What have the Romans ever done for us? Driving through suburban industrial estates and supermarkets into the small town of Orange, one does not expect antiquities. Indeed, the outskirts are like any other town one cares to drive through. Soulless, artless and perfunctory. They have a job to do, and they do it well but dont expect your soul to be fed or your spirits lifted, just your wallet emptied. The town centre itself, when we park, is nothing unusual and this feeling is supported by the underground car park, the likes of which are to be found in Plymouth, Paddington and Perpignan. One is only prevented from committing bloody murder by this modern barbarity to the senses, due to ample parking and decent opening hours. The drive to the town takes us, for once, through flat farmland but always with the hills and the mountains of the Ventoux massif in view. The plateau of farmland extends for miles westwards while the massif rises from the floor to the east, its as if a floor carpet has been pushed against a wall and rumpled up at the skirting. Within this plateau, Orange sits on a small river and has done so for over 2000 years. Evidence of this appears, though, only when we walk around a corner from the nondescript car park and are faced by a massive Roman wall of yellow limestone which forms the eastern buttress of the old Roman theatre. This wall is over 35 metres high (thats ees some bewdy in Cornish). In exchange for a handful of shekels and a goat we gain admission. This theatre is a semicircular amphitheatre such as the Minack in Penwith, the semi circle of terraces face a stage backed by the limestone facade which originally had decorations, 76 columns, statues in the now empty niches. Bang in the centre and about 30 metres up is a 3 metre high statue of an emperor dwarfed by the wall as it stands in its niche. The heads of such statues were replaceable when new emperors ruled. If you can imagine the Minack, then this is its big daddy. A very big daddy, the view from the top terrace overlooks the town and across to the Ventoux massif. It is eye wateringly impressive, and if you listen carefully you can still hear the audience baying for blood, laughing at the comedies and applauding the actors. It is said that Nero had a fondness for realism or spectacle or was just a bastard, that in plays that depicted death by burning, that is just what he had done: a real death by burning. I guess the poor bugger tied to stage on a stick for the Emperors entertainment had no need for a dress rehearsal. At one time entrance to the theatre was free and so everyone came from patrician to slave, but once inside there was strict restriction. Bawdiness often ensued, like Camborne on a Friday night but without the vomit and poor taste. Women on stage were often encouraged to get naked by the wine soaked crowd.....plus ca change? All this changed when the Empire turned to Jesus as its primary deity and the theatres were closed down. What these early Christians started, the Visigoths in the 5th century ended when they visited Orange and upon finding no parking spaces or shops open on a Sunday, sacked the city and burned the theatre to the ground. There was thus smoke on the water of the river in Orange. Theres no pleasing some people. Touching the stones in the heat of the day, one is connected to the blood and sweat of its builders, its patrons and its public. The Romans came, they saw and stayed around to binge on spectacle, vintnery and debauchery. They brought comedy, tragedy, civilisation and a choice of gods. They certainly left their imperial mark, and we are the better for it even though we are distanced by some centuries. Sat on the terraces, looking at the same stage, feeling the same sun above, one knows that all human experience currently lived, was also lived by the Romans and their conquered peoples. The only difference between the Romans and us is our ability to tame nature to our every need but our shit still stinks like theirs. On the way home for pastis time, we stop at a supermarket in the outskirts. The Romans would approve of the fine displays of food and wine. Their only addition methinks would be a little nakedness among the service girls. At the self service checkout we realise we dont have any bags and so we ask the hostesse, who gives a look as if Ive just farted right under her nose...not a gentle pfiffle of a fart mind you, but great big rip snorter of a fart tinged with aroma of pig compost. I checked my French, and yes I had simply asked for a bag and had not had my willy out as well. To her defence, she looked and talked with the same level of disdain and mild disgust to all the other customers. One can only assume her knickers were made of itchy blue serge or her father smelled of elderberries. Upon return our host, Ian, provides figs picked today from the trees here in the courtyard. They are ripe and some are beginning to open. He has to struggle up a ladder in the tree with Ants who also like figs. If he does not pick these figs they open and fall as a mush onto the floor. The ants would love it; this bounty would be their own personal empire, their own bread and circuses. Figs, tomatoes, jamon, pate and Rose end the day. As accompaniment we have the local olive oil, bought 50 metres away in the mill, and Camargue sea salt. Salt should just be salt but this is something else again. The Romans knew the value of this white gold and paid their legionnaires with it, hence hes worth his salt. Take fresh crusty baguette, add top quality first press extra Virgin olive oil and a pinch of sea salt. Just do it. What have the Romans ever done for us?
Posted on: Tue, 12 Aug 2014 18:39:41 +0000
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