25.
May 12th.
At five o’clock this morning the dawn chorus is almost deafening. The loudest are the blackbirds, as always. One other camper is parked a few pitches away from me, a white, expensive looking, all convenience sort. They are not up yet. The sky is busy and changing all the time; long bubbles of grey white cloud moving fast beneath a backdrop of mottled strips of cloud, while swifts screech and arc across it.
The lane out of the campsite winds steeply uphill to a plateau where cows lounge and graze, bells clang and tinkle and, apparently at this moment, no human is about except me. Lax flowered orchids, white helleborines and serapias line the verges and I can hear the liquid ‘pyrrup’ of some bee eaters flying at a lower level than the swifts.
I sit at a picnic table and look up towards the peaks, some still streaked with snow. It is cool but I can feel the strength of the sun already on my lap.
Three dark spots appear, circling, spiralling. Within seconds I can see they are birds with huge wing spans, sun dazzling through the wing feathers, the back edges dark, black even. Legs bare, yellow heads, golden cream ruffs; they are clearly vultures, Egyptian vultures. And magnificent. They wheel in synchrony and begin to spiral upwards and outwards until they are pale specks again over the rim of the mountain. Sylvie would be having hysterics if she saw them, but they are hundreds if not thousands of meters away from her level, and looking for carrion, not her scrawny, thin feathered chickens in their arid run.
Monday, May 26, 2008
24.
MAY 11th.
Today, at the end of the day, I am right up in the mountains with the van. I have found an ancient campsite with equally ancient proprietors. The wash rooms are uni sex, all brown and cream gloss paint; pissoirs backing onto the line of lavatories, only one of which is a sit down, as you please, arrangement. Monsieur is ever so curious , so I`ve pulled down the blinds after exchanging many pleasantries and trying to explain why I am here on my own. To compensate there are breath taking views. I fear to think that I am inured to such stunning views, since I have been spoilt for choice over the few years. But this one, at a distance, is as dramatic as they come: all purples and sandy oranges, scraped, scoured and bleached rocks, a bit of a mist and twisted pines. The evening is chill but fine and I know it is going to be a clear day tomorrow. Kites are circling and diving. The ravens are out in full team. The antics of both utterly convince that acrobatics in the airflows and up draughts are done for huge pleasure. No less.
I am going to sleep nearer the stars, wrapped in a duvet and a sleeping bag and tomorrow I may see a Griffon or perhaps an Egyptian vulture.
MAY 11th.
Today, at the end of the day, I am right up in the mountains with the van. I have found an ancient campsite with equally ancient proprietors. The wash rooms are uni sex, all brown and cream gloss paint; pissoirs backing onto the line of lavatories, only one of which is a sit down, as you please, arrangement. Monsieur is ever so curious , so I`ve pulled down the blinds after exchanging many pleasantries and trying to explain why I am here on my own. To compensate there are breath taking views. I fear to think that I am inured to such stunning views, since I have been spoilt for choice over the few years. But this one, at a distance, is as dramatic as they come: all purples and sandy oranges, scraped, scoured and bleached rocks, a bit of a mist and twisted pines. The evening is chill but fine and I know it is going to be a clear day tomorrow. Kites are circling and diving. The ravens are out in full team. The antics of both utterly convince that acrobatics in the airflows and up draughts are done for huge pleasure. No less.
I am going to sleep nearer the stars, wrapped in a duvet and a sleeping bag and tomorrow I may see a Griffon or perhaps an Egyptian vulture.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
23.
MAY 8th.
You may think from reading this journal that I live a totally secluded and eccentric life, communing only with my immediate neighbours. But I am choosing carefully what I put down so that it has a particular roll.
Today is May 8th.
The war ended for France, this day in 1945 and every year, in every square, in every village, town and city a ceremony takes place. Each year there are less anciens combatants to raise and lower the tricolour and less people willing to sing out the anthem. But here, among the stalls of a tat sale: a vide grenier, the mayor, who has obviously already had a stiff drink, reads out the same annual speech. He mentions the brave Maquis and the losses that past generations of current families suffered. Drums roll and old Madame Jaure sings in strict time, looking more and more dismayed that so few join with her.
