early autumn in the woods

This is what early September feels like when you're living in the woods for a week - misty and chilly when we wake up. Our view is eclipsed by trees that sit on our hilltop obscuring everything a few feet above. 

We are out of the tent at 8 am, the sun breaks over the hill by 9am. By eleven, all hints of autumn will be lost again to the hot sun.

For those of us not re-building a barn, a Turkish novel, an audio book, bramble bushes and hazelnut trees await me today. Such possibilities!

big sky

   
It was a day of clarity and blue skies. 

A day spent living out in the open, beneath the big Pyrenean sky. 

A day that began early at dawn when we were woken by cows grazing about our tent and ended at dusk as I cartwheeled in the setting sun.

From its rising to its setting, I have been soaking up every beam of this inescapable, soul-stirring Summer sun.

At a moment when we desperately need healing, it is like a river of love flowing down upon this hurting land.

 

 

cowbells and parachutes

Pulled from a heavy sleep by the tinkling of cow bells. There was just time to pack up the tent and brew a quick coffee before the parapentistes arrived.

light pollution

I was in desperate need of a break from my translation project. [Nearly 12,000 words behind me, only another three thousand or so to go]. 

N came home to rescue me from my dictionaries and laptop, and brought me over the Tourmalet for a night of wild camping.  

We set up our camp on the crest of a hill, overlooking the barn in Serris. 

After dinner, we made hot chocolate and sat on the crest of the hill watching the sunlight drain from the sky, to be replaced by the lights of Bagnères and Tarbes.

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows..."

Summer is finally upon us, and the thyme is fragrant as we walk through the fields and meadows above the valley.

Wild Mountain Thyme growing around the Lac du Gaube

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, 

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, 

Quite overcanopied with luscious woodbine, 

With sweet musk-roses, 

and with eglantine" 

Oberon, King of the Fairies - A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare. Act 2, Scene 1

j'aime la montagne

 Parce qu'elle est là, dans mes yeux, dans ma tête.

Parce qu'elle est belle et fragile aussi ; elle nous rappelle combien nous sommes petits face à elle et combien est grande notre responsabilité à la protéger.

Près d'elle, je me simplifie.

Loin du futile, elle m'enseigne la langue de l'essentiel.

picnic in the woods

Tuesday 11.30am.

I've been translating since seven o'clock and my late morning French class has just been cancelled at the last minute.

The sun is shining and I've had enough of lighting policies for one day.

There is only one thing for it. We grab the picnic basket, fill it with good things (organic spelt loaf and tomatoes, goats cheese, ripe peaches, olives and a thermos of chai tea) and head up for a dejeuner sur l'herbe in the fields above St Sauveur.

We spread picnic blanket and map of the valley out on the grass. Perched on a patch of grass on an otherwise wooded hillside, we have a sublime view up towards Barèges, across to Chèze and up to the pic du Bergons. We eat slowly in the midday sun, spreading copious amounts of bûche de chevre onto thick slices of the slightly nutty spelt loaf. Only one thing missing: on a oublié le vin. 

I drink in the view, watching the clouds gather and disperse on the Soum de Moustayou peak which towers above our place. Nico plays the favourite game of map maniacs, 'Spot the Peak'. In the long grass around us, bumblebees lazily gather pollen, ants occasionally nibble my bare feet and scent of heather and wild mountain thyme wafts through the air.

...After a couple of hours we feel a little more energetic and go on a foraging mission, rooting out wild herbs (thyme and chives) and mushrooms. We gather a modest basketful but are somewhat disappointed that the mushrooms are so thin on the ground today. Then we cross an old, beret-clad chap rooting around in the long grass and realise that, when in competition with un ancien, we are lucky to have found anything at all.

All too soon it is time to head back down to the village. There is just one more foraging spot that we have to stop by on the way, a little café by Napoléon bridge, where we find some delicious ice-creams waiting for us by the roadside...

"If you have a garden..."

We had a garden. But our little veggie patch is no more. 

Compared to the destruction all around, the loss of life, of possessions, of livelihood and the months of disruption that lie ahead, it seems almost shameful for me to be weeping over a few lost potatoes.

But I feel so heart-broken at the knowledge that our seedlings are now under a mess of mud and stones, that our potatoes are now bobbing about in the Atlantic.

I found pottering in our garden so restorative and therapeutic, and had been looking forward to continuing throughout the summer season.


Cicero said, "If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need."

We might not have a garden any more, but we still have each other, and a roof over our heads. Which is a darn sight more than some people in our valley right now.

And besides, I've also still got a heap of books by my bed just waiting to be read.  

the flood

It's hard to know what to write just now. A devastating flood [une crue] hit the valley a week ago, ripping out roads, washing away houses, leaving three people dead.

 
We've been without power, electricity and water for the last couple of days.

The waters have receded now, power is restored and the road out of the valley is safe once again. But the village looks like a war zone. There are police and soldiers everywhere, helicopters flying over head.

 

Even the French President has been to visit, to survey the damage, to shake people's hands, [toca maneta] as the old people say.  

 

 
There is only one subject of discussion on everyone's lips. But I'm finding it a bit hard to take it all in just now. So if you don't mind, I'll leave it there for now...

the longest day

Linger on paths, on the hillside, in the meadows. Soak in all the sunlight, turn not a ray away. 

It's the day we've longed for since the Winter Solstice. The longest day. 

We planned to spend ours elsewhere. In some unknown city, somewhere down there. Soaking up the rhythms of the Fête de la musique long into the night. 

But instead, we shall spend it here in the valley, with the swollen Bastan still roaring by and the streets still covered in mud. 

Trying to make sense of it all. The devastation but also the compassion of strangers. The strength and the solidarity of the community. The power of Mother Nature in reclaiming what is hers.

There will be many hours in this longest day. Sometimes, I imagine them to pass quickly, like water in a rushing stream. But I've had enough of rushing water for the time being. 

On this Longest Day, I want to savour every single one of these sunlit hours as they lead up to those final golden ones, the hours we have reclaimed from the night.