l51
Nightingales at last, quietly, unassertively in the slow April drizzle. Sparrows wait for their breakfast on the barn window shelf; toasted breadcrumbs and grains of soft cheese. So cheeky they practically cross my doorstep threshold.
Emile is continually puzzled by my kneeling work in the meadow. My knees are wet and muddy.
‘Still weeding?’ he asks. I explain that I am lifting out some wild weeds and sowing others. This baffles him further. A bevy of buzzards circle and wail overhead so I point to them and tell him they are observing my work too. A shrug of his shoulders, a stretch of his neck and a pushing up of his lower lip but not a ‘Wisshtt’. This means he is curious and not dismissive, I think.
When I go in for my bread and cheese lunch the post woman arrives. Here, all the post people are so proud of their yellow vehicles that they rarely get out of them. She drives down my dead end alley just to put a few bits in the end post box; then she reverses back up. I ask her if she has a copy of the urbanisation plans and enquiry minutes. Looking surprised, she finds a box of them and gives me one leaflet.
‘I didn’t think the English would be that interested’, she comments.
‘ If the chalets and mobile homes creep any nearer, I’ll be really interested!’ I laugh.
Money comes to the villages and hamlets mostly through the summer tourism but a new mixed housing estate is planned in the main village and there is a lot of talk, talk. We’ll see.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
ON BATHING MY MOTHER
She steps over the edge of the bath, heaving the left leg slowly, bending it at the knee, gripping the rail when the right leg follows, to sit then on a high stool while I squeeze warm water over her. Her back stirs me a memory. It is the same back, her back, in a navy blue swim suit with low, scooped straps, the slight lean forward, the bow and curve, the moles and freckles. But now there are many more with vivid sun mottling and there are folds, drooping between the arm and the breast. The shape, the hue, it is the same back as I, a child, remember on a thirty ish woman; calling out with pleasure as the cold, Welsh sea came up to meet her.
BEATING THE DOGS
The black dogs had been threatening again, like an inevitable February mantle. When they come it is as though I see and hear the world with heavy wax in my ears. Sensation or experience become distant, earplugged. And this affliction I have passed to my dearest son who suffers like a male; unwilling to share his anxiety and misery with his friends. He pretends and then opens like a wound amongst this close family.
Now that the worst is over, for the time being anyway, I have travelled south by train from London. Via Lille, Lyon, Valence, Narbonne I watched the spring speed up from the train window. Memorable were the swags of violet Wisteria climbing up a tall Cypress. As were the deep magenta flowered Judas trees, the Cercis. Here in the foothills of the Pyrenees, mine are yet in bud, waiting ….But a small tree, a Sophora that I planted nearly 9 years ago is in full yellow flower. Exotic, hanging clusters of golden, whiskered, bell like and lipped blooms have braved the late, sustained winter and are covering the stunted, wizened branches of this Chinese miracle. The plums and pears and cherries blossom anyways, mindless of the unappealing weather.
She steps over the edge of the bath, heaving the left leg slowly, bending it at the knee, gripping the rail when the right leg follows, to sit then on a high stool while I squeeze warm water over her. Her back stirs me a memory. It is the same back, her back, in a navy blue swim suit with low, scooped straps, the slight lean forward, the bow and curve, the moles and freckles. But now there are many more with vivid sun mottling and there are folds, drooping between the arm and the breast. The shape, the hue, it is the same back as I, a child, remember on a thirty ish woman; calling out with pleasure as the cold, Welsh sea came up to meet her.
BEATING THE DOGS
The black dogs had been threatening again, like an inevitable February mantle. When they come it is as though I see and hear the world with heavy wax in my ears. Sensation or experience become distant, earplugged. And this affliction I have passed to my dearest son who suffers like a male; unwilling to share his anxiety and misery with his friends. He pretends and then opens like a wound amongst this close family.
Now that the worst is over, for the time being anyway, I have travelled south by train from London. Via Lille, Lyon, Valence, Narbonne I watched the spring speed up from the train window. Memorable were the swags of violet Wisteria climbing up a tall Cypress. As were the deep magenta flowered Judas trees, the Cercis. Here in the foothills of the Pyrenees, mine are yet in bud, waiting ….But a small tree, a Sophora that I planted nearly 9 years ago is in full yellow flower. Exotic, hanging clusters of golden, whiskered, bell like and lipped blooms have braved the late, sustained winter and are covering the stunted, wizened branches of this Chinese miracle. The plums and pears and cherries blossom anyways, mindless of the unappealing weather.
APRIL AGAIN.
The ghost harrier loses its own silver in the rolling, rippling, silver underside of the meadow, on the slopes ahead. He is there daily, sometimes dropping and vanishing in the long grass, other times rocking on the wind just above, sweeping and checking, head down, elegant dark wing tips on such a wide span.
Larks rise and trill in the warm sunshine but are silent when the clouds gather and a typical April day turns grim and shifty. Plenty of swallows swoop in and over the slopes and roofs, chattering all the while. Nesting time not yet started so I can leave the windows open. A cuckoo or two sound out the territory but the grey, cold days silence them. When the sun comes out, it is suddenly warm, hot even, and the song of spring begins again.
