6.Pyrenean Journal, Some Place, Feb. 22nd
Two booted eagles, with seagull like cries and chatterings pass down over the roofs of the village, coming in from the mountains, followed by two complaining crows. Later on they are higher up, hovering almost motionless, silent, wing edges blurry and fingered, so high up they are difficult to discern, against the azure light, but I can see their pale legs, dangling, angled forwards.
"In the garden again, Alees," says Emile, peering through the hedge, put there to hinder the peepshow.
"Yes, Emile, I'm making a garden that's a bit different, with enclosed compartments to bluff the wind and lots of climbers around them. A wild flower meadow, too, down there, nearer the well".
"Hmphhh, there will be plenty of wild flowers out there, soon". He indicates up the hill towards the early orchid prairies. He has a point, of course, but has missed my stealthy mention of enclosures. I didn't have the heart to include the words: 'more privacy'. I'm not deterred, however, not yet. The welcome sunshine and drying soil are too great a temptation. I grin at him, turn my back and get on with my labour. Did he smile too, before I turned?
Labels: February 22nd. Eagles and sunshine
Monday, February 18, 2008
Saturday, February 16, 2008
5. Pyrenean Journal, Feb. 18th.
Marie is back at my kitchen table. She says she likes the coffee and the chat, for a change. We've talked of the emmerging wild daffodils and now she has veered back to the shootings. I'm waiting, holding my breath. "The German soldiers came knocking on the front door there, asking for the two lads. They fled by the back door, just there, where there used to be a corridor, into the alleyway, but soldiers were waiting for them there, too. Oh, they had some information, for sure". "Were they Maquis?" I can't resist asking. She shrugs and her mouth turns down. "Whatever,...they took them over to the Lavoir and shot 'em. And now what do they want to do, the old veteran's committee?" We wait and sip, and sip again. "They want to put up a memorial. Is it going to be straightforward?" We sip once more and wait again. Marie appears to be enjoying the silences. "No! We say around here that those who talk behind backs have several faces. Hmphhhhh! Well, there are multi faced people around here, I can tell you, because the next we hear, there's a disagreement, a debate, even. Somebody doesn't want that memorial. " Her head bends again and jerks in the vague direction of the square. " We'll see."
There are simmering feuds in these hamlets. Who knows when they originated. They are usually unmentioned but ever present, affecting everyone in insidious ways. I'm learning to pass the time of day with many in this small place and I've come to interpret a sudden averting of eyes, a refusal to say bonjour and a swift turn of the head as sure signs of these old wars.
Marie is back at my kitchen table. She says she likes the coffee and the chat, for a change. We've talked of the emmerging wild daffodils and now she has veered back to the shootings. I'm waiting, holding my breath. "The German soldiers came knocking on the front door there, asking for the two lads. They fled by the back door, just there, where there used to be a corridor, into the alleyway, but soldiers were waiting for them there, too. Oh, they had some information, for sure". "Were they Maquis?" I can't resist asking. She shrugs and her mouth turns down. "Whatever,...they took them over to the Lavoir and shot 'em. And now what do they want to do, the old veteran's committee?" We wait and sip, and sip again. "They want to put up a memorial. Is it going to be straightforward?" We sip once more and wait again. Marie appears to be enjoying the silences. "No! We say around here that those who talk behind backs have several faces. Hmphhhhh! Well, there are multi faced people around here, I can tell you, because the next we hear, there's a disagreement, a debate, even. Somebody doesn't want that memorial. " Her head bends again and jerks in the vague direction of the square. " We'll see."
