Twenty-five years ago I travelled through Europe, ending up in Paris before going back to the U.K., where I was living.
I remember going to see Notre Dame. It was a hot summer, Paris was crowded and dirty, with what I took to be smog rising into the atmosphere. Still felt the romance – it’s a beautiful city.
The cathedral seemed apart from the bustle, even though there were many tourists passing through – it’s on its own little island in the river Seine. The interior was quiet, with light shining through stained glass and illuminating stone. A peaceful oasis – majestic and beautiful.
Today I woke up to the news that it was burning, and the spire had already fallen. Nobody knew at that stage what would remain once the flames were finally extinguished. At this point, there is still structure left, and the possibility of rebuilding. Artworks and artifacts have been rescued. And thankfully, no-one died.
I am grateful to have been able to have seen it all those years ago. I’m not French – I only visited briefly in 1994 – but I feel a sense of loss, and can only imagine what Parisiens are feeling today. It’s always terrible when history is destroyed, and I imagine there is also a sense of national identity involved as well.
Hopefully, what is important will be recovered and rebuilt, as has happened with other monuments and landmarks over the years. Perhaps someday I will take my sons, or even grandchildren, to see what rises from the ashes…
1000 Fields of Roses 
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