Carrots, onions, lettuce are all sown or set and I am painstakingly removing, one by one, the rank weeds from the flower meadow with a nifty tool that will twist out each deep root while not damaging the crowding other valuables. Echinacea, Rudbeckia, Aster, Corn Marigold, Cosmos, Corncockle, Liatris, Flax, Cornflower, Sweet William, Oxeye Daisy and Toadflax - all mingle with grasses, Yellow Rattle and Nigella - to make, or to begin to make a thick sward. The list is here, named, so that you might try the wild look garden yourself! I've mowed it once over, last week when it was dry, and now I won’t cut again until September. I have to know exactly the look of the leaves of the desirables, so those broad leaved, pernicious ones can be taken out now. And I do know them all, like I know the backs of my hands. Meanwhile my lower back gives me pain and my legs ache as I crouch; such is the ageing process, especially cruel to those who have always been so active.
I am re reading Primo Levi’s IF THIS IS A MAN. If one wants to talk about physical strain and pain, look there. The indifference of one sort of man to another is clearly there: ‘every stranger is an enemy’. ‘For the most part this conviction lies deep down like some latent infection; it betrays itself only in random, disconnected acts, and does not lie at the base of a system of reason. But when this does come about, when the unspoken dogma becomes the major premise in a syllogism, then, at the end of the chain, there is the Lager’. The concentration camp. Or a different genocide.
I have spent the last 3 months back in Britain, giving my time to my mother and son, who for very different reasons have been more than low.
The ghost harrier loses its own silver in the rolling, rippling, silver underside of the meadow, on the slopes ahead. He is there daily, sometimes dropping and vanishing in the long grass, other times rocking on the wind just above, sweeping and checking, head down, elegant dark wing tips on such a wide span.
Larks rise and trill in the warm sunshine but are silent when the clouds gather and a typical April day turns grim and shifty. Plenty of swallows swoop in and over the slopes and roofs, chattering all the while. Nesting time not yet started so I can leave the windows open. A cuckoo or two sound out the territory but the grey, cold days silence them. When the sun comes out, it is suddenly warm, hot even, and the song of spring begins again.
Carrots, onions, lettuce are all sown or set and I am painstakingly removing, one by one, the rank weeds from the flower meadow with a nifty tool that will twist out each deep root while not damaging the crowding other valuables. Echinacea, Rudbeckia, Aster, Corn Marigold, Cosmos, Corncockle, Liatris, Flax, Cornflower, Sweet William, Oxeye Daisy and Toadflax - all mingle with grasses, Yellow Rattle and Nigella - to make, or to begin to make a thick sward. The list is here, named, so that you might try the wild look garden yourself! I've mowed it once over, last week when it was dry, and now I won’t cut again until September. I have to know exactly the look of the leaves of the desirables, so those broad leaved, pernicious ones can be taken out now. And I do know them all, like I know the backs of my hands. Meanwhile my lower back gives me pain and my legs ache as I crouch; such is the ageing process, especially cruel to those who have always been so active.
I am re reading Primo Levi’s IF THIS IS A MAN. If one wants to talk about physical strain and pain, look there. The indifference of one sort of man to another is clearly there: ‘every stranger is an enemy’. ‘For the most part this conviction lies deep down like some latent infection; it betrays itself only in random, disconnected acts, and does not lie at the base of a system of reason. But when this does come about, when the unspoken dogma becomes the major premise in a syllogism, then, at the end of the chain, there is the Lager’. The concentration camp. Or a different genocide.
I have spent the last 3 months back in Britain, giving my time to my mother and son, who for very different reasons have been more than low.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
48
FEBRUARY 8TH.
Visitors, avian ones, delight me this cold day. A male bull finch shyly lights on a branch above the food table. He thinly whistles and warbles while eyeing the ground up meal. He prefers to strip the buds from the fruit trees but I grant him that sometimes because of his brilliant, plum pink breast. A female blackcap has stayed around this winter, surviving the cutting climate and spending a great deal of time chasing the tits, the timid chaffinches and the feinting pied wagtails away from the food supply she claims as hers. Much amusement.
The weak sun gives way to a grey, purple cloud tinged with an eerie yellow which presages snow. Sure enough it comes, first in big, flat flakes, then thinning to snow sleet for a time. Unlike the Inuit or a snow expert like Scotsman, Adam Watson I cannot define the differences in snow more clearly. Soft, big, flat, light, sharp, wet, that‘s as far as I can go.
I love the way the near full moon light falls into my bedroom and onto the wooden floor, silver on gold. I can lie in bed and watch it slither across the boards. Snow again, this time thin, spiky flakes which glitter and freeze quickly on the moonlit roof tiles. A tawny owl calls for a mate: Tee whit! And the answer comes urgently: Too whoo!
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Thanks Robert Frost and The Road Not Taken.
FEBRUARY 8TH.
Visitors, avian ones, delight me this cold day. A male bull finch shyly lights on a branch above the food table. He thinly whistles and warbles while eyeing the ground up meal. He prefers to strip the buds from the fruit trees but I grant him that sometimes because of his brilliant, plum pink breast. A female blackcap has stayed around this winter, surviving the cutting climate and spending a great deal of time chasing the tits, the timid chaffinches and the feinting pied wagtails away from the food supply she claims as hers. Much amusement.
The weak sun gives way to a grey, purple cloud tinged with an eerie yellow which presages snow. Sure enough it comes, first in big, flat flakes, then thinning to snow sleet for a time. Unlike the Inuit or a snow expert like Scotsman, Adam Watson I cannot define the differences in snow more clearly. Soft, big, flat, light, sharp, wet, that‘s as far as I can go.
