39.
October.
Why I`m near the front door I don't know, but I get collared by a Jehova's witness, who tries to envelope me in her non-stop saga. I suppose I should be surprised to find the group here in France, but I`m not. With such a history of anti clericism here, there are evangelicals and witnesses everywhere. That's all very well, I say, but it's only a set of beliefs. Life's a mystery and should stay that way. To look for 'truth' leads you up too many blind alleys and anyway it's those who are fixed on their truth as being the only one, who become dangerous. Why I'm discussing this with her, I can't quite fathom. I must be in need of company! She nods and replies that that is true. She seems quite reasonable! I add that if god is all that it is supposed to be then it wouldn't be interested in whether I believed in it or not. That's just so petty. I wouldn't believe in any god that demands I believe in it, would she? She has an answer which is slightly confused or slightly confuses me anyway, and which I promptly forget, while I write this. She does not persist, I suspect because she recognises that my French is not quite up to it. We part with smiles and a handshake and as she leaves I twitter that it's really about people being together and comforting each other with common beliefs....I wave and close the door quickly, before she has time to parry an answer. I'm not proud of myself.
It's an overcast, showery day; oh of course, that's why I'm in the house. I need to light the fire as I can feel the chill descending from the peaks. There is snow on them, far away. Drizzle here is snow up there.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
38.
October
Some of my old friends who read this journal may often think how I can amuse myself here without the onset of cabin fever and culture starvation. Well, I’m peculiarly excited by this bank crises and listen to plenty of the news, English, American and European. Roll on a new way of seeing and being, I say.
Here, I listen to other things, too. To the voices of the wildness around me, to the villagers’ conversations; I tap in to their reality and it is little different than mine, I find. I listen to myself and think of those many miserable, self absorbed years which I should have given over to so much else.
I can go back to my native home one day, or not…but meanwhile here is something essential in my pre occupation with soil, sounds, sunlight, seasons and solitude. Forgive me; I still think of you where you are. Familiar places. But I’m here for the time being. Finding myself is not a phrase I like at all, but I’m comfortable with my adventure and my bit of place, just for the moment.
There are still shooting stars to see, tawny owls to accompany and figs and walnuts to fill a bucket. Walking out at night the muffled, breath like shriek of the barn owl makes me jump. No wonder they were always thought of as witches.
October
Some of my old friends who read this journal may often think how I can amuse myself here without the onset of cabin fever and culture starvation. Well, I’m peculiarly excited by this bank crises and listen to plenty of the news, English, American and European. Roll on a new way of seeing and being, I say.
Here, I listen to other things, too. To the voices of the wildness around me, to the villagers’ conversations; I tap in to their reality and it is little different than mine, I find. I listen to myself and think of those many miserable, self absorbed years which I should have given over to so much else.
I can go back to my native home one day, or not…but meanwhile here is something essential in my pre occupation with soil, sounds, sunlight, seasons and solitude. Forgive me; I still think of you where you are. Familiar places. But I’m here for the time being. Finding myself is not a phrase I like at all, but I’m comfortable with my adventure and my bit of place, just for the moment.
There are still shooting stars to see, tawny owls to accompany and figs and walnuts to fill a bucket. Walking out at night the muffled, breath like shriek of the barn owl makes me jump. No wonder they were always thought of as witches.
Friday, October 03, 2008
37.
October 1st.
Amber and azure, the Autumn colours dazzle and creep up the mountain sides. The oaks turn yellow the last, the poplars are first. The wet days have passed and it is again a pure sunlight, a clarity of slanting light that is good for picture making.
Shouts and the clamour of vehicles. Bertrand`s friends have had a good hunting this Wednesday afternoon and are yanking the carcass of a deer with pulley and chains into his barn. The dogs lie silent in the back of a truck, exhausted and anticipating a reward. The butchered meat is shared between the huntsmen, and the entrails and remaining bits and pieces are kept for the dogs. One of the men offers me a steak. Streaks of blood across the near white flesh, but I say thanks, no. I’m a coward and don`t say yet that I prefer to eat no meat. Then I think to myself that perhaps it is better to eat an animal that has had a relatively good and free life; perhaps I should say yes next time. They say boar is delicious.
