Visit Abondance

Clockwise from top; Few tools but a lifetime of experience; its creator’s initials and the year of making are burnt into the finished piece; it all comes from two small blocks of mountain spruce.

Among the more intriguing features adorning the chalet interiors in and around the Val d’Abondance, in the northern French Alps, is the Colombe de la Paix or Dove of Peace. This mountain tradition was established around the time of the First World War by the bergers whose livestock grazed the lush pastures of the local alpages.

With time on their hands and surrounded by a world in turmoil, they began to carve the eternal symbols of peace from small pieces of épicea (spruce), achieving ever greater complexity as their skills developed.

The Practised Hand

Just how complex can be hard to believe, even when the process is unfolding before you, as I discover when I visit Benoit Folliet, an award-winning creator of colombes. Seated at the kitchen table of his cosy family chalet overlooking the village, Benoit gives a spellbinding demonstration of how to carve a flying dove of incredible delicacy. Armed with little more than a classic Opinel pocket knife, he begins with two small, unpromising blocks of local spruce, one for the body and the other for the delicate outstretched wings. I watch in awe as he patiently hand-carves the body, then turns his attention to creating the tail.

“ Not that he can relax, exactly; a slip now could mean a ruined piece – or a badly cut hand…”

Benoit begins by carefully shaping the opposing sides, notching and incising until the outline resembles the traditional motifs used on more ornate mountain chalet balustrades. He then turns the piece end-on, to begin the nerve-jangling process of making a series of deep cuts to create the forty or so wafer-thin wing feathers. Long years of experience have given Benoit an instinct for the feel of the wood with which he works, the carefully selected grain helping him maintain clean, straight cuts and its density telling him just where to stop. Not that he can relax, exactly; a slip now could mean a ruined piece – or a badly cut hand. When he’s completed the last of the cuts he turns the wood over and begins by dampening the thinnest point to make the wood more pliable.

Learning to Fly

Next the feathers are carefully fanned out, putting the timber’s flexibility to the test. One by one, each feather is successfully fanned-out and clipped to its neighbour until the wing is completely formed. The magical process is like watching a newly-emerged butterfly inflating its wings to reveal an unimagined beauty. The process starts all over again to create the wings, working inwards from both directions until only a small centre section remains intact. After snapping the wings to the body all that remains to do is perform the delicate process of burning in the eyes and the maker’s initials. Seeing is barely believing, and its creator seems pleased with the result.

The lace-like delicacy of the completed pieces must be seen to be believed.

So are his customers. The good luck symbol originally created to celebrate births and marriages, is increasingly ordered by visitors to the valley and even sent to buyers overseas, and Benoit, one of only two remaining carvers, is kept busy in what passes for retirement. He’s also delighted to be passing on the skills of a lifetime to a talented young apprentice.