I love the way the near full moon light falls into my bedroom and onto the wooden floor, silver on gold. I can lie in bed and watch it slither across the boards. Snow again, this time thin, spiky flakes which glitter and freeze quickly on the moonlit roof tiles. A tawny owl calls for a mate: Tee whit! And the answer comes urgently: Too whoo!
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Thanks Robert Frost and The Road Not Taken.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
46 January 30th.
That date again; the gathering smaller. The mayor reads from a journal recovered after the war. He speaks hesitantly about the lost and stolen lives, the families stripped and bereft. Holocaust Memorial day, the 27th. January. A bomb explodes somewhere on the Israeli border.
It is raining. The snow melted away several days ago and is a memory of luminant softness and wood smoke.
Seven of us eat next to a great brown hearth. Two tables run together with plastic, yellow table cloths.. The meal has seven courses, each one small. I eat the meat, saying nothing. I cannot bring myself to. The conversations and family anecdotes dart to and fro like machine gun fire. They are not shouted but shot loudly.
Sylvie has cooked and I have placed the table. Her brother chews his bread slowly, tearing nuggets. Her cousins have come visiting from the central Pyrenees and speak of retirement, cattle and food. They will stay for three days and nights before going on to visit other family remnants near the Med. They are friendly, mostly incurious, very short and dark skinned. Stephan has huge hands with arthritic knobbles on each of the middle fingers. He does ask me a question about the food I grow in my garden and he tells me that the old pear tree was planted there when he was a child and lived with his aunt here. Good for cooking, he says, with lots of sweet wine and cloves, baked slowly and then eaten cold. He then finds it difficult to understand my plans for wild flowers. Prairies are everywhere in the Pyrenees, he scoffs and you cannot get the orchids to grow anywhere but where they choose. Quite right, I can't help but agree with him, but I`m not just using native seed. I`m mixing in American prairie seed. He sits up hard and stares at me. How is that? I explain in the best way I can and earn a quick couple of nods. Is that just a little less than approval?
That date again; the gathering smaller. The mayor reads from a journal recovered after the war. He speaks hesitantly about the lost and stolen lives, the families stripped and bereft. Holocaust Memorial day, the 27th. January. A bomb explodes somewhere on the Israeli border.
It is raining. The snow melted away several days ago and is a memory of luminant softness and wood smoke.
Seven of us eat next to a great brown hearth. Two tables run together with plastic, yellow table cloths.. The meal has seven courses, each one small. I eat the meat, saying nothing. I cannot bring myself to. The conversations and family anecdotes dart to and fro like machine gun fire. They are not shouted but shot loudly.
Sylvie has cooked and I have placed the table. Her brother chews his bread slowly, tearing nuggets. Her cousins have come visiting from the central Pyrenees and speak of retirement, cattle and food. They will stay for three days and nights before going on to visit other family remnants near the Med. They are friendly, mostly incurious, very short and dark skinned. Stephan has huge hands with arthritic knobbles on each of the middle fingers. He does ask me a question about the food I grow in my garden and he tells me that the old pear tree was planted there when he was a child and lived with his aunt here. Good for cooking, he says, with lots of sweet wine and cloves, baked slowly and then eaten cold. He then finds it difficult to understand my plans for wild flowers. Prairies are everywhere in the Pyrenees, he scoffs and you cannot get the orchids to grow anywhere but where they choose. Quite right, I can't help but agree with him, but I`m not just using native seed. I`m mixing in American prairie seed. He sits up hard and stares at me. How is that? I explain in the best way I can and earn a quick couple of nods. Is that just a little less than approval?
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
45.
January 15th.
The wood, the wild place, der wald. It can only truly be viewed from a clearing, a glade where the light streams. This day the snow lies in heavy silence and even the depths of the forest are backlit by reflected sunlight. A red squirrel scoots along a diagonal, from one tree to another and vibrates a fringe of snow which drops then in a long, tremulous shower. The ditch is frozen in splinters, the moss banks, sheltered from the snowfall show intricate patterns and webs of multiple hues of green. The wood holds its breath while I stand as a living mark amongst wraiths of past lives imprinted in the undergrowth and in the tree barks, in this forest that has been worked, cut and replanted over the last 3 centuries.
England seems a far memory already. It was odd to return to the house here, see it for what it is, constructed out of an earlier workshop or barn. Its 18C origins jolted me into a scurrying fervour of small renovations until the snow fell in soft, flat flakes for 2 days and to resist the call of the outside would have been a wasted chance. The house could wait: as it often has.
I watch two starlings take the hoar frost from the undersides of twigs, as drink, as I return along the lane. Sylvie is cracking the ice at the base of her downpipe drain, outside her house. Bonne annees have been exchanged days ago and the new year creeps on fast. Soon the village will remember the dead from the concentration camps once again, while in Gaza the rubble of an ill balanced conflict memorialises the future.
January 15th.
The wood, the wild place, der wald. It can only truly be viewed from a clearing, a glade where the light streams. This day the snow lies in heavy silence and even the depths of the forest are backlit by reflected sunlight. A red squirrel scoots along a diagonal, from one tree to another and vibrates a fringe of snow which drops then in a long, tremulous shower. The ditch is frozen in splinters, the moss banks, sheltered from the snowfall show intricate patterns and webs of multiple hues of green. The wood holds its breath while I stand as a living mark amongst wraiths of past lives imprinted in the undergrowth and in the tree barks, in this forest that has been worked, cut and replanted over the last 3 centuries.