There are simmering feuds in these hamlets. Who knows when they originated. They are usually unmentioned but ever present, affecting everyone in insidious ways. I'm learning to pass the time of day with many in this small place and I've come to interpret a sudden averting of eyes, a refusal to say bonjour and a swift turn of the head as sure signs of these old wars.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
4. Pyrenean Journal, someplace, February 14th.
Emile's wife Marie sits opposite me, drinking dense, black coffee from the tiniest of cups. Her eyes are misty and pink, but this is normal. She's not upset or ill, just rheumy and reminiscing. "I remember my mother in law telling me that two of my husband's brothers were shot, shot right by that Lavoir, there, in the square." She says this with no precursor, no entree atall. "And it all started in this house." In this house? My eyes widen but I`m afraid to prompt; the moment feels too precious and I'm afraid she might lose the thread..No one has told me any histories, any stories of the village, as if they were theirs to keep close. Or maybe they just didn't talk about their wartime past. Or perhaps it's me, the foreigner, who stops up their voices. One thing is for certain; though they appear not to gossip, they know everything going on around them. They have long ears, perhaps even peep holes through the walls, and a village telegraph for sure. Every so often, in conversation, one may nod sagely and tap the side the side of her or his nose. To hear of something as dramatic as a shooting, and connected to my house, now that is worth waiting for. Marie bends her neck and points with her head in an indeterminate direction. " Yes, well, they wouldn't have been caught but for someone betraying them". She pauses, I wait, I say nothing, and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and says that another time will do for the rest of that story. The coffee was good, though, and the log fire has warmed her up, but she must go and check out the cows.
posted by SOME PLACE @ 10:01 0 Comments
Emile's wife Marie sits opposite me, drinking dense, black coffee from the tiniest of cups. Her eyes are misty and pink, but this is normal. She's not upset or ill, just rheumy and reminiscing. "I remember my mother in law telling me that two of my husband's brothers were shot, shot right by that Lavoir, there, in the square." She says this with no precursor, no entree atall. "And it all started in this house." In this house? My eyes widen but I`m afraid to prompt; the moment feels too precious and I'm afraid she might lose the thread..No one has told me any histories, any stories of the village, as if they were theirs to keep close. Or maybe they just didn't talk about their wartime past. Or perhaps it's me, the foreigner, who stops up their voices. One thing is for certain; though they appear not to gossip, they know everything going on around them. They have long ears, perhaps even peep holes through the walls, and a village telegraph for sure. Every so often, in conversation, one may nod sagely and tap the side the side of her or his nose. To hear of something as dramatic as a shooting, and connected to my house, now that is worth waiting for. Marie bends her neck and points with her head in an indeterminate direction. " Yes, well, they wouldn't have been caught but for someone betraying them". She pauses, I wait, I say nothing, and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and says that another time will do for the rest of that story. The coffee was good, though, and the log fire has warmed her up, but she must go and check out the cows.
posted by SOME PLACE @ 10:01 0 Comments
Saturday, February 02, 2008
3. Some Place, ..........Pyrenean Journal, February.
A grey green covering of lichen, like a burdening of blossom, emerges from the old trees as the snow patches diminish. The grass appearing seems too bright, too intense. A grey, Irish mist sort of day frames the fuzzy orb of the sun. In full light the little owl bobs up and down on the barn roof and makes a cross patch sort of cluck, chuck. Later next month the first swallows will sail in and my spirits will soar. I`m in the field, sinking the last posts into the sodden ground, each barrow load of cement mix aching my arms.
'You'd be better just burying those posts straight into the ground and tamping them in with the soil and stones.' Yes, Emile is peering over the nascent hedge. How does he manage to pop up with advice at every turn? Since the crowbar reaches what appear to be the roots of the mountain at a 15cm. depth, I feel I can't do this.The sun is trying but the wind, amongst other things, defeats, so I plead cold hands and sulk indoors
A grey green covering of lichen, like a burdening of blossom, emerges from the old trees as the snow patches diminish. The grass appearing seems too bright, too intense. A grey, Irish mist sort of day frames the fuzzy orb of the sun. In full light the little owl bobs up and down on the barn roof and makes a cross patch sort of cluck, chuck. Later next month the first swallows will sail in and my spirits will soar. I`m in the field, sinking the last posts into the sodden ground, each barrow load of cement mix aching my arms.
