Whenever I call my bank, phone company, doctor’s surgery, or any other service provider and I have to give my name - I ALWAYS have to spell it out for them. Tavaré. T..A..V..A..R..E. acute!
I have to spell it out at least twice, as the sequence of letters T..A..V..A..R..E seems to put most peoples brains into meltdown. “Sorry, was that T.A.B.E.R.A?”. “No. It’s pronounced Tavaray - rhymes with cabaret”.
The name Tavaré has caused much confusion over the years. I have been introduced on the stage as Taveary, Tavarr, Tabernay, Travelodge and Tabernacle.
This is annoying. But it was even more annoying when researching the family tree revealed that my name is actually Tavarez, and that no one has trouble spelling this.
After people get through the awkward Tavaré spelling/pronouncing ritual, I usually get asked where the name comes from. So here’s the story…
Tavaré (or Nunez - Tavarez as it was before the family ‘simplified’ it to it’s current form) is a French Portugese name dating back to the 1700’s. The Nunez-Tavarez were wealthy Jewish merchants who escaped Spanish persecution and settled in Bayonne, France.
Over the years my father had thoroughly researched the history of our family, and he had several letters written to his Grandfather, which seemed to come from a relative living in Bayonne with an address, Le Marquisat.
We knew we possibly had links to an aristocratic French family because the name Tavarez appears in an obscure history book referencing the French Revolution.
So in 1995 my father and I decided to embark on a trip to Bayonne in order to further track down our family roots.
We arrived in the small town of Saint Esprit which we found was originally the Jewish quarter of town. We paid a visit to the Jewish cultural centre but in the great French tradition it was shut for lunch. We asked some locals if they knew the name Tavaré. The answer was a resounding “Non”.
Next stop, the Jewish cemetery which appeared abandoned overgrown and vandalized but after a lot of rummaging about we found a headstone bearing the inscription: ‘Isaac Nunez-Tavarez’ then a few more ‘Tavarez’ headstones turned up. An elderly caretaker saw us and came over. She told us she remembered the name Tavaré from her childhood days before the war. She recalled playing with a little girl of the same name in an old house owned by one of the original Bayonne families. She told us that the house was still there and inhabited.
No sooner had she given us directions we were off down the street and soon found ourselves at the gates of an 18th Century chateaux. Called ‘Le Marquisat’.
We walked up a long winding drive and came to a lawned area. Sitting at a table was an elderly man, immaculately dressed sipping afternoon tea. My fathers opening gambit was ‘I think we may be related’.
He then plonked a bundle of letters on the table in front of the man making him spill his tea: The elderly Frenchman eyed us cautiously.
After briefly reading the contents of the letters he gently said “You had better come in”
He introduced himself as Monsieur Fois and then lead us around the corner where we saw an impressive chateaux. We followed him into the house and into a large family room. Adorning the walls were several 18th Century portraits all bearing the name Tavarez on the inscriptions.
One painting depicted The Dauphin dancing in the town square with a number of local luminaries including none other than my ancestor Isaac Nunes-Tavarez.
Monsieur Fois told us that Isaac Nunes-Tavarez had been a wealthy Jewish merchant who had built La Marquisat in 1750. It was the family home, and in 1814 had also been used as a look out point by Napoleons troops during the Peninsular War.
Around 1750, Isaac’s eldest son (and natural heir to the family estate) left for the shores of Manchester, England and started the present and surviving line of Tavaré’s.
During WWII the family still living in Le Marquisat fled to Spain and hid all the family paintings from marauding Nazi’s. The house was actually requisitioned and used as a German Military Hospital. When the war was over and the dust had settled, the family came back from hiding and reclaimed the property. Sadly, many other family homes in the area still lie abandoned and unclaimed since the war.
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| Ariel view of the vast Marquisat grounds |
Later that day we went to Bayonne library with the hope of finding deeds that would revert the house back to us. After all, we still bore the name Tavaré and I was Great Great Great Great Grandson to Isaac Nunes-Tavarez.
The eldest son who had defected to Manchester, England (my Great, Great, Great Grandfather) should by all accounts have inherited Le Marquisat. However, because he had been residing in England for several years – we found that Isaac had left the house to the younger brother.
Sadly for us, the current deeds were most definitely in the name of Monsieur Fois, who it turns out is a descendant via the female line.
In other letters my father found, we discovered that in the 1930’s my Great Grandfather Alfred Tavaré tried to infiltrate into the French cousins family by moving into a bedsit around the corner from the property. He made many failed attempts to befriend the family in the hope that some of their wealth would drip in his direction. I imagine him going to great lengths to achieve this, perhaps disguising himself as a French maid in order to access the property. Think Inspector Clouseau and the drawbridge scene.
The letters we plonked on the old man’s table were replies written to my great Grandfather Alfred at a time when he constantly wrote to the family in France from his home in Tyneside. The replies all written in French seemed rather brief, but roughly translate to ‘No longer at this address’
That evening we got a call from Monsieur Fois inviting us to dinner at Le Marquisat
As we sat in the grand dining hall at a table similar in square footage to my house in London, Monsieur Fois announced “This would make a great book. The story of two tramps who turn up to the door of a rich family and try to trick them out of their wealth”
He went on to say he would never sell the property as it had much historical interest.
My father and I listened to this, knowing that we were more directly related to the ancestors looking over us from the paintings above than he was, yet reassured to hear that the home would remain in the family.
Fast forward 15 years, and I just nostalgically Googled ‘Le Marquisat’ Saint Esprit. It seems the historical grounds have been sold to developers, and where Napoleon once stood, a hideous apartment block now takes pride of place.
Maybe I’ll buy one, and have another look over those deeds…