Bertrand, of course, will never talk to Emile and Emile grimaces, bends his neck and draws his chin in if Bertrand passes. Marie and Sylvie both shrug helplessly and pass the time of day with comments on the weather, the laundry or the tomato harvest. Who knows what that is all about, but Emile, for sure, never gets to share the hunt spoils. I did once hear that there had been a disagreement about access some years back and now silence breeds contempt and worse.
October 1st.
Amber and azure, the Autumn colours dazzle and creep up the mountain sides. The oaks turn yellow the last, the poplars are first. The wet days have passed and it is again a pure sunlight, a clarity of slanting light that is good for picture making.
Shouts and the clamour of vehicles. Bertrand`s friends have had a good hunting this Wednesday afternoon and are yanking the carcass of a deer with pulley and chains into his barn. The dogs lie silent in the back of a truck, exhausted and anticipating a reward. The butchered meat is shared between the huntsmen, and the entrails and remaining bits and pieces are kept for the dogs. One of the men offers me a steak. Streaks of blood across the near white flesh, but I say thanks, no. I’m a coward and don`t say yet that I prefer to eat no meat. Then I think to myself that perhaps it is better to eat an animal that has had a relatively good and free life; perhaps I should say yes next time. They say boar is delicious.
Bertrand, of course, will never talk to Emile and Emile grimaces, bends his neck and draws his chin in if Bertrand passes. Marie and Sylvie both shrug helplessly and pass the time of day with comments on the weather, the laundry or the tomato harvest. Who knows what that is all about, but Emile, for sure, never gets to share the hunt spoils. I did once hear that there had been a disagreement about access some years back and now silence breeds contempt and worse.
36.
September 19th.
It is noticeably quiet this early September. The camper vans have left the lake and campsite and only a very few people brave the water for an afternoon swim.
A little juvenile flycatcher eyes me up as I stand absolutely still near the well. It flits and curls around the smallest apple tree, taking any insects going. It is a non descript, greyish brown but with a white mark on its wing. And such a bright, big eye. Only three buzzards, the kestrel and some ravens have amused me these last few days.
Visitors have come and gone . Massive caterings then solitude again. It`s very warm but the nights have a tinge of chill. Clearest skies and no wind. Stars pristine and a few falling ones too. The trees have done really well..no losses and their roots are well down, as they have put on spurts this dampish summer; so much so that I can almost say I have privacy at last in the garden .
Today Marie predicts drizzle and it`s true the clouds are up and around the tops of the hills and there is an orange and purple look to them. Three crows are mobbing the kestrel as Marie swirls through her washing on the line and emerges swaddled in sheets and bed covers.
They`re beautifully dry now, she is saying, and she does not want them spoilt. How she hates ironing, though. I don`t tell her that I rarely iron anything.
Emile is tinkering with the tractor in the yard, swilling out the spreader and singing at the same time. He nods and talks about the coming grape harvest, in the lower valleys, how the vines have been distressed and diseased this year and that the growers , on top of everything, are really struggling. He offers me a glass of Gentian. It is bitter, thick and pollen coloured. We share the knowledge: that the large gentian grows at quite high altitudes; that its roots are astringent and have been used for centuries. Then the rain starts. A swish of wind and a blanket of cloud. The gentle downpour and the after taste of the aperitif lasts an hour or so. But in that hour I decide that I have, up to a point, been accepted by Emile.
September 19th.
It is noticeably quiet this early September. The camper vans have left the lake and campsite and only a very few people brave the water for an afternoon swim.
A little juvenile flycatcher eyes me up as I stand absolutely still near the well. It flits and curls around the smallest apple tree, taking any insects going. It is a non descript, greyish brown but with a white mark on its wing. And such a bright, big eye. Only three buzzards, the kestrel and some ravens have amused me these last few days.
Visitors have come and gone . Massive caterings then solitude again. It`s very warm but the nights have a tinge of chill. Clearest skies and no wind. Stars pristine and a few falling ones too. The trees have done really well..no losses and their roots are well down, as they have put on spurts this dampish summer; so much so that I can almost say I have privacy at last in the garden .