England seems a far memory already. It was odd to return to the house here, see it for what it is, constructed out of an earlier workshop or barn. Its 18C origins jolted me into a scurrying fervour of small renovations until the snow fell in soft, flat flakes for 2 days and to resist the call of the outside would have been a wasted chance. The house could wait: as it often has.
I watch two starlings take the hoar frost from the undersides of twigs, as drink, as I return along the lane. Sylvie is cracking the ice at the base of her downpipe drain, outside her house. Bonne annees have been exchanged days ago and the new year creeps on fast. Soon the village will remember the dead from the concentration camps once again, while in Gaza the rubble of an ill balanced conflict memorialises the future.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
44.
Dec.20th.
I'm sitting on an old elephant leg of a sweet chestnut stump. It is my last contact with my little heaven until the new year and it is not far off a year since I began this journal. The sun still shines, although weaker today. It filters through the twig canopy, dances around my boots where the deep, red brown leaf litter folds into them and touches me to contemplate my luck at not being in the pre Christmas, trench life of the streets. I soon will be.
I have come to realise that depression does not swoop romantically like some enveloping cloak, some poetic miasma; rather it is triggered in my case, by loss, change and weather! So I have made the biggest change I could, to shake it by the horns. I'm obviously driven by ‘projects’. I fear to think what I will be like when I can’t take them on.
The longest night approaches,-- the winter solstice. I find this infinitely cheering. Snowdrop and daffodil shoots are appearing under the plum trees, where I planted some two autumns past, to mix with the old originals.
England calls and I'm off to be enveloped by family and the manicured patterns of familiar landscape.
Dec.20th.
I'm sitting on an old elephant leg of a sweet chestnut stump. It is my last contact with my little heaven until the new year and it is not far off a year since I began this journal. The sun still shines, although weaker today. It filters through the twig canopy, dances around my boots where the deep, red brown leaf litter folds into them and touches me to contemplate my luck at not being in the pre Christmas, trench life of the streets. I soon will be.
I have come to realise that depression does not swoop romantically like some enveloping cloak, some poetic miasma; rather it is triggered in my case, by loss, change and weather! So I have made the biggest change I could, to shake it by the horns. I'm obviously driven by ‘projects’. I fear to think what I will be like when I can’t take them on.
The longest night approaches,-- the winter solstice. I find this infinitely cheering. Snowdrop and daffodil shoots are appearing under the plum trees, where I planted some two autumns past, to mix with the old originals.
England calls and I'm off to be enveloped by family and the manicured patterns of familiar landscape.
43.
December 18th.
It has snowed, blown, rained and dusted with snow yet again; bitterly cold, tart, stingingly cold, but now the sun shines pure, unsullied, low but reaching 15 deg. today, according to my thermometer.
Hullabaloos have come and gone. Francois the gentle giant claimed one of his lopey, hunting dogs had had its belly torn open by a badger, a blaireau. He had been searching for it since Wednesday when it had escaped from the pack shed. Amazing how sentimental he was about the animal. On Friday he found it, licking its wounds behind a fallen tree about 2 k. from its home. Not a boar, he claimed; the worst injuries come from badger attacks.
From centuries of habit the European badger is much more aggressive than the British one; bigger too. Because of diminishing space and smaller territories the British badger has become much more socialised, tight family groups stay together and the trodden paths reach back in their memories to thousands of years of use. Hence they are so easily killed on roads as they follow their ancient ways which have been sliced by human development. In France the male blaireau treads over enormous territory and these solitary males are defensive in their attacks..
When I walk through a particular copse and follow a rutted path I notice the rows of badger toilets, dug cavities filled with black deposits of seeds, iridescent insect shells, small bones and hair. I wouldn`t like to meet up with a brock here, one evening.
Francois has his old dad living with him, or rather, just- living with him. Frederique is 97 years old and spent 5 years in a prisoner of war camp, in Germany, used as slave labour. He is gentle, breathless and a little irritable, nowadays; hardly surprising. All the men of this family have resonant, booming voices. Their gabble of Occitaine sounds like an Italian collective. But Fred speaks in a whisper now and his son, grandson, daughter in law and great grand son all care for him preciously. It`s wonderful to witness. They know what he is saying, what he wants, where he wants to go and they push him around in his clackety wheel chair that must have emerged from the grenier, once used, perhaps, by his own father.
December 18th.
It has snowed, blown, rained and dusted with snow yet again; bitterly cold, tart, stingingly cold, but now the sun shines pure, unsullied, low but reaching 15 deg. today, according to my thermometer.
Hullabaloos have come and gone. Francois the gentle giant claimed one of his lopey, hunting dogs had had its belly torn open by a badger, a blaireau. He had been searching for it since Wednesday when it had escaped from the pack shed. Amazing how sentimental he was about the animal. On Friday he found it, licking its wounds behind a fallen tree about 2 k. from its home. Not a boar, he claimed; the worst injuries come from badger attacks.
From centuries of habit the European badger is much more aggressive than the British one; bigger too. Because of diminishing space and smaller territories the British badger has become much more socialised, tight family groups stay together and the trodden paths reach back in their memories to thousands of years of use. Hence they are so easily killed on roads as they follow their ancient ways which have been sliced by human development. In France the male blaireau treads over enormous territory and these solitary males are defensive in their attacks..
