42.
November 4th.
I have decided to do yesterday`s walk again, this time in the morning. The heavy frost has cut off the sap from the remaining leaves and they are falling from their wounds, adding to the soft underfoot feel. I know I can`t say that I`m leading a solitary life like an arctic sole explorer but the din that used to accompany my life seems a distant memory. The schools, the children, the traffic, the sirens, the accelerating motors and the month long, British show -off of fireworks in October/November. : pah! Living on my own here is a delicate luxury which may change at any moment, so when I`m walking or gardening I pass through mini worlds: the breathing of cells, the flowing of juices, the movements of microcosms. I listen to the quiet yet am super sensitive to all the clamour of nature around me .
I love the ruins around here. That`s something England lacks as they all have been snapped up by property developing projects. Barn owls, little owls, edible doormice, swallows and martens all use ruined walls and rooves. Though the forests seem better groomed than those in Britain, there are still dead wood, fallen trunks and abandoned boles to make abundant worlds. The wood ants are inactive this cold day; no troops marching across my path, but a red squirrel darts along an oak branch, only a metre from my head showering it with stars of frost.
When I reach the small summit the midday sun is really warm. I sit on a rock and sift seeds from the giant yellow gentian skeletons that stand like frayed soldier uniforms in formation.
Three buzzards mieew to each other as they circle the tree tops . They are below me for the moment and as they wheel and turn I can see their whiteish bibs.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Sunday, November 09, 2008
41.
NOVEMBER 3rd.
I walk today round and up the backside of my little mountain. In England I would be hearing and seeing the northern thrushes such as redwings and fieldfares, but they don`t come this far south, it seems. Instead there are blackbirds on the copses of tangled rowan, feeding on the garnet berries. Several of them together, which is unusual, alarm calling or tutting as I approach and flying off in different directions.
Because I set off in the afternoon, in order to catch the best of the autumn light, I am passing beneath the sunlit, brilliant yellow undersides of the oak leaves, the gold of the field maples and the lemon of the hazels and alongside the ancient, twisting chestnut trunks with fat bellies of swirls and knots. One car passes me in the rising lane and then I veer off onto the sodden path, which is absolutely carpeted with layers and years of accumulated leaves, the top layer is a pallette of multicolour, like a woven rag rug, deep and thick and shining.
It’s not a long trek I’m doing but a winding, steep one which takes about an hour to achieve. I can look down on the plateau, glimpse my garden, quite obvious amongst the standard patchwork colours of the other fields, and I can eventually look down on the wood’s canopy. Far up, on the peaks, there is good snow, glinting blue and orange. I aim to be back before dusk, which falls early, nowadays.
It is neither Wednesday or the weekend, so I’m safe from the hunter’s bullets. Local, weekly papers record the accidental woundings and occasional fatalities of this season of rampage. Of humans and dogs, that is.. The prey are rarely mentioned unless they are of record size. There is a silence which is not quite silence..It`s a varied, differentiated kind of silence and I find I`m listening to it. As I walk I’m thinking how many resentful eyes are watching me from inside the forest! What shall I do if I come face to face with a boar? It’s unlikely but not unknown. There are sounds of snapping twigs to make my heart skip for a second and two doe cross some distance in front of me, leaping the ditch.
When I descend, keeping an eye on the violet grey and dimming light, there is a real ambient chill. Definitely a frost to night. It was a lovely 17 degrees at midday.
NOVEMBER 3rd.
I walk today round and up the backside of my little mountain. In England I would be hearing and seeing the northern thrushes such as redwings and fieldfares, but they don`t come this far south, it seems. Instead there are blackbirds on the copses of tangled rowan, feeding on the garnet berries. Several of them together, which is unusual, alarm calling or tutting as I approach and flying off in different directions.
Because I set off in the afternoon, in order to catch the best of the autumn light, I am passing beneath the sunlit, brilliant yellow undersides of the oak leaves, the gold of the field maples and the lemon of the hazels and alongside the ancient, twisting chestnut trunks with fat bellies of swirls and knots. One car passes me in the rising lane and then I veer off onto the sodden path, which is absolutely carpeted with layers and years of accumulated leaves, the top layer is a pallette of multicolour, like a woven rag rug, deep and thick and shining.
