head to drown out Sainte-Marie's urgent morning greeting.  Resistance proved futile.  She kept on toll...

The Hall of Mirrors by Leah Marie Brown Bonjour Mes Amies!  Yoooowhoooo? Is anyone there?   I have been such a woefully neglectful blogger, I would not be at all surprised if even my most faithful followers abandoned the hope of reading another of my posts. To that I can only say, Je suis  désolé .  Actually, I can think of one other thing to say, "Please come back!  I'll try harder, I promise." My personal life can be overwhelming at times, like an overbearing house guest it barges in and keeps me from that which I truly love (writing). Life can be like that sometimes, can't it?  Overwhelming.  Draining.  Myopia-inducing. We can get so caught up in our daily struggles that we forget to slow down, take a breath, look up . I've occasionally felt like that on my travels.  Take my first visit to Versailles, for example.  I experienced such overwhelming emotions I found it difficult...

(Editors Note: This is the second installment of a two-part article. If you would like to read the first installment, please click here .) The Hospitality of a Comte Chateau de Bouceel Reluctantly, I departed Mont Saint Michel and headed inland.  I had made a reservation to spend a few nights at  Château de Boucéel , an 18th century chateau that operates as a bed and breakfast. I felt a jolt of excitement as soon as I turned down the long, tree-lined drive and again when I gazed upon the impressive chateau with the steeply-sloped mansard roof, curved pediment, and tall windows. The neatly clipped lawn, white painted footbridge spanning the pond, and the charming outbuildings stirred my writer's imagination, but it was what I discovered inside Château de Boucéel that made a lasting impression on my romantic soul. I had barely stepped onto the gravel drive when the front door opened and a tall, nattily dressed man with aquiline features rushed out to help me ...

Leah, on a tidal flat near Mont St-Michel When I first visited Normandy in 2005, I already knew my family had strong ties to the region...    My grandfather was one of the 160,000 Allied troops to storm the beaches of Normandy on June 6, 1944.  Although Gramps wielded the most influence on me in my formative years - I even lived with him for awhile - I know very little about what he experienced that day.  In truth, he only spoke to me about it on one occasion; an off-handed remark that has burned itself into my memory and haunted me for over thirty years.  I am sorry to say that w hat he did tell me is not available for public consumption.  What I can tell you is that it left such a powerful, indelible mark on my psyche that when I visited Normandy all those years later, I felt a powerful connection with the place.   But this is not a travelogue about the battlefields and blood-tinged beaches of Normandy; it is about the p...