A grandiose view it is, recalling the minaret of Mansourah near Tclemcen
in Algeria, that gigantic monolith apparently carved out of Indian gold
and cleft in two like a pomegranate.

Slowly we wound up towards the village, the wind, or rather hurricane,
gathering in force as we went. It was indeed no easy task to get a
nearer view of the church; more than once we were compelled to beat a
retreat, whilst it seemed really unsafe to linger underneath such a
ruin.

Imagine the tower of St. Jacques in the Rue de Rivoli split in two, the
upright half standing in a bare wind-swept level, and you have some
faint notion of Larchant. On nearer approach such an impression of
grandeur is by no means diminished. This magnificent parish church, in
part a ruin, in part restored, rather grows upon one upon closer
inspection. Reparation, for want of funds, has stopped short at the
absolutely necessary. The body of the church has been so far restored as
to be fit for use, but its crowning glory, the tower, remains a torso.

The front view suggests no such dilapidation. How long will the shell of
that lofty twelfth century tower remain standing? To my mind it hangs
over the low, one-storeyed houses at its feet, a veritable sword of
Damocles, sooner or later sure to fall with crushing force. The porch
shows much beautiful carving, unfortunately defaced, and the interior
some perfect specimens of pure Gothic arches, the whole whitewashed and
bare as a barn.

Larchant in the middle ages was a famous pilgrimage, and in the days of
Charles IX. a halting stage on the road to Italy. It does not seem to
attract many English pilgrims at the present time. Anyhow tea-making