When I walk through a particular copse and follow a rutted path I notice the rows of badger toilets, dug cavities filled with black deposits of seeds, iridescent insect shells, small bones and hair. I wouldn`t like to meet up with a brock here, one evening.
Francois has his old dad living with him, or rather, just- living with him. Frederique is 97 years old and spent 5 years in a prisoner of war camp, in Germany, used as slave labour. He is gentle, breathless and a little irritable, nowadays; hardly surprising. All the men of this family have resonant, booming voices. Their gabble of Occitaine sounds like an Italian collective. But Fred speaks in a whisper now and his son, grandson, daughter in law and great grand son all care for him preciously. It`s wonderful to witness. They know what he is saying, what he wants, where he wants to go and they push him around in his clackety wheel chair that must have emerged from the grenier, once used, perhaps, by his own father.
Monday, November 10, 2008
42.
November 4th.
I have decided to do yesterday`s walk again, this time in the morning. The heavy frost has cut off the sap from the remaining leaves and they are falling from their wounds, adding to the soft underfoot feel. I know I can`t say that I`m leading a solitary life like an arctic sole explorer but the din that used to accompany my life seems a distant memory. The schools, the children, the traffic, the sirens, the accelerating motors and the month long, British show -off of fireworks in October/November. : pah! Living on my own here is a delicate luxury which may change at any moment, so when I`m walking or gardening I pass through mini worlds: the breathing of cells, the flowing of juices, the movements of microcosms. I listen to the quiet yet am super sensitive to all the clamour of nature around me .
I love the ruins around here. That`s something England lacks as they all have been snapped up by property developing projects. Barn owls, little owls, edible doormice, swallows and martens all use ruined walls and rooves. Though the forests seem better groomed than those in Britain, there are still dead wood, fallen trunks and abandoned boles to make abundant worlds. The wood ants are inactive this cold day; no troops marching across my path, but a red squirrel darts along an oak branch, only a metre from my head showering it with stars of frost.
When I reach the small summit the midday sun is really warm. I sit on a rock and sift seeds from the giant yellow gentian skeletons that stand like frayed soldier uniforms in formation.
Three buzzards mieew to each other as they circle the tree tops . They are below me for the moment and as they wheel and turn I can see their whiteish bibs.
November 4th.
I have decided to do yesterday`s walk again, this time in the morning. The heavy frost has cut off the sap from the remaining leaves and they are falling from their wounds, adding to the soft underfoot feel. I know I can`t say that I`m leading a solitary life like an arctic sole explorer but the din that used to accompany my life seems a distant memory. The schools, the children, the traffic, the sirens, the accelerating motors and the month long, British show -off of fireworks in October/November. : pah! Living on my own here is a delicate luxury which may change at any moment, so when I`m walking or gardening I pass through mini worlds: the breathing of cells, the flowing of juices, the movements of microcosms. I listen to the quiet yet am super sensitive to all the clamour of nature around me .
I love the ruins around here. That`s something England lacks as they all have been snapped up by property developing projects. Barn owls, little owls, edible doormice, swallows and martens all use ruined walls and rooves. Though the forests seem better groomed than those in Britain, there are still dead wood, fallen trunks and abandoned boles to make abundant worlds. The wood ants are inactive this cold day; no troops marching across my path, but a red squirrel darts along an oak branch, only a metre from my head showering it with stars of frost.
When I reach the small summit the midday sun is really warm. I sit on a rock and sift seeds from the giant yellow gentian skeletons that stand like frayed soldier uniforms in formation.
Three buzzards mieew to each other as they circle the tree tops . They are below me for the moment and as they wheel and turn I can see their whiteish bibs.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
41.
NOVEMBER 3rd.
I walk today round and up the backside of my little mountain. In England I would be hearing and seeing the northern thrushes such as redwings and fieldfares, but they don`t come this far south, it seems. Instead there are blackbirds on the copses of tangled rowan, feeding on the garnet berries. Several of them together, which is unusual, alarm calling or tutting as I approach and flying off in different directions.
Because I set off in the afternoon, in order to catch the best of the autumn light, I am passing beneath the sunlit, brilliant yellow undersides of the oak leaves, the gold of the field maples and the lemon of the hazels and alongside the ancient, twisting chestnut trunks with fat bellies of swirls and knots. One car passes me in the rising lane and then I veer off onto the sodden path, which is absolutely carpeted with layers and years of accumulated leaves, the top layer is a pallette of multicolour, like a woven rag rug, deep and thick and shining.
It’s not a long trek I’m doing but a winding, steep one which takes about an hour to achieve. I can look down on the plateau, glimpse my garden, quite obvious amongst the standard patchwork colours of the other fields, and I can eventually look down on the wood’s canopy. Far up, on the peaks, there is good snow, glinting blue and orange. I aim to be back before dusk, which falls early, nowadays.
It is neither Wednesday or the weekend, so I’m safe from the hunter’s bullets. Local, weekly papers record the accidental woundings and occasional fatalities of this season of rampage. Of humans and dogs, that is.. The prey are rarely mentioned unless they are of record size. There is a silence which is not quite silence..It`s a varied, differentiated kind of silence and I find I`m listening to it. As I walk I’m thinking how many resentful eyes are watching me from inside the forest! What shall I do if I come face to face with a boar? It’s unlikely but not unknown. There are sounds of snapping twigs to make my heart skip for a second and two doe cross some distance in front of me, leaping the ditch.
