18.
April 27th.
Aubergine coloured hair seems to be the trend with women of a certain age here, Look closely and you will see the blueish pink tinge on the scalps. Marie has a wedge of dark reddish black coiffure and at this very moment I'm watching her toil up the red dust track to join Emile in the white Renault van. Her pinny sits nicely on the table top of her stomach, which also raises her skirt to practically mini level. The effect is finished off with short green wellies.
I feel a surge of nostalgia; a grandmother memory moment. To fight off nostalgia one has to not yearn to go back and put things right; merely remember, like watching a picture show.
Looking at an old photograph, I can still remember precisely the feel of the sun, the look of the light, a black and white picture. M. stretches his hand out to touch a plump baby’s leg and I take that moment with the camera; including the scattered toys, the wooden garden table, the old gym benches around it, the ducks rifling amongst the grasses. Skeins of nostalgia are there...
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
16.
April 19th. Dogs and Caves.
My furthest neighbour, Robert, passes me on the lane, in a flurry of mud and gear. A gnome on a quad bike. He is going up into the hills to meet friends and make a great deal of noise, as it’s the weekend. We two have a mutual antipathy, since I complained about a young dog he kept in his barn and which wailed every night so that I couldn’t sleep. My silent misery matched the animal’s protest until I lost it and threatened to go to the Maire. The puppy was re-housed with his other hounds.
He keeps an assortment of these in pens, within hearing distance. They are all amiable enough, but out of the hunting season, spend their days on the roofs of their kennels, to avoid the accretions of their own shit that join with stone, weed and rock to create their ground. Every so often, at a signal from one of their own, they set up an almost choral howl. This deeply upsets me and on worse days makes me think of selling up…..
But then there are almost silent times, profoundly quiet days, when I can only hear birds, the occasional voice or vehicle. The children are at school, the dogs are too warm and I watch, work, walk and listen.
In a landscape minus human beings there is a surfeit of beauty but a human says those words and so sees the landscape and edits it, alas. The mountains tell of deep and distant time, before and beyond human experience and thus frighten me a bit. Too far to walk, to high to climb, to deep to fathom. In a cave not far away, 2 km. inside, are marks of childrens hands and rust and black drawings of horse and hind, 15000 years old. What are equally as fascinating are the more recent graffiti, which mark the walls for perhaps one km. in. 200 years ago, people were perhaps too afraid to go further inwards. The caves had a quite different meaning for them.
April 19th. Dogs and Caves.
My furthest neighbour, Robert, passes me on the lane, in a flurry of mud and gear. A gnome on a quad bike. He is going up into the hills to meet friends and make a great deal of noise, as it’s the weekend. We two have a mutual antipathy, since I complained about a young dog he kept in his barn and which wailed every night so that I couldn’t sleep. My silent misery matched the animal’s protest until I lost it and threatened to go to the Maire. The puppy was re-housed with his other hounds.
He keeps an assortment of these in pens, within hearing distance. They are all amiable enough, but out of the hunting season, spend their days on the roofs of their kennels, to avoid the accretions of their own shit that join with stone, weed and rock to create their ground. Every so often, at a signal from one of their own, they set up an almost choral howl. This deeply upsets me and on worse days makes me think of selling up…..
But then there are almost silent times, profoundly quiet days, when I can only hear birds, the occasional voice or vehicle. The children are at school, the dogs are too warm and I watch, work, walk and listen.
In a landscape minus human beings there is a surfeit of beauty but a human says those words and so sees the landscape and edits it, alas. The mountains tell of deep and distant time, before and beyond human experience and thus frighten me a bit. Too far to walk, to high to climb, to deep to fathom. In a cave not far away, 2 km. inside, are marks of childrens hands and rust and black drawings of horse and hind, 15000 years old. What are equally as fascinating are the more recent graffiti, which mark the walls for perhaps one km. in. 200 years ago, people were perhaps too afraid to go further inwards. The caves had a quite different meaning for them.
15.
April 17th.
A mower in the distance announces a good day. A jay, as bold as you like, loops in and out of an old Laurel, pounces onto the grass and is up again. It seems a long time ago now when I could hear the jays quarrelling and grating over the autumn acorns.
Winter survived, the frogs are declaring loudly around the pond, accompanied by the rising bubble and jug of the nightingales, hidden in the scrubby copses. Joy,--in spite of the wind, for it is, indeed, spring.
It`s breathtaking to brush through the prairie fields full of ragged robin, lady orchids, ox eye daisies and rusty sorrel flowers and to listen to the shivering of new, silver backed poplar leaves.
I can lie back in a patch and listen to the frantic business of the insect hordes. I can watch the black redstart, indignantly flicking its tail and chkk-chkking at a cat, slowly meandering its way through the long grass, dark ear tips just visible.
