Sunday Service

Time for a bit of peace and quiet after all the drug and alcohol fueled bickering of last night. A few years ago, H.I. and I spent a bit of time in Nice (France) and made a trip along the coast to Vence to see the hillside chapel designed by Henri Matisse, just up the road from his house on the outskirts of town.

Actually, we made a couple of 2 hours trips by bus, because the flipping nuns who run the place are renowned for lying about the opening times and very haphazard about manning it when they do open it. When we first trudged up the steep hill to the chapel, we arrived to find another group of sweaty tourists who had made the same journey as us, only to find the doors locked with no explanation. We could come back again next day (having telephoned from Nice and made the nuns swear on the bible that it would be open next time), but these other tourists were due to fly home, so never got to see the inside.

Shame, because it is truly beautiful, with details such as this confessional screen door above, pierced in a way that only Matisse (and several hundred thousand Moroccans) knew how.

When you compare this place to all the dingy methodist chapels of England and Wales, it is enough to make you convert to Catholicism.

He even designed all the ritual clothing worn by the priest and attendants, and these are on display downstairs in what you might call the crypt. We had a little laugh, though, because it reminded us of a scene in a Fellini film which depicts a fashion show in the Vatican - know the one?

As you walk down the hill back into town, Matisse's house can be seen up some steep steps, and the famous palm trees - familiar from all the paintings made of them - still stand either side of the front porch. The family that live there now must be pretty pissed off with tourists climbing up and knocking on their door, but that - I suppose - is the price one pays for living in the house of a legend.