It’s not a long trek I’m doing but a winding, steep one which takes about an hour to achieve. I can look down on the plateau, glimpse my garden, quite obvious amongst the standard patchwork colours of the other fields, and I can eventually look down on the wood’s canopy. Far up, on the peaks, there is good snow, glinting blue and orange. I aim to be back before dusk, which falls early, nowadays.
It is neither Wednesday or the weekend, so I’m safe from the hunter’s bullets. Local, weekly papers record the accidental woundings and occasional fatalities of this season of rampage. Of humans and dogs, that is.. The prey are rarely mentioned unless they are of record size. There is a silence which is not quite silence..It`s a varied, differentiated kind of silence and I find I`m listening to it. As I walk I’m thinking how many resentful eyes are watching me from inside the forest! What shall I do if I come face to face with a boar? It’s unlikely but not unknown. There are sounds of snapping twigs to make my heart skip for a second and two doe cross some distance in front of me, leaping the ditch.
When I descend, keeping an eye on the violet grey and dimming light, there is a real ambient chill. Definitely a frost to night. It was a lovely 17 degrees at midday.
Monday, November 03, 2008
40.
End October.
I have been in grey Manchester; family affairs. The sounds there were of sirens and incessant traffic. How can the atmosphere take all this? Well, it can't, can it? I don't notice any diminishing car useage.
On the top of an old mill, on an appartment verandah, a little dunnock visited everyday for my leavings of cake crumbs and cheese. Strange, as it`s normally a lurking kind of bird, low down in the shrubbery. There it was several levels above the canals and city! I felt starved of greenery, of autumn leaves, of light. The people were more than friendly, I have to add, nevertheless.
Now I`m back in France, with the remaining, brilliant leaf colours surviving the high winds and rain that the last few days have suffered. It is 14deg. today but feels warmer in the bits of sunshine. I`ve picked every apple and they lie in layers, in card boxes under the stairs, where I can inspect them every so often for signs of rotting. Same thing for the potatoes, only they are in sacks in the barn, raised on bricks to protect them, hopefully, from rats.
The day of la Tousssaint passed with a fair and a village meal in the Halle, when my feet nearly froze off. About 40 people sat at the trestle tables and ate and drank as merrily as they always do. I managed to avoid the servings of meat without much fuss. A brazier was lit in the Halle centre but it is time for the thermals and layers of socks, I think. The clothing of Bertrand and Emile seem to remain the same although Marie was wearing a purple anorak which looked wonderfully new.
End October.
I have been in grey Manchester; family affairs. The sounds there were of sirens and incessant traffic. How can the atmosphere take all this? Well, it can't, can it? I don't notice any diminishing car useage.
On the top of an old mill, on an appartment verandah, a little dunnock visited everyday for my leavings of cake crumbs and cheese. Strange, as it`s normally a lurking kind of bird, low down in the shrubbery. There it was several levels above the canals and city! I felt starved of greenery, of autumn leaves, of light. The people were more than friendly, I have to add, nevertheless.
Now I`m back in France, with the remaining, brilliant leaf colours surviving the high winds and rain that the last few days have suffered. It is 14deg. today but feels warmer in the bits of sunshine. I`ve picked every apple and they lie in layers, in card boxes under the stairs, where I can inspect them every so often for signs of rotting. Same thing for the potatoes, only they are in sacks in the barn, raised on bricks to protect them, hopefully, from rats.
The day of la Tousssaint passed with a fair and a village meal in the Halle, when my feet nearly froze off. About 40 people sat at the trestle tables and ate and drank as merrily as they always do. I managed to avoid the servings of meat without much fuss. A brazier was lit in the Halle centre but it is time for the thermals and layers of socks, I think. The clothing of Bertrand and Emile seem to remain the same although Marie was wearing a purple anorak which looked wonderfully new.
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