This is the life. Spring, the glorious season. A good number of the trees have survived that winter and there’s a promise of real heat in the air. To confirm it I hear a hoopoe. It is ‘churring’ at me from the walnut tree, in warning. Then it takes off on its skidaddling flight, beautiful black and white wing markings fanning its flight towards the big ash, where it sets up its ‘hoop- hoop hoop’ call.
April 17th.
A mower in the distance announces a good day. A jay, as bold as you like, loops in and out of an old Laurel, pounces onto the grass and is up again. It seems a long time ago now when I could hear the jays quarrelling and grating over the autumn acorns.
Winter survived, the frogs are declaring loudly around the pond, accompanied by the rising bubble and jug of the nightingales, hidden in the scrubby copses. Joy,--in spite of the wind, for it is, indeed, spring.
It`s breathtaking to brush through the prairie fields full of ragged robin, lady orchids, ox eye daisies and rusty sorrel flowers and to listen to the shivering of new, silver backed poplar leaves.
I can lie back in a patch and listen to the frantic business of the insect hordes. I can watch the black redstart, indignantly flicking its tail and chkk-chkking at a cat, slowly meandering its way through the long grass, dark ear tips just visible.
This is the life. Spring, the glorious season. A good number of the trees have survived that winter and there’s a promise of real heat in the air. To confirm it I hear a hoopoe. It is ‘churring’ at me from the walnut tree, in warning. Then it takes off on its skidaddling flight, beautiful black and white wing markings fanning its flight towards the big ash, where it sets up its ‘hoop- hoop hoop’ call.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
14.
April 13th.
Sylvie is coming with me to buy eye drops at the pharmacie. She sits on two cushions in the passenger seat of the van so that she might see out. She is watching the fields and houses go by and remarking on who lived there, worked there, died there. The shoe factory closed long ago, where she used to walk, 6km.each day. Those were the days, she sighs. Now she doesn`t see many people. Bertrand drives very occasionally, to fetch diesel for the tractor or strimmer, to do some shopping, and she may go with him if the various delivery vans haven't quite stocked what she wants.. She misses chatting with her old friends. She is quite a walker, nevertheless, and we often tramp around the rough surfaced lanes, looking at the carpets of cowslips and orchids, so that she may stop and gossip with one or two passing acquaintances.
‘I'm not walking out on my own’, she comments, ‘anything could happen. You hear of such terrible things on the news. Aren’t you fearful when you walk alone?’
‘No, Sylvie, that’s just the television for you. One or two bad things happen, but France is a huge country’
‘All the same, I’m glad when you are around to stroll with me’. There’s praise indeed.
Last night, just after dusk, I watched a barn owl sweep low through the farmyard, a little owl flop from telegraph wire to pole and heard the first scopps owl calling monotonously for a mate: “meep……meep…….meep….”. [Owl heaven, but cat city too!]
April 13th.
Sylvie is coming with me to buy eye drops at the pharmacie. She sits on two cushions in the passenger seat of the van so that she might see out. She is watching the fields and houses go by and remarking on who lived there, worked there, died there. The shoe factory closed long ago, where she used to walk, 6km.each day. Those were the days, she sighs. Now she doesn`t see many people. Bertrand drives very occasionally, to fetch diesel for the tractor or strimmer, to do some shopping, and she may go with him if the various delivery vans haven't quite stocked what she wants.. She misses chatting with her old friends. She is quite a walker, nevertheless, and we often tramp around the rough surfaced lanes, looking at the carpets of cowslips and orchids, so that she may stop and gossip with one or two passing acquaintances.
‘I'm not walking out on my own’, she comments, ‘anything could happen. You hear of such terrible things on the news. Aren’t you fearful when you walk alone?’
‘No, Sylvie, that’s just the television for you. One or two bad things happen, but France is a huge country’
‘All the same, I’m glad when you are around to stroll with me’. There’s praise indeed.
Last night, just after dusk, I watched a barn owl sweep low through the farmyard, a little owl flop from telegraph wire to pole and heard the first scopps owl calling monotonously for a mate: “meep……meep…….meep….”. [Owl heaven, but cat city too!]
Thursday, April 10, 2008
13. April 6th.
The sunshine is truly cheering. So much stronger. While the plums are losing their blossom, taking on a slightly shabby, dirty look, the pears and sweet cherries have more than enough. The apples are biding their time and I'm thinking how handsome these trees are, so good to see full sized, big headed fruit trees. None of those dwarfed, domestic, patio types dare show up around here.
Big black bees are busy coupling and zooming and the general insect racket is a pleasing background music. The kestrels give a repeat performance every so often, mating high in the pear tree, with chattering, rising cries.