'You'd be better just burying those posts straight into the ground and tamping them in with the soil and stones.' Yes, Emile is peering over the nascent hedge. How does he manage to pop up with advice at every turn? Since the crowbar reaches what appear to be the roots of the mountain at a 15cm. depth, I feel I can't do this.The sun is trying but the wind, amongst other things, defeats, so I plead cold hands and sulk indoors
2. Some Place ... end January.
This was to be the year of making a garden. Well the snow has been down for 2 weeks, newly planted trees are leaning horizontally and the trunk of a young cherry has snapped raggedly at the stake tie. Stored onions freeze in the barn. 'It`s the season', says Emile grimly. 'Nothing to be done.' He pauses. 'It's not always like this.' I'm learning.
'Tie the tree at a lower angle next time,' he shrugs.. I cross the alleyway where the wind shrieks, clump out into the field that I try to call garden. I test the wind as it thumps me, gulp the air, appreciate the razor chill, avoid the mud sumps that lie at the base of my little trees and force my hands to struggle with a fork, levering up a few leeks for the pot. Will it ever be spring?
This was to be the year of making a garden. Well the snow has been down for 2 weeks, newly planted trees are leaning horizontally and the trunk of a young cherry has snapped raggedly at the stake tie. Stored onions freeze in the barn. 'It`s the season', says Emile grimly. 'Nothing to be done.' He pauses. 'It's not always like this.' I'm learning.
'Tie the tree at a lower angle next time,' he shrugs.. I cross the alleyway where the wind shrieks, clump out into the field that I try to call garden. I test the wind as it thumps me, gulp the air, appreciate the razor chill, avoid the mud sumps that lie at the base of my little trees and force my hands to struggle with a fork, levering up a few leeks for the pot. Will it ever be spring?
1. January
The snow is piling up on the window frames and the pear trees are straining against the stakes, holding them against the wind. Chaffinches, like cotton wool balls, fly from stacked bales of hay to barn ledges, hoping to find something to eat in this bleakness. For them it's just a matter of holding out at this time of year. A robin follows me, in & out of a hedge, as I battle up the lane. I have bread in my pocket. He knows it. In a juniper sparrows quarrel over a mystery and Emile's piped music echoes thro' the vast cattle hangar. He says it helps keep them calm. They stare at me, rustle their fodder and rattle the metal barriers. Emile is there too, bucket in each hand. 'Warm eh?' he says. 'In England too?'
'No Emile, in England it's raining, naturally'.
'Ah well,' he adds, 'this cold stings but is prettier, aint it?'
January 27th. and a memorial prayer for holocaust victims was read out this morning in the village square. There was a strong maquis movement in this part of France so they have fewer guilty secrets of their war past to hide. I've been reading Art Spiegelmann's MAUS this week so the speech was doubly disturbing and the weather tends to dampen any optimism, so that's trebly disturbing.
The snow is piling up on the window frames and the pear trees are straining against the stakes, holding them against the wind. Chaffinches, like cotton wool balls, fly from stacked bales of hay to barn ledges, hoping to find something to eat in this bleakness. For them it's just a matter of holding out at this time of year. A robin follows me, in & out of a hedge, as I battle up the lane. I have bread in my pocket. He knows it. In a juniper sparrows quarrel over a mystery and Emile's piped music echoes thro' the vast cattle hangar. He says it helps keep them calm. They stare at me, rustle their fodder and rattle the metal barriers. Emile is there too, bucket in each hand. 'Warm eh?' he says. 'In England too?'
'No Emile, in England it's raining, naturally'.
'Ah well,' he adds, 'this cold stings but is prettier, aint it?'
January 27th. and a memorial prayer for holocaust victims was read out this morning in the village square. There was a strong maquis movement in this part of France so they have fewer guilty secrets of their war past to hide. I've been reading Art Spiegelmann's MAUS this week so the speech was doubly disturbing and the weather tends to dampen any optimism, so that's trebly disturbing.