62.
Late October
The tight stand of poplars have shed every leaf and two in the centre - most of their bark, . It is now clear that those two are long dead and their trunks shine deliciously. Glistening. straight poles. A nuthatch’s strident, falling call belongs there.
The small copse of larch and beech is still copper and bronze and its floor is a pungent, medicinal smelling carpet of beige needles. Bushels of longtailed tits are echoing each other there as they clean the twigs of tiny beasties. This scented wood belongs to Robert, my least favourite and the least favoured of my neighbours. I did remark to him that the autumn colours were magnificent this year, weren`t they? and he did grunt and nod, which I take as some sort of acknowledgement.
I tried the trick of fast tapping a stick on the hardest part, a knot, of one of the trunks, wanting to see if any territorial woodpeckers noticed. Nothing.
French folk are out mushroom hunting. Cars full of eager hunters trundle about the lanes or park at odd angles in the verges. Bent with baskets they are dotted over the hillsides. They know what they are looking for but I need to learn this skill some day. Who shall I ask?
Saturday, October 31, 2009
61.
Mid October.
Soft seeds float high in the warm wind. Pied wagtails chitter in groups on the roof and then take off in a loud crowd.
I cannot believe what I have seen over these last few days. At 2000 meters, in the most beautiful valley and national reserve: 5 griffon vultures, circling and circling and glinting in the harsh sunlight; a brown bear, a family of marmots and a tough walk.
Then lower here on another day a racket of magpies and crows mobbing a juvenile golden eagle, its white patches on the wings and tail quite distinct. It flapped low and then soared low and then disappeared over a wood. I had to write to every one about that.
Emile is a little more soothed. He has brought the herds down from the high pastures, the transhumance in reverse. With great clanging and lowing the grey-dun cattle trip and clatter into the two yards, head after head milling and waiting to be counted and marked.
Sylvie remarks on the potential veal and I say the calves are too handsome to die. Bertrand waves a strand of the last tomatoes at me. Do I want them? I gladly make a sauce out of them with onions, garlic, chervil and olive oil and freeze what I can’t eat today.
It rains at last.
Mid October.
Soft seeds float high in the warm wind. Pied wagtails chitter in groups on the roof and then take off in a loud crowd.
I cannot believe what I have seen over these last few days. At 2000 meters, in the most beautiful valley and national reserve: 5 griffon vultures, circling and circling and glinting in the harsh sunlight; a brown bear, a family of marmots and a tough walk.
Then lower here on another day a racket of magpies and crows mobbing a juvenile golden eagle, its white patches on the wings and tail quite distinct. It flapped low and then soared low and then disappeared over a wood. I had to write to every one about that.
Emile is a little more soothed. He has brought the herds down from the high pastures, the transhumance in reverse. With great clanging and lowing the grey-dun cattle trip and clatter into the two yards, head after head milling and waiting to be counted and marked.
Sylvie remarks on the potential veal and I say the calves are too handsome to die. Bertrand waves a strand of the last tomatoes at me. Do I want them? I gladly make a sauce out of them with onions, garlic, chervil and olive oil and freeze what I can’t eat today.
It rains at last.
60.
Early October
The little owl stares at me with its pale yellow eyes and nods its spotty head. I like to think it is me that it looks at. It bobs its tubby, squat body and makes short yip, yip sounds. It is in an old walnut tree and I have a clear view through binoculars. These daytime, impatient episodes happen frequently. The owl brings to mind a scolding, aproned fishwife, overcome by this heat. And it is hot; the s.easterly winds are unusually balmy for this time of year. No rain has fallen for two months and leaves are dropping listlessly, not yet in their coloured glory. The well has half a meter of precious water left in it and doesn’t want to refill. Coarse weeds elbow up through the grass which is no longer grass but a drought scorched, bleached mat. I’m not complaining; what survives, survives. The flower meadow patches have done well with the Rudbeckia the champion. I shall have to wait until next spring to see what has really persisted in the sward.
I'm sure I heard the last bee eaters high-going south.
The brambles are a picture of orange, yellow and red, yes brambles along the roadside wires are beautiful in Autumn.
Citril finches, a cloud, apple green and pale gold flashing and chaffinch tails, rising and falling into the field. Plenty of seeds for them in this drought summer. Still a few clouded yellow butterflies on the wild Doronicum . It`s a plant I try to eradicate from the meadow but perhaps I should leave it for its pretty dandelion flowers, a late food plant.
Various birds have taken up their winter quarters already. The redstart is in the eaves morning and evening, the starlings congregate like a parliament on different levels of the roofs and wires that join up the village, the prime performer in good voice as always, and the crowd of sparrows gathers in the ivy with arguments and scuffles, giving away their hideout the minute they get together!
Emile is grumpy; he complains that I haven`t used enough ‘roundup’ on the invading oxalis. True, it is a thug; it marches its bulbils through the shrubs and grass but it has very pretty little pink flowers and clover like leaves which don’t start appearing until summer. He says it throws out its seeds and he does not want it in his potager. But he has been in a poor mood for days and I’m thinking it doesn’t have much to do with the oxalis or me after all.