Yesterday I watched the female hen harrier quartering and hooking low over the meadows, so near and silent. I could see her white banded rump and gingery striped breast. Usually it`s the ghost grey male, black wing tips bent back, hunting in that almost skating, gliding flight. Later on I can hear their courtship and exchange calls, higher, towards the forest..
Sylvie thinks I'm out too early, sowing and planting. She doesn’t trust this spring, she says. She nevertheless hands me six seed potatoes to plant. . Unnamed, she is proud to say they have been in the family for years and years. Small, white tubers for an early crop. I shall put them in today, I say. As I am out there, I hear the first cuckoo.
Later that night I go out onto the roof to look at Orion hanging over the hill, and the moon sliver slung between it and the mountain. The tawny owls are hooting and the bats are flicking past the alley lamp.
The sunshine is truly cheering. So much stronger. While the plums are losing their blossom, taking on a slightly shabby, dirty look, the pears and sweet cherries have more than enough. The apples are biding their time and I'm thinking how handsome these trees are, so good to see full sized, big headed fruit trees. None of those dwarfed, domestic, patio types dare show up around here.
Big black bees are busy coupling and zooming and the general insect racket is a pleasing background music. The kestrels give a repeat performance every so often, mating high in the pear tree, with chattering, rising cries.
Yesterday I watched the female hen harrier quartering and hooking low over the meadows, so near and silent. I could see her white banded rump and gingery striped breast. Usually it`s the ghost grey male, black wing tips bent back, hunting in that almost skating, gliding flight. Later on I can hear their courtship and exchange calls, higher, towards the forest..
Sylvie thinks I'm out too early, sowing and planting. She doesn’t trust this spring, she says. She nevertheless hands me six seed potatoes to plant. . Unnamed, she is proud to say they have been in the family for years and years. Small, white tubers for an early crop. I shall put them in today, I say. As I am out there, I hear the first cuckoo.
Later that night I go out onto the roof to look at Orion hanging over the hill, and the moon sliver slung between it and the mountain. The tawny owls are hooting and the bats are flicking past the alley lamp.
Monday, April 07, 2008
12.
SomePlace Pyrenean Journal. Bertrand and Sylvie
My neighbours on the east side are two siblings. Bertrand and Sylvie potter with ancient tractors, creaking wheelbarrows, geriatric goats and are nearly always in tweed and wool, impregnated with oil and god knows what stains. Sylvie adds a pinafore that sits like a ledge cloth over her precise stomach. She is not so much fat as well fed and protuberant in various places. Friendly would not be sufficient description for these two. They have welcomed me with uncanny warmth; they, who have rarely seen a stranger, let alone an English woman. They learn all that they know from the village and from their television. There are no books. The only printed paper they glance at, they assure me, is the junk that comes into their letter box , and a calendar left by the paramedic/fire service, Les Pompiers.
Their land runs alongside mine, as Emile and Marie’s does, on the other side. Strange really, that we have these long strips of fields, like allotments, all facing south to the mountains, with nothing beyond except prairie and forest. In Britain I would pay a million or more for these views. And here are layers of lives, laid down over the generations. The ruined walls, the roofless barns, the collapsing wells; echoes of rural histories and industriousness; not quite a palimpsest, the landscape is more a quilting and a layering of lives. No one here, one feels, starts with a new beginning, so much as turns and goes over again; meeting the necessities of a hand to mouth existence. My arrival has inserted a different way of living. I dig in the field and discover pottery, old tool bits, and leather scraps. But it is not my history. However long I stay here, I suspect, the etrangere status will stick. Perhaps rightly so.
Sunshine eases into my joints; there are changes in birdsong and the sward. 3 bluetits are shinning up and across the walnut trees, their courtship rivalries voiced in metallic ‘tsiiits-chinks’
The plums and cherries are all in exuberant mode; pale sweeps of flowering creep up the mountain sides and the red kites are cheeky in their display flights and courtship dances.
My ownership of this small piece of land has intensified my attention to the details of the microcosm. I notice the smallest alteration: the creeping potentilla, the speedwell, the blue flax are pushing their frontiers. The daffodils, free of snow and wind, stand upright and bright. The first spotted orchid leaves are there, in the low grass. Emile is out too, raking out the old tomato haulm from last year but I’m too far out of earshot to catch any complaint.
SomePlace Pyrenean Journal. Bertrand and Sylvie
My neighbours on the east side are two siblings. Bertrand and Sylvie potter with ancient tractors, creaking wheelbarrows, geriatric goats and are nearly always in tweed and wool, impregnated with oil and god knows what stains. Sylvie adds a pinafore that sits like a ledge cloth over her precise stomach. She is not so much fat as well fed and protuberant in various places. Friendly would not be sufficient description for these two. They have welcomed me with uncanny warmth; they, who have rarely seen a stranger, let alone an English woman. They learn all that they know from the village and from their television. There are no books. The only printed paper they glance at, they assure me, is the junk that comes into their letter box , and a calendar left by the paramedic/fire service, Les Pompiers.