When I descend, keeping an eye on the violet grey and dimming light, there is a real ambient chill. Definitely a frost to night. It was a lovely 17 degrees at midday.
NOVEMBER 3rd.
I walk today round and up the backside of my little mountain. In England I would be hearing and seeing the northern thrushes such as redwings and fieldfares, but they don`t come this far south, it seems. Instead there are blackbirds on the copses of tangled rowan, feeding on the garnet berries. Several of them together, which is unusual, alarm calling or tutting as I approach and flying off in different directions.
Because I set off in the afternoon, in order to catch the best of the autumn light, I am passing beneath the sunlit, brilliant yellow undersides of the oak leaves, the gold of the field maples and the lemon of the hazels and alongside the ancient, twisting chestnut trunks with fat bellies of swirls and knots. One car passes me in the rising lane and then I veer off onto the sodden path, which is absolutely carpeted with layers and years of accumulated leaves, the top layer is a pallette of multicolour, like a woven rag rug, deep and thick and shining.
It’s not a long trek I’m doing but a winding, steep one which takes about an hour to achieve. I can look down on the plateau, glimpse my garden, quite obvious amongst the standard patchwork colours of the other fields, and I can eventually look down on the wood’s canopy. Far up, on the peaks, there is good snow, glinting blue and orange. I aim to be back before dusk, which falls early, nowadays.
It is neither Wednesday or the weekend, so I’m safe from the hunter’s bullets. Local, weekly papers record the accidental woundings and occasional fatalities of this season of rampage. Of humans and dogs, that is.. The prey are rarely mentioned unless they are of record size. There is a silence which is not quite silence..It`s a varied, differentiated kind of silence and I find I`m listening to it. As I walk I’m thinking how many resentful eyes are watching me from inside the forest! What shall I do if I come face to face with a boar? It’s unlikely but not unknown. There are sounds of snapping twigs to make my heart skip for a second and two doe cross some distance in front of me, leaping the ditch.
When I descend, keeping an eye on the violet grey and dimming light, there is a real ambient chill. Definitely a frost to night. It was a lovely 17 degrees at midday.
Monday, November 03, 2008
40.
End October.
I have been in grey Manchester; family affairs. The sounds there were of sirens and incessant traffic. How can the atmosphere take all this? Well, it can't, can it? I don't notice any diminishing car useage.
On the top of an old mill, on an appartment verandah, a little dunnock visited everyday for my leavings of cake crumbs and cheese. Strange, as it`s normally a lurking kind of bird, low down in the shrubbery. There it was several levels above the canals and city! I felt starved of greenery, of autumn leaves, of light. The people were more than friendly, I have to add, nevertheless.
Now I`m back in France, with the remaining, brilliant leaf colours surviving the high winds and rain that the last few days have suffered. It is 14deg. today but feels warmer in the bits of sunshine. I`ve picked every apple and they lie in layers, in card boxes under the stairs, where I can inspect them every so often for signs of rotting. Same thing for the potatoes, only they are in sacks in the barn, raised on bricks to protect them, hopefully, from rats.
The day of la Tousssaint passed with a fair and a village meal in the Halle, when my feet nearly froze off. About 40 people sat at the trestle tables and ate and drank as merrily as they always do. I managed to avoid the servings of meat without much fuss. A brazier was lit in the Halle centre but it is time for the thermals and layers of socks, I think. The clothing of Bertrand and Emile seem to remain the same although Marie was wearing a purple anorak which looked wonderfully new.
End October.
I have been in grey Manchester; family affairs. The sounds there were of sirens and incessant traffic. How can the atmosphere take all this? Well, it can't, can it? I don't notice any diminishing car useage.
On the top of an old mill, on an appartment verandah, a little dunnock visited everyday for my leavings of cake crumbs and cheese. Strange, as it`s normally a lurking kind of bird, low down in the shrubbery. There it was several levels above the canals and city! I felt starved of greenery, of autumn leaves, of light. The people were more than friendly, I have to add, nevertheless.
Now I`m back in France, with the remaining, brilliant leaf colours surviving the high winds and rain that the last few days have suffered. It is 14deg. today but feels warmer in the bits of sunshine. I`ve picked every apple and they lie in layers, in card boxes under the stairs, where I can inspect them every so often for signs of rotting. Same thing for the potatoes, only they are in sacks in the barn, raised on bricks to protect them, hopefully, from rats.
The day of la Tousssaint passed with a fair and a village meal in the Halle, when my feet nearly froze off. About 40 people sat at the trestle tables and ate and drank as merrily as they always do. I managed to avoid the servings of meat without much fuss. A brazier was lit in the Halle centre but it is time for the thermals and layers of socks, I think. The clothing of Bertrand and Emile seem to remain the same although Marie was wearing a purple anorak which looked wonderfully new.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
34
August 12th
Except for the merry swallows and one persistent greenfinch, the birds are mostly silent, while they complete their moult. The green finch persists with its declamation of grreeeet, greeeet, as if it were the world’s most precious song. Every so often the family of goldfinches descends on the seed feeder for a noisy feast and then disappears, tinkling into the distance.
It has been sunny and warm for three whole weeks. If it does rain it is obliging in the late evening. Most evenings have been gentle and balmy although there is a slant of light that is an autumnal reminder and it falls dusk by 8 o’clock.
