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.