Their land runs alongside mine, as Emile and Marie’s does, on the other side. Strange really, that we have these long strips of fields, like allotments, all facing south to the mountains, with nothing beyond except prairie and forest. In Britain I would pay a million or more for these views. And here are layers of lives, laid down over the generations. The ruined walls, the roofless barns, the collapsing wells; echoes of rural histories and industriousness; not quite a palimpsest, the landscape is more a quilting and a layering of lives. No one here, one feels, starts with a new beginning, so much as turns and goes over again; meeting the necessities of a hand to mouth existence. My arrival has inserted a different way of living. I dig in the field and discover pottery, old tool bits, and leather scraps. But it is not my history. However long I stay here, I suspect, the etrangere status will stick. Perhaps rightly so.
Sunshine eases into my joints; there are changes in birdsong and the sward. 3 bluetits are shinning up and across the walnut trees, their courtship rivalries voiced in metallic ‘tsiiits-chinks’
The plums and cherries are all in exuberant mode; pale sweeps of flowering creep up the mountain sides and the red kites are cheeky in their display flights and courtship dances.
My ownership of this small piece of land has intensified my attention to the details of the microcosm. I notice the smallest alteration: the creeping potentilla, the speedwell, the blue flax are pushing their frontiers. The daffodils, free of snow and wind, stand upright and bright. The first spotted orchid leaves are there, in the low grass. Emile is out too, raking out the old tomato haulm from last year but I’m too far out of earshot to catch any complaint.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
March 31st. SomePlace, Pyrenean Journal
The poplars are showing their sienna gold, new leaves; like waiting, ordered armies, they whisper amongst themselves. The lime yellow of the willows joins in the fanfare of spring colour and chiffchaffs, blackcaps and swallows accompany the whole concert. The first swallow arrived on the 29th. March; definitely earlier than last year. Later that day, two more joined up and by the next day there were a dozen or so, swooping and slicing low over the long grass land, inspecting the barns and chattering in their tinkling voices all along the telegraph wires. Non stop sunshine lifts the most stubborn of hearts.
I try to transpose this landscape, in my imagination, into Dartmoor, Devon, Wales, but it doesn`t work. There the signs, - the ditches, fences and hedges, would present some recogniseable language; I could read them as familiar. But here they are different. A group of ash, birch and hawthorn are somehow displaced in my imagination. There are no holloways, trodden by millennia of feet and wheels; no cottage gardens or grand demesnes, only ruined castles and tumbling barns, marking some ancient, landowning histories. These sweeping fields are not divided by trimmed or layed hedges. Huge sweeps of land, vast agri strips, their umber or emerald lines changing direction and stripes, to denote edge and perhaps propriety, decorate this wide space. Clouds of cherry and blackthorn blossom plume up the hillsides and the Prussian blue of the bigger forest crosses to and fro’, upwards towards the mountains. Here the hares are big, the deer frequent, the boar strange and the birdsong pervasive. And in spite of the Wednesday and weekend hunting sprees this a sort of a fecund paradise
The poplars are showing their sienna gold, new leaves; like waiting, ordered armies, they whisper amongst themselves. The lime yellow of the willows joins in the fanfare of spring colour and chiffchaffs, blackcaps and swallows accompany the whole concert. The first swallow arrived on the 29th. March; definitely earlier than last year. Later that day, two more joined up and by the next day there were a dozen or so, swooping and slicing low over the long grass land, inspecting the barns and chattering in their tinkling voices all along the telegraph wires. Non stop sunshine lifts the most stubborn of hearts.
I try to transpose this landscape, in my imagination, into Dartmoor, Devon, Wales, but it doesn`t work. There the signs, - the ditches, fences and hedges, would present some recogniseable language; I could read them as familiar. But here they are different. A group of ash, birch and hawthorn are somehow displaced in my imagination. There are no holloways, trodden by millennia of feet and wheels; no cottage gardens or grand demesnes, only ruined castles and tumbling barns, marking some ancient, landowning histories. These sweeping fields are not divided by trimmed or layed hedges. Huge sweeps of land, vast agri strips, their umber or emerald lines changing direction and stripes, to denote edge and perhaps propriety, decorate this wide space. Clouds of cherry and blackthorn blossom plume up the hillsides and the Prussian blue of the bigger forest crosses to and fro’, upwards towards the mountains. Here the hares are big, the deer frequent, the boar strange and the birdsong pervasive. And in spite of the Wednesday and weekend hunting sprees this a sort of a fecund paradise
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