philip brooker

the silent pool

A mere 35 kilometers north of Paris sits the quiet village of Boran-sur-Oise. There is nothing unusual or exceptional about this place. Its center is a 12th-century church with its majestic steeple pointing skyward, like a sundial casting a shadow of time on the surrounding rooftops. A cluster of houses nestles tightly around the church, and their window boxes spill over with bright, almost garish impatiens. Garments on clotheslines twist in the soft breeze. The intermittent crowing of a rooster echoes through the narrow streets. A large dog, half-asleep in the windowsill of the local bar, is disturbed only by the occasional car passing by. This tranquil village goes about its rural business at a pace to be envied. It is a village like most in this region—calm, undisturbed, content.

Seventy-five years ago, it was a completely different story.

On May 2, 1933, the magnificent Plage de Lys-Chantilly, situated on the riverbank in Boran, opened to the public, and over the next 70 years it would attract thousands upon thousands of people from miles around. Hailed as the most beautiful river beach in France, it instantly became a hit. Special excursions from Paris' Gare de Nord station would bring trainloads of visitors to the pool for the day, and the last train back to Paris would depart at midnight. Neighboring towns such as prosperous Chantilly and Le Lys would enjoy all the pool had to offer. And what it had to offer was bountiful—a state-of-the-art pool/beach complex built in an art deco/international style, with a one-of-a-kind wave pump that produced waves as high as 3 feet shooting down the 80-meter pool. It was the longest pool in France, and the wave machine was the only one of its kind. Another attraction at the plage was the sensational toboggan ride that sent swimmers crashing into the River Oise from a great height.

This was the place to see and be seen. As well as everyday people, the pool enjoyed its fair share of the rich and famous. Legendary actors such as Jean Gabin, Fernandel and Marlene Dietrich frequented the pool, where visitors could enjoy the day on the river with beach-like conditions. The songs of the day were transmitted from the pool's huge cone-load speaker. Waiters ferried drinks to the thirsty and beautiful. Parasols fluttered in the cool river breeze. Seaplanes landed on the river, and dashing couples luxuriated in the South-of-France splendor. The softest white sand was imported; every imaginable luxury was offered. On a long summer day, the plage was the height of sumptuousness for all the pilgrims who made their way there.

In 1936, France's congés payés (paid vacation) guaranteed workers a 40-hour week instead of unlimited hours. This bill gave the people more time to enjoy outdoor activities, which was highly recommended and encouraged. It was thought that the body and nature should be more closely entwined. Because of this new bill for workers, many plage pools were built at this time and in this region. The architect E. Tercinier built two river beach pools—this one in Boran and another in Villennes-sur-Seine.

But with the outbreak of World War II in 1939, the pool fell into the hands of German soldiers, who used it on a regular basis. Its short-lived golden days were on hold. After the war, the pool took on a resurgence with the French, who were looking for some fun to make up for time lost during the bleak years of war. Its second outstanding period was from 1946 until the late 1960s. Unfortunately, though, it would never again see its glorious days. After that period, the numbers of visitors to the pool dwindled. No longer used by the rich and famous and well-to-do, it was used only by the locals until its eventual closure in 1998.

What's left today is the sturdy remains of a once-resplendent pool—a place steeped in a sadly romantic, almost gothic atmosphere. The structure itself is still sound, but nature is winning the battle of time. The sand of the beach is an uneven blanket of grass and weeds. The 190 remaining cabins have no doors, and most of the original mirrors are broken. The faded plage rules still hang in every cabin as a reminder of the former order imposed for the throngs of poolgoers. Alongside the rules are the original clothes hangers, looking very naked. No longer is there music coming from the huge speaker. The checkered dance floor displays only weeds and grime now. The reflections of the once-shimmering river beach complex lie still. It has all the makings of a great backdrop for a Luchino Visconti movie. Solemn, lingering ghosts move slowly through the still air. It is all a far cry from the complex where thousands basked in sun-drenched grandeur. The worst crime of all is that the plage is silent. Deadly silent.

The future of the Plage de Lys-Chantilly looks very dim. Unless money to restore it can be raised, it is almost certainly destined for demolition. Amazingly, this pool complex is not listed as a historic building. So time seems to be running out. The village of Boran purchased the lease back from the family that originally owned the plage, and ambitious plans for its restoration hang optimistically in the mayor's office—a bright new look for a pool that was once called "the most beautiful river beach in France." Money and imagination and love are all it would take to preserve this historic pool with its rich, distinguished history. If it is left to disappear, all we will be left with is an old black-and-white Pathé newsreel and a handful of hand-tinted postcards. And for the bathers who went there, just a distant and fading memory.