I have a lump in my throat, as usual. My father was in the navy during the war and he always says the miracle of his life was that he survived it, travelling across the seas in troop ships, frequently under torpedo attack.
I am with a small group and we drink coffee in the local, no smoking bar, but there are plenty of cigarettes, hanging from finger tips and bottom lips, smoke curling the air and catching the throat. I count one or two sterling English people as my friends, no more thank you; and I am with them now, discussing the past, the present and music.
On the way back up the hill I meet Sylvie and Bertrand mending a wire fence beside the road. She says it’s her birthday, she was born on the day the war ended. She adds that she was a big baby but seems to have grown smaller . I laugh and continue walking, in T shirt and cut offs, wondering how warm they must be in their layers and gilets.
MAY 8th.
You may think from reading this journal that I live a totally secluded and eccentric life, communing only with my immediate neighbours. But I am choosing carefully what I put down so that it has a particular roll.
Today is May 8th.
The war ended for France, this day in 1945 and every year, in every square, in every village, town and city a ceremony takes place. Each year there are less anciens combatants to raise and lower the tricolour and less people willing to sing out the anthem. But here, among the stalls of a tat sale: a vide grenier, the mayor, who has obviously already had a stiff drink, reads out the same annual speech. He mentions the brave Maquis and the losses that past generations of current families suffered. Drums roll and old Madame Jaure sings in strict time, looking more and more dismayed that so few join with her.
I have a lump in my throat, as usual. My father was in the navy during the war and he always says the miracle of his life was that he survived it, travelling across the seas in troop ships, frequently under torpedo attack.
I am with a small group and we drink coffee in the local, no smoking bar, but there are plenty of cigarettes, hanging from finger tips and bottom lips, smoke curling the air and catching the throat. I count one or two sterling English people as my friends, no more thank you; and I am with them now, discussing the past, the present and music.
On the way back up the hill I meet Sylvie and Bertrand mending a wire fence beside the road. She says it’s her birthday, she was born on the day the war ended. She adds that she was a big baby but seems to have grown smaller . I laugh and continue walking, in T shirt and cut offs, wondering how warm they must be in their layers and gilets.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
22.
May 4th
Beside the slow river a man with a navy blue cap is sitting, rod resting beside him. He says he is only really here for the nature; doesn’t have much luck with the fish. A golden Oriole sings its ‘lillity leeo’ high in the bankside of poplars. Armies of budding foxgloves line the ditches and tall, slender leaved campanula are showing pleats of colour on their breaking buds. In a week or so waves of blue and pink will creep up the banks.
I see a tail less lizard on a stony path leading to the river. A cat`s trophy. Beads of blood become black spots; first the lizard is a dull, buff colour, but on my return it has become a shimmering, turquoise corpse.
Later, I'm out along the lanes with a wheel barrow, looking for some broken pallets that I spotted some time ago. They will make great compost bins. With very little warning I see blue flickers of lightening behind the mountain ridges. I had forgotten that earlier, I had watched the sky turning to a violet slate . Marie was quite right. Rumbles of approaching thunder follow; forlorn splashes are turning quickly into sheets of rain. A car stops with hazard lights on; there’s no moving in this sudden deluge. In seconds the roads are glass lakes, skating routes; streams of water bubbling into verges. Someone continues to drive, slows down, stops and asks if I need a lift. I cannot see the driver through a curtain of hair and water. I point to an open barn beside the lane and say I’ll shelter there, but thanks.
Emile’s last hay is bundled into fat cylinders in that barn. More are roughing it out in the fields. I join the dry ones, along with a tortoiseshell cat who hisses at my intrusion and slinks to a higher position. I sit out the storm until, amazingly quickly, the sky clears.