I have been feeding a hedgehog with peanuts and raisins.. He comes every evening, when I can still just see him, in the gloaming. He snuffles and huffs excitedly when he finds the treats. I say he, because some weeks ago he carried on two or three noisy evening rituals , with another, who I presume is the female. She would have produced her young by now and I haven`t spotted them, yet .
Fetes and festivals are everywhere, Sausage fetes, fruit fetes, festivals of roses, flowers, hunting dogs and music, usually western style jazz with a bit of line dancing thrown in.
Sylvie and I drive to the nearest garden festival where I indulge myself in buying beautiful grasses and roses. She sits at an outside café, smoking, drinking coffee and eating the local snails. That sounds too proverbial to be true, as I read it back, but is really is true. I find myself enjoying Sylvie’s company more and more. She makes me laugh.
People mill about in the evenings; eating, chatting, smoking and sauntering, even in this small place. Television and air conditioner noises seep out into the warm air, through the fly net covered windows, and moths, in their supplicatory dance before the lights, play out the battle with the bats
I'm thinking already about the autumn as I pick the greengages and squeeze the pears for ripeness.
August 12th
Except for the merry swallows and one persistent greenfinch, the birds are mostly silent, while they complete their moult. The green finch persists with its declamation of grreeeet, greeeet, as if it were the world’s most precious song. Every so often the family of goldfinches descends on the seed feeder for a noisy feast and then disappears, tinkling into the distance.
It has been sunny and warm for three whole weeks. If it does rain it is obliging in the late evening. Most evenings have been gentle and balmy although there is a slant of light that is an autumnal reminder and it falls dusk by 8 o’clock.
I have been feeding a hedgehog with peanuts and raisins.. He comes every evening, when I can still just see him, in the gloaming. He snuffles and huffs excitedly when he finds the treats. I say he, because some weeks ago he carried on two or three noisy evening rituals , with another, who I presume is the female. She would have produced her young by now and I haven`t spotted them, yet .
Fetes and festivals are everywhere, Sausage fetes, fruit fetes, festivals of roses, flowers, hunting dogs and music, usually western style jazz with a bit of line dancing thrown in.
Sylvie and I drive to the nearest garden festival where I indulge myself in buying beautiful grasses and roses. She sits at an outside café, smoking, drinking coffee and eating the local snails. That sounds too proverbial to be true, as I read it back, but is really is true. I find myself enjoying Sylvie’s company more and more. She makes me laugh.
People mill about in the evenings; eating, chatting, smoking and sauntering, even in this small place. Television and air conditioner noises seep out into the warm air, through the fly net covered windows, and moths, in their supplicatory dance before the lights, play out the battle with the bats
I'm thinking already about the autumn as I pick the greengages and squeeze the pears for ripeness.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
33.
July 27th.
At the teeming market, 15km. from my village, I'm buying crystallised fruit, nuts, olives and stunningly delicious grapes. I am stopped by a stall holder who, annoyingly, knows I am English. He had been calling out, ‘Madame, madame! `, trying to catch the attention of passing women who might just be interested in his leather belts. I do not notice him calling out to males. But he yells, ‘Mees’, when I am near. I can’t resist asking him how he knows that I am English, although I think I know already. He tells me that French women saunter sexily, time on their hands; he demonstrates. Then he tells me that English women wear particular sandals and stride purposefully. He demonstrates again, perfectly. We are both laughing but I don`t buy a belt.
I come from a small town in England where 2 enormous and resonant exhaust pipes per vehicle is the norm. Here, in this part of France, it`s the little motorbikes that make their mark. Young men externalise their identity by putting their foot down in rhythmic bursts. And that’s just a very restrained way of describing it.
July 27th.
At the teeming market, 15km. from my village, I'm buying crystallised fruit, nuts, olives and stunningly delicious grapes. I am stopped by a stall holder who, annoyingly, knows I am English. He had been calling out, ‘Madame, madame! `, trying to catch the attention of passing women who might just be interested in his leather belts. I do not notice him calling out to males. But he yells, ‘Mees’, when I am near. I can’t resist asking him how he knows that I am English, although I think I know already. He tells me that French women saunter sexily, time on their hands; he demonstrates. Then he tells me that English women wear particular sandals and stride purposefully. He demonstrates again, perfectly. We are both laughing but I don`t buy a belt.
I come from a small town in England where 2 enormous and resonant exhaust pipes per vehicle is the norm. Here, in this part of France, it`s the little motorbikes that make their mark. Young men externalise their identity by putting their foot down in rhythmic bursts. And that’s just a very restrained way of describing it.
32.
July 25th.
The garden is overflowing with food of all sorts, with tomatoes, beans, salads, carrots, herbs with more aroma than I have ever smelled before, and potatoes.
Every day I go on a Colorado beetle hunt. Looking like mini humbugs, they creep to the undersides of the potato leaf, lay their patches of bright yellow eggs and munch through the foliage and stems. Then they drop to the ground to continue their damage on the roots. What is interesting is how they feign dead. I pick them off and place them carefully on a hard surface. I'm going to use the full force of my foot. But they lie inert, legs in the air, not a wiggle or wave. Do they know? I've tried the trick of turning and getting on with something else. When I turn back, they have righted themselves and are marching off with all six legs. If I stay poised over them with murderous intent, they don’t move for what seems like minutes, and I’m not very good at waiting those minutes to complete the research. The eggs need crushing too, so I spend inordinate time examining each leaf. I could spray, I know, but have resisted this, so far. I did make an evil smelling stew from all the illegal fag ends from the local bar, to the grand amusement of the owner, Antoine. ‘ Madame Alees, la jardinière, ah, ha !’ He greets me regularly, like this, and has invariably, a thin fag stuck to his bottom lip. He does wear T shirts and cool clothes and has been known to sport flip-flops.
