in these green mountains

“If you asked me why I live in these green mountains

I would laugh at myself. My soul is at rest.”

Li Po (701-762)

Mountains get into your blood. After almost five years of living in the Pyrenees, I miss their familiar contours when I go away. I am used to their monumental presence, the way they seem so fixed and eternal, and yet offer a visage that seems to be constantly changing.

These mountains are indeed green, but they are also sometimes white, golden, grey or blue...
Every day the first thing I do is look up at the mountains, the unfolding peaks that tower over our little valley village to the east and to the west. Nothing else seems quite so satisfying.  

out of the woods

It’s just gone 4pm on a stifling hot Monday afternoon in June. We're on our way back from Brittany, back down south to our valley home.

And we’re still driving, driving, driving through the Landes. Over 300 miles of France lies behind us, but we’re not out of the woods just yet. There is still at least another four hours until we reach the mountains.

Nico is valiantly driving on, despite the heat. I'm staring blankly out of the back window, mesmerized by the flickering light passing between this endless stretch of pine-trees, gorse and bracken.

In most literary accounts, the Landes, this seemingly endless stretch of wilderness between Bordeaux and the mountainous border is often described as despairing and relentless. Many writers see it as a deliberate attempt by the inhabitants of the south west of France to create such despair amongst outsiders attempting to journey through it, that they give up and turn back round before arriving chez eux, thus leaving them in peace.

In some respects, this interpretation is correct. As believe it or not, this stretch of ‘moor land’ (literal translation of ‘landes’) is entirely man-made. Up until a couple of centuries ago, this area which is as flat as a pancake was nothing but a fairly impassable swampland, notorious as a place for outlaws and epidemics of malaria. Starting in the mid sixteenth century, successive powers ordained the reclamation of the land through the mass sowing of gourbet (marram grass) and the planting of thousands of pine and gorse seedlings. The work continued through successive generations. By the time of Napoleon III, the mouth of the Adour river was finally fixed at Bayonne and most of the coastal and inner marshland had been converted to dry land. The early nineteenth century was the glory days of the area, as the pine trees supplying both timber and resin became the fortune of the department.

Today, these same trees are still an important asset for the area. They are also a rather welcomed change after the mind-numbing monotony of the road  for the past eight hours since we left Brittany early this morning. The yellows of gorse and greens of ferns at the feet of the towering pines sooth my tired eyes as we journey yet further south…

…We’re still driving through the Landes, but the landscape is at last becoming noticeably less flat. Soon we shall arrive at Aire-sur-Ardour for a welcomed stretch of the legs by the river. Then it will be another hour and a half before we get that elusive first glimpse of the mountains just north of Tarbes. If we manage to get there before the storm breaks, that is…

breathing space

A pause had been in order for a very long time. A pause from work. A pause from the valley.

I left for Dorset, returned in Normandy. Now we are in Brittany to rest beside the sea. These weeks spent with my family and belle-famille are starting to resemble an early spring ritual now. Off we go in search of the elusive Spring that still shows no sign of turning up back down in our mountains, recharging our batteries and renewing links with our points d'ancrage.

fatigue

Lately, fatigue has once more been a heavy weight around my neck. Not the everyday tiredness that comes from leading a hectic life. Nor the Sunday morning sluggishness and lethargy be-known to students brought on by one too many sugary cups of coffee, frequent late nights and not enough fresh vegetables. Rather an exhaustion that greets you when you wake in the morning, that a good night sleep won't lift. A tiredness so consuming it seeps into your bones, that could drain away all happiness if you let it do so.

flotsam and jetsom

 

We've been walking in woodlands, across meadows and through salt marshes. But today I am in my favourite place, beside the sea. I walk along the shore at a snail's pace. I take baby steps. It's frustratingly slow and I seem to tire very easily at the moment. But this will have to do for now.

The sea  invigorates me. I feel the breath rush out of my lungs and the sharp intake of new air. The tang of salt spray, the sound of surf, the call of the sea birds.

Spindle in hand, I walk slowly and carefully, just at that place where the waters and the sand overlap.

I walk slowly because I am tired today. But also to keep the yarn that I am slowly creating from breaking and loosing the whole thing to the sea...

As I walk, as I spin, I find other fibres twisted together by man but also spun by Mother Nature herself, thrown up from the depths of the sea's belly to rest here a while on the sand.

once again

The wheel has been turning since I got back. Singles spun from fluffy clouds. Wrapped back together in a loving embrace. Once again, I am back at my wheel. For the first time, I've been spinning intentionally. Conscious of what I am creating. Conscious of my mistakes, of my successes. Conscious also of the energy it takes me to do so. I spin in short bursts, doing a little here and there, when the fatigue is not so great. My thoughts revolve around the materials, the colours, the textures, the combinations. I breath the wild chaos of my making room. And again. And again. It feels so good, so right.

the things that keep us up at night

It's not the ache behind the eyes,

the loss of appetite or

the painful limbs.

The pallid skin or the freezing hands.

Neither is it the lost years.

The exams left untaken,

The high heels left unworn,

or the broken dreams. 

Rather, it is the perception of others,

their lazy comments or ignorant

judgements. Their unwillingness

to understand. To accept.

Their incessant questions and their hurtful words

muttered under their breath, which we

broach without comment.

These, not the fatigue nor the pain, are the things that

eat away at our lives, that mark us out

that keep us up at night.

the evening I returned

The evening I returned, I walked with in the lanes of rural Normandy, our first time side by side for nearly six weeks.

The evening I returned, we walked quietly amongst the swaths of Old Maid's lace, running our fingers through the blooms, almost too shy to speak. He picked me occasional blooms, handing them to me with a smile in his wide greenish brown eyes.

The evening I returned, We watched the speckled cows grazing in the orchard. We listened to the song thrush singing into the summer sky. He held me in his arms and whispered "Welcome back" into my ear, over and over and over.

The evening I returned, he held me in the fields and I felt both the warmth of him enclosing me and a light breeze caressing my skin. I looked up at the near midsummer sky, and it was as if this evening would go on forever. 

Normandie / La baie du Mont St Michel

 

Heavy sky. Shifting sands. Speckled cows. Biting wind. Hurried picnic with my sweetheart. 

Normandie / Villedieu les Poêles

Normandy, specifically the countryside around my Aunt's home in La Manche was my first taste of France. I've been coming here since I was a little girl, loosing myself in the country lanes and wild flower meadows of the bocage. 

It was a delight to stop by here on my way back to France. To walk along one of my favourite childhood paths. And to visit one of my favourite museums, loosing myself in the antique bobbins and lace for well over an hour.