The car has gone and I head home with the barrow but minus any pallets. Everything is steaming; the trees, the grasses, the road surfaces and me…
May 4th
Beside the slow river a man with a navy blue cap is sitting, rod resting beside him. He says he is only really here for the nature; doesn’t have much luck with the fish. A golden Oriole sings its ‘lillity leeo’ high in the bankside of poplars. Armies of budding foxgloves line the ditches and tall, slender leaved campanula are showing pleats of colour on their breaking buds. In a week or so waves of blue and pink will creep up the banks.
I see a tail less lizard on a stony path leading to the river. A cat`s trophy. Beads of blood become black spots; first the lizard is a dull, buff colour, but on my return it has become a shimmering, turquoise corpse.
Later, I'm out along the lanes with a wheel barrow, looking for some broken pallets that I spotted some time ago. They will make great compost bins. With very little warning I see blue flickers of lightening behind the mountain ridges. I had forgotten that earlier, I had watched the sky turning to a violet slate . Marie was quite right. Rumbles of approaching thunder follow; forlorn splashes are turning quickly into sheets of rain. A car stops with hazard lights on; there’s no moving in this sudden deluge. In seconds the roads are glass lakes, skating routes; streams of water bubbling into verges. Someone continues to drive, slows down, stops and asks if I need a lift. I cannot see the driver through a curtain of hair and water. I point to an open barn beside the lane and say I’ll shelter there, but thanks.
Emile’s last hay is bundled into fat cylinders in that barn. More are roughing it out in the fields. I join the dry ones, along with a tortoiseshell cat who hisses at my intrusion and slinks to a higher position. I sit out the storm until, amazingly quickly, the sky clears.
The car has gone and I head home with the barrow but minus any pallets. Everything is steaming; the trees, the grasses, the road surfaces and me…
21.
May 4th.
Silence.
The village has dropped into silence. Even the dogs lie in hot and soporific stupor, too relaxed to be aggravated. Lunch is being eaten, but I , of course, am outside, enjoying the 2 hours of absolute privacy.
Goldfinches are weaving a tiny nest of cobwebs and grass in a slender cypress and I'm watching them. One, - I like to think it’s the female, carries the nest fabric and dives into the tree; the male sits on the fence and twitters liquid trills to her. At some signal they fly off together in an undulating dance.
The crickets, grasshoppers and all their relations sing with the heat and in the background is the crowded sound of cowbells. On the first of May, Emile fetched the assortment of bells from his barn; I watched him clanging along the lane to his yard. There he selected the lead cows, dressed them each with a bell and now the top fields are ringing night and day.
May is definitely the musical month. Every year at this time the village impresario, a maestro or diva of a starling begins its long repertoire of perfect mimicry: from Buzzard to chicken cackle, car alarm to Golden Oriole, tail down, throat ruff fully inflated, the amazing performer takes centre stage for hours on end.
“Coucou!” Time’s up: Marie is out with sheets to hang and she has spotted me at the garden table. I`ve tried moving it to different corners but I'm nearly always found out.
“Storms coming soon so get these things dry quick”, she says staccato voce.
“Is that what the meteo says, then?”
“ No, they said non-stop sunshine but they often get it wrong. I know this sky.”
I look up and to the west. Sure enough, there is an ominous grey and pink tinged cloud edge to the horizon and the sun is a long time from setting.
May 4th.
Silence.
The village has dropped into silence. Even the dogs lie in hot and soporific stupor, too relaxed to be aggravated. Lunch is being eaten, but I , of course, am outside, enjoying the 2 hours of absolute privacy.
Goldfinches are weaving a tiny nest of cobwebs and grass in a slender cypress and I'm watching them. One, - I like to think it’s the female, carries the nest fabric and dives into the tree; the male sits on the fence and twitters liquid trills to her. At some signal they fly off together in an undulating dance.
The crickets, grasshoppers and all their relations sing with the heat and in the background is the crowded sound of cowbells. On the first of May, Emile fetched the assortment of bells from his barn; I watched him clanging along the lane to his yard. There he selected the lead cows, dressed them each with a bell and now the top fields are ringing night and day.
May is definitely the musical month. Every year at this time the village impresario, a maestro or diva of a starling begins its long repertoire of perfect mimicry: from Buzzard to chicken cackle, car alarm to Golden Oriole, tail down, throat ruff fully inflated, the amazing performer takes centre stage for hours on end.