Early October
The little owl stares at me with its pale yellow eyes and nods its spotty head. I like to think it is me that it looks at. It bobs its tubby, squat body and makes short yip, yip sounds. It is in an old walnut tree and I have a clear view through binoculars. These daytime, impatient episodes happen frequently. The owl brings to mind a scolding, aproned fishwife, overcome by this heat. And it is hot; the s.easterly winds are unusually balmy for this time of year. No rain has fallen for two months and leaves are dropping listlessly, not yet in their coloured glory. The well has half a meter of precious water left in it and doesn’t want to refill. Coarse weeds elbow up through the grass which is no longer grass but a drought scorched, bleached mat. I’m not complaining; what survives, survives. The flower meadow patches have done well with the Rudbeckia the champion. I shall have to wait until next spring to see what has really persisted in the sward.
I'm sure I heard the last bee eaters high-going south.
The brambles are a picture of orange, yellow and red, yes brambles along the roadside wires are beautiful in Autumn.
Citril finches, a cloud, apple green and pale gold flashing and chaffinch tails, rising and falling into the field. Plenty of seeds for them in this drought summer. Still a few clouded yellow butterflies on the wild Doronicum . It`s a plant I try to eradicate from the meadow but perhaps I should leave it for its pretty dandelion flowers, a late food plant.
Various birds have taken up their winter quarters already. The redstart is in the eaves morning and evening, the starlings congregate like a parliament on different levels of the roofs and wires that join up the village, the prime performer in good voice as always, and the crowd of sparrows gathers in the ivy with arguments and scuffles, giving away their hideout the minute they get together!
Emile is grumpy; he complains that I haven`t used enough ‘roundup’ on the invading oxalis. True, it is a thug; it marches its bulbils through the shrubs and grass but it has very pretty little pink flowers and clover like leaves which don’t start appearing until summer. He says it throws out its seeds and he does not want it in his potager. But he has been in a poor mood for days and I’m thinking it doesn’t have much to do with the oxalis or me after all.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
59.
No explanations for long silence offered.
September
The most beautiful Autumn days. Jays in the forest, chiffcaffs still calling, a booted eagle made one last visit and the kites wheel and dive when the ploughs turn the fields to red. Drought conditions here and the well is practically empty; about 30cm. of brackish water lies over the silt bottom. No use in pumping water, the trees just have to cope. I do worry about the cherry though. Its leaves droop and dessicate prematurely. Around the pear trees hornets and butterflies, red admirals, commas, speckled woods and occasionally a grayling feast on the fermenting, rotting, dropped pears. I'm glad to leave them. I've made enough pear conserves to last until Christmas.
The nights are not yet cold enough for a fire but the heat of the day is tolerable now; balmy in fact. It`s almost a full moon and I find that some bats have moved to the roof terrace for their summer roost. They plop and scrabble out of the metal edging to the roof, that is at a right angle to the pointed stone walls. Plenty of cool, daytime cavities for them there. Droppings scatter over the tiles but I'm glad to sweep them up and feel a proprietorial pride in them!
Emile is looking forward to his retirement, he says mournfully. Doesn’t rate the pension, though. Can`t sell his cows which is another catastrophe burdening him. So many years of work, he says, and look what he has got. Marie has clucked a bit on this subject and says they will have to go on working for a couple more years, at least. I can’t help biting my tongue and thinking few European farmers, the ones who are not tenants, that is, are really poor. Don’t they own land and machinery and livestock? Sooner or later these surely can produce cash.
A big flock of sand martins are skimming the lake, coming in over and over again, their brown backs flicking over to white undersides as they twist and twirl and chatter through an invisible net of insects.
No explanations for long silence offered.
September
The most beautiful Autumn days. Jays in the forest, chiffcaffs still calling, a booted eagle made one last visit and the kites wheel and dive when the ploughs turn the fields to red. Drought conditions here and the well is practically empty; about 30cm. of brackish water lies over the silt bottom. No use in pumping water, the trees just have to cope. I do worry about the cherry though. Its leaves droop and dessicate prematurely. Around the pear trees hornets and butterflies, red admirals, commas, speckled woods and occasionally a grayling feast on the fermenting, rotting, dropped pears. I'm glad to leave them. I've made enough pear conserves to last until Christmas.
The nights are not yet cold enough for a fire but the heat of the day is tolerable now; balmy in fact. It`s almost a full moon and I find that some bats have moved to the roof terrace for their summer roost. They plop and scrabble out of the metal edging to the roof, that is at a right angle to the pointed stone walls. Plenty of cool, daytime cavities for them there. Droppings scatter over the tiles but I'm glad to sweep them up and feel a proprietorial pride in them!
Emile is looking forward to his retirement, he says mournfully. Doesn’t rate the pension, though. Can`t sell his cows which is another catastrophe burdening him. So many years of work, he says, and look what he has got. Marie has clucked a bit on this subject and says they will have to go on working for a couple more years, at least. I can’t help biting my tongue and thinking few European farmers, the ones who are not tenants, that is, are really poor. Don’t they own land and machinery and livestock? Sooner or later these surely can produce cash.
A big flock of sand martins are skimming the lake, coming in over and over again, their brown backs flicking over to white undersides as they twist and twirl and chatter through an invisible net of insects.
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