After boiling up the butts with water in an old tin, I strained it and diluted it and began to spray the nicotine solution onto the plants, with a tied scarf over my nose The beetles were still happily busy, two hours later. For further research, I took one beetle and placed it in a jam jar. Then I sprayed the tan coloured liquid into it and waited. Lo, the creature was dead within half an hour. Maybe I shall have to refine the technique; on the other hand, my time consuming, murder campaign might be less carcinogenic.
The strawberries have come to an end and the raspberries and blackcurrants have just been harvested. I'm carefully examining the Reine Claude greengages for signs of insect damage. They will be lusciously ripe in about another month.
No birds sing except the crows and ravens, the buzzards and kites and sometimes a blackbird. All that twittering, hectic row has subsided. I hear a lark sometimes but the cuckoos and nightingales have left for another continent and thrushes, goldfinches, tits and warblers have either departed or are in a period of depressed moulting and are keeping advisedly low profiles.
July 25th.
The garden is overflowing with food of all sorts, with tomatoes, beans, salads, carrots, herbs with more aroma than I have ever smelled before, and potatoes.
Every day I go on a Colorado beetle hunt. Looking like mini humbugs, they creep to the undersides of the potato leaf, lay their patches of bright yellow eggs and munch through the foliage and stems. Then they drop to the ground to continue their damage on the roots. What is interesting is how they feign dead. I pick them off and place them carefully on a hard surface. I'm going to use the full force of my foot. But they lie inert, legs in the air, not a wiggle or wave. Do they know? I've tried the trick of turning and getting on with something else. When I turn back, they have righted themselves and are marching off with all six legs. If I stay poised over them with murderous intent, they don’t move for what seems like minutes, and I’m not very good at waiting those minutes to complete the research. The eggs need crushing too, so I spend inordinate time examining each leaf. I could spray, I know, but have resisted this, so far. I did make an evil smelling stew from all the illegal fag ends from the local bar, to the grand amusement of the owner, Antoine. ‘ Madame Alees, la jardinière, ah, ha !’ He greets me regularly, like this, and has invariably, a thin fag stuck to his bottom lip. He does wear T shirts and cool clothes and has been known to sport flip-flops.
After boiling up the butts with water in an old tin, I strained it and diluted it and began to spray the nicotine solution onto the plants, with a tied scarf over my nose The beetles were still happily busy, two hours later. For further research, I took one beetle and placed it in a jam jar. Then I sprayed the tan coloured liquid into it and waited. Lo, the creature was dead within half an hour. Maybe I shall have to refine the technique; on the other hand, my time consuming, murder campaign might be less carcinogenic.
The strawberries have come to an end and the raspberries and blackcurrants have just been harvested. I'm carefully examining the Reine Claude greengages for signs of insect damage. They will be lusciously ripe in about another month.
No birds sing except the crows and ravens, the buzzards and kites and sometimes a blackbird. All that twittering, hectic row has subsided. I hear a lark sometimes but the cuckoos and nightingales have left for another continent and thrushes, goldfinches, tits and warblers have either departed or are in a period of depressed moulting and are keeping advisedly low profiles.
Friday, August 01, 2008
31.
Mid July
I remember reading Richard Mabey`s book: Nature Cure, and as well as thinking, ‘Yes, yes, I recognise that,’ over and over again, I noticed that at that time he hadn`t been privileged enough to observe the evening vanishings of the swifts.
I am lying on the roof terrace and see and hear them as they gather, shriek, divide, rise, spiral, then swoop again. Each swoop down is followed by a higher rise and a conglomeration, until they do not descend again. There they are, like sky born frogspawn, barely audible, rising and rising, in patches and swabs which join together. Eventually there is silence, the sky is dim and the swifts have vanished. They must be swinging in some stratosphere, cradled in light air.
I juxtapose their image with that of a suffocated society living in an airless, over pixelated atmosphere and fall asleep, only to awake on the roof, stiff but not cold, and realise that no nightingales are serenading. They have left. This leaves me with a faint melancholia as it surely signifies the peak of summer. Now I have difficulty, in spite of the wet towels, in falling asleep again in my usual bed.
Mid July
I remember reading Richard Mabey`s book: Nature Cure, and as well as thinking, ‘Yes, yes, I recognise that,’ over and over again, I noticed that at that time he hadn`t been privileged enough to observe the evening vanishings of the swifts.
I am lying on the roof terrace and see and hear them as they gather, shriek, divide, rise, spiral, then swoop again. Each swoop down is followed by a higher rise and a conglomeration, until they do not descend again. There they are, like sky born frogspawn, barely audible, rising and rising, in patches and swabs which join together. Eventually there is silence, the sky is dim and the swifts have vanished. They must be swinging in some stratosphere, cradled in light air.
I juxtapose their image with that of a suffocated society living in an airless, over pixelated atmosphere and fall asleep, only to awake on the roof, stiff but not cold, and realise that no nightingales are serenading. They have left. This leaves me with a faint melancholia as it surely signifies the peak of summer. Now I have difficulty, in spite of the wet towels, in falling asleep again in my usual bed.
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