“Coucou!” Time’s up: Marie is out with sheets to hang and she has spotted me at the garden table. I`ve tried moving it to different corners but I'm nearly always found out.
“Storms coming soon so get these things dry quick”, she says staccato voce.
“Is that what the meteo says, then?”
“ No, they said non-stop sunshine but they often get it wrong. I know this sky.”
I look up and to the west. Sure enough, there is an ominous grey and pink tinged cloud edge to the horizon and the sun is a long time from setting.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
20.
Snakes and Serins. April31st.
I know, I know, I haven’t been writing, because I have been outside all the days long .
The weather is magnificent, the prairies are a mass of lady orchids and the snakes are out. And snake killing is done by Emile, with great pride. First he is on his terrace, above my garden. I hear him grunt and then yell, “Marie, a pole, a stick!” The tone of voice makes me slow up what I am doing and start watching. Sure enough, Marie hears the urgency and is out from the house in a flash; bright, flowering overall tucked over knees and thick switch in hand.
“Grass snake! He was going to strike!” I'm listening with horror but can do nothing. Later, when I go up to look at the beaten body, still twitching, I say, “ But Emile, grass snakes aren’t poisonous. They are beautiful”
“Wshtt Pfitt,” he spits,” I don`t know about that. It`s a snake. And you, you`ve got to keep that grass cut up against these walls; keep`em clear”.
“Yes Emile, but you didn`t need to kill that snake.”
“Wshtt….Pfitt!” This is an expression that has much meaning for Emile and is said frequently, as non sequitur, insult, or mere adjunct or punctuation. It is up to me to interpret this time.
Later, in the early evening, the heat subsiding, Marie shrieks on the terrace. “A lizard!” Now there are a thousand and one little brown lizards, everywhere, up the walls, on the rocks, on the compost heap. She can`t mean one of these. It’s one of those large, green, slightly hooded ones. And it needs David Attenborough, right now.
Tant pis: spade in hand, Emile finds it at the foot of a climbing rose, …and chops hard. Now why? It is totally harmless.
I say nothing. I stick hard to my seat under the Cherry tree. Even the lovely running song of the Serins , like the winding up and down of thin chains, can’t distract me from an internal rant against ignorance.
Snakes and Serins. April31st.
I know, I know, I haven’t been writing, because I have been outside all the days long .
The weather is magnificent, the prairies are a mass of lady orchids and the snakes are out. And snake killing is done by Emile, with great pride. First he is on his terrace, above my garden. I hear him grunt and then yell, “Marie, a pole, a stick!” The tone of voice makes me slow up what I am doing and start watching. Sure enough, Marie hears the urgency and is out from the house in a flash; bright, flowering overall tucked over knees and thick switch in hand.
“Grass snake! He was going to strike!” I'm listening with horror but can do nothing. Later, when I go up to look at the beaten body, still twitching, I say, “ But Emile, grass snakes aren’t poisonous. They are beautiful”
“Wshtt Pfitt,” he spits,” I don`t know about that. It`s a snake. And you, you`ve got to keep that grass cut up against these walls; keep`em clear”.
“Yes Emile, but you didn`t need to kill that snake.”
“Wshtt….Pfitt!” This is an expression that has much meaning for Emile and is said frequently, as non sequitur, insult, or mere adjunct or punctuation. It is up to me to interpret this time.
Later, in the early evening, the heat subsiding, Marie shrieks on the terrace. “A lizard!” Now there are a thousand and one little brown lizards, everywhere, up the walls, on the rocks, on the compost heap. She can`t mean one of these. It’s one of those large, green, slightly hooded ones. And it needs David Attenborough, right now.
Tant pis: spade in hand, Emile finds it at the foot of a climbing rose, …and chops hard. Now why? It is totally harmless.
I say nothing. I stick hard to my seat under the Cherry tree. Even the lovely running song of the Serins , like the winding up and down of thin chains, can’t distract me from an internal rant against ignorance.
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