78.
Mid October.
Clouds and waves of birds. The sky fills with swelling and changing shapes, sometimes dense, othertimes thin and fragmented. Chaffinches, bramblings, cirl buntings, goldfinches, more I cannot identify. They swoop and pour onto the uncut sunflower heads and onto the turned fields, rising again in billows with thin chatterings and tsips and chinks. Then buzzards, about 7 of them, circling high, then spiralling down, some perching on trees or fence posts. opportunists all. This is the great migration funnelling in through the Pyrenean passes.
Marie's marmalade cat sits quite still, tail end twitching and trembling as she watches a group on the pear tree who dart in and out of the curling leaves finding soft insects and blown seeds. As I stand, hardly daring to move, 3 willow warblers arrive, blushed buff little chests, weaving and darting amongst the low ivy at the base of the tree, their clear tsooee warning calls check out the cat. And gathering this sudden harvest, 5 kestrels swing, hover, loop and plummet..What a show! An essential experience. Gives me the measure of myself. Insignificant!
4 piles of cut oak logs are stacked pleasingly in the barn. A chill wind blows.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Saturday, October 09, 2010
77.
Early October.
Emile retrieves two bushes from the back of his white Renault van. They are the BROOM type, not too prickly but very twiggy. Its S W English or Welsh names are perfect - Brusher or Basom. Just the job. . He climbs through his roof top skylight with the bushes held stems together and tied with a thick rope. I am watching him from the bottom of my garden. He walks nimbly, legs astraddle the ridge, and drops the rope down the chimney shouting to Marie in the room below. He sits the shrubs prettily on the top , thin trunks down, so that they look like a fancy sculpture blooming from the chimney mouth. Marie pulls to his order and the brushwood condenses, squeezes and disappears. A broom to sweep the chimney. Voila!
Early October.
Emile retrieves two bushes from the back of his white Renault van. They are the BROOM type, not too prickly but very twiggy. Its S W English or Welsh names are perfect - Brusher or Basom. Just the job. . He climbs through his roof top skylight with the bushes held stems together and tied with a thick rope. I am watching him from the bottom of my garden. He walks nimbly, legs astraddle the ridge, and drops the rope down the chimney shouting to Marie in the room below. He sits the shrubs prettily on the top , thin trunks down, so that they look like a fancy sculpture blooming from the chimney mouth. Marie pulls to his order and the brushwood condenses, squeezes and disappears. A broom to sweep the chimney. Voila!
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
76
Late September.
Woodpiles are growing. Ordered and patterned they poke from under balconies, eaves and tarpaulins. The various music of log cutting and splitting fill the early evenings and weekends while trailers and carts rattle up and down the lanes. Under my hat brim the sloping sun light is still strong and makes me squint as I splash into the pipingly cold lake water. I haven`t quite got the wet suit habit as Roger Deacon eventually did.
Flocks of finches, a yellow hammer or two and some linnets startle up from the red rutted field as I walk back glowingly. Small coppers and heaths and blues crowd onto the last flowers of cosmos and savoury. The coppers defending their chosen flowers with dancing attacks on the other butterflies. A golden season.
I am borrowing the long, aluminium ladder from Bertrand and he has left the barn door open for me to collect it with no offer of help.He says yes, yes, by all means take it, you are welcome. I stagger with it round to the front of the house and climb to clear the honeysuckle, to unplait the tangle and spoil the sparrow roost. Sylvie has obviously sent him to check up, perhaps for my safety perhaps for another mysterious reason for he appears in his slippers and starts chatting and puffing. I say I have done as I climb down. So, he sighs, bravo, job well done and then walks off, leaving me to carry the ladder back to his barn.
Late September.
Woodpiles are growing. Ordered and patterned they poke from under balconies, eaves and tarpaulins. The various music of log cutting and splitting fill the early evenings and weekends while trailers and carts rattle up and down the lanes. Under my hat brim the sloping sun light is still strong and makes me squint as I splash into the pipingly cold lake water. I haven`t quite got the wet suit habit as Roger Deacon eventually did.
Flocks of finches, a yellow hammer or two and some linnets startle up from the red rutted field as I walk back glowingly. Small coppers and heaths and blues crowd onto the last flowers of cosmos and savoury. The coppers defending their chosen flowers with dancing attacks on the other butterflies. A golden season.
I am borrowing the long, aluminium ladder from Bertrand and he has left the barn door open for me to collect it with no offer of help.He says yes, yes, by all means take it, you are welcome. I stagger with it round to the front of the house and climb to clear the honeysuckle, to unplait the tangle and spoil the sparrow roost. Sylvie has obviously sent him to check up, perhaps for my safety perhaps for another mysterious reason for he appears in his slippers and starts chatting and puffing. I say I have done as I climb down. So, he sighs, bravo, job well done and then walks off, leaving me to carry the ladder back to his barn.
75
Mid September
A train journey across France. The TGV is full and noisy as it prepares for take off. An elderly and highly made up woman places her small, matted dog onto the table between her and the opposite passenger. An uproar ensues. Ah non, Madame, this you cannot do! The dog owner whines a little; she says the sweetie will get trodden on under the table or in the corridor. On cue the ungroomed pet, as it is lowered to the floor, leaps at a passerbye, squeezing past the bags and feet. Ah non Madame, once again. This is not acceptable! Chaos and voices mingle with the yapping of the animal. A train journey to write home about .
Mid September
A train journey across France. The TGV is full and noisy as it prepares for take off. An elderly and highly made up woman places her small, matted dog onto the table between her and the opposite passenger. An uproar ensues. Ah non, Madame, this you cannot do! The dog owner whines a little; she says the sweetie will get trodden on under the table or in the corridor. On cue the ungroomed pet, as it is lowered to the floor, leaps at a passerbye, squeezing past the bags and feet. Ah non Madame, once again. This is not acceptable! Chaos and voices mingle with the yapping of the animal. A train journey to write home about .