Today Marie predicts drizzle and it`s true the clouds are up and around the tops of the hills and there is an orange and purple look to them. Three crows are mobbing the kestrel as Marie swirls through her washing on the line and emerges swaddled in sheets and bed covers.
They`re beautifully dry now, she is saying, and she does not want them spoilt. How she hates ironing, though. I don`t tell her that I rarely iron anything.
Emile is tinkering with the tractor in the yard, swilling out the spreader and singing at the same time. He nods and talks about the coming grape harvest, in the lower valleys, how the vines have been distressed and diseased this year and that the growers , on top of everything, are really struggling. He offers me a glass of Gentian. It is bitter, thick and pollen coloured. We share the knowledge: that the large gentian grows at quite high altitudes; that its roots are astringent and have been used for centuries. Then the rain starts. A swish of wind and a blanket of cloud. The gentle downpour and the after taste of the aperitif lasts an hour or so. But in that hour I decide that I have, up to a point, been accepted by Emile.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
35.
Sept. 1st.
On a long journey through France I had forgotten how much I enjoyed driving leisurely distances in the van. I feel some embarassment, writing this. I love seeing over the landscape, watching it change from region to region.
Rolled wheels of straw are scattered across shorn hectares. Even the golden lime of glyphosate affected fields has its own prettiness. The second cuts of hay lie drying and the gatherings of gossiping starlings punctuate the long loops of telegraph wires.
There is a noticeable road slaughter of owls, especially barn owls, on the motorways of mid France. It must be that the long grass on both sides of the route tempt the birds across rather than along.
Back in the village, the local market is noisy and busy. It has doubled in size and commerce in 3 years, partly I suspect, due to the presence of English folk on the council and in the region. They can be very demanding and have lowered the average age by a good few years. There are children of all ages rushing about, playing catch between and in and out of the stalls. I can hear French, Occitane and English voices , so far.
In the early evening I'm sowing yellow hay rattle seed throughout the meadow with the aim to thin out the grass in time and make room for more flowers. Trouble is, the rank weeds step in to the gaps pretty quick.
The seeds have set on the browning grasses and the sunlight shines through the faded stems. Small blue Scabious is flowering late and Cosmos, Cornflower and Corn Marigold are doing a dance in the light wind. Pears are carpeting the ground which becomes a rich dining table for wasps, butterflies and moths. I am seeing Swallowtails, scarce Swallow tails, all kinds of Fritillaries, Coppers, Blues and a large and handsome Great Banded Grayling, with its blackish purple upper wings and thick white bands towards the edge. They swarm on the tall Asters like extra petals. I’m in some kind of paradise and I think they are too.
Sept. 1st.
On a long journey through France I had forgotten how much I enjoyed driving leisurely distances in the van. I feel some embarassment, writing this. I love seeing over the landscape, watching it change from region to region.
Rolled wheels of straw are scattered across shorn hectares. Even the golden lime of glyphosate affected fields has its own prettiness. The second cuts of hay lie drying and the gatherings of gossiping starlings punctuate the long loops of telegraph wires.
There is a noticeable road slaughter of owls, especially barn owls, on the motorways of mid France. It must be that the long grass on both sides of the route tempt the birds across rather than along.
Back in the village, the local market is noisy and busy. It has doubled in size and commerce in 3 years, partly I suspect, due to the presence of English folk on the council and in the region. They can be very demanding and have lowered the average age by a good few years. There are children of all ages rushing about, playing catch between and in and out of the stalls. I can hear French, Occitane and English voices , so far.
In the early evening I'm sowing yellow hay rattle seed throughout the meadow with the aim to thin out the grass in time and make room for more flowers. Trouble is, the rank weeds step in to the gaps pretty quick.
The seeds have set on the browning grasses and the sunlight shines through the faded stems. Small blue Scabious is flowering late and Cosmos, Cornflower and Corn Marigold are doing a dance in the light wind. Pears are carpeting the ground which becomes a rich dining table for wasps, butterflies and moths. I am seeing Swallowtails, scarce Swallow tails, all kinds of Fritillaries, Coppers, Blues and a large and handsome Great Banded Grayling, with its blackish purple upper wings and thick white bands towards the edge. They swarm on the tall Asters like extra petals. I’m in some kind of paradise and I think they are too.