A hill and I - Spring

A story about paths, ancient wild living, wild dying - walking with ghosts...

Dearest friends, readers, writers, curious newcomers, as always, I am delighted you are here sharing a few moments of your time with me. 

A huge and heartfelt thank you.

The words to follow are about paths and terraces, flora and fauna, traditions, beliefs and remedies - a wilderness of past and present…

I was invited way back in December to guest write a post for Alexander M Crow, an offer I accepted with an equal dose of surprise and pleasure. It was perfect timing; I’d have hours and hours of wonderful free time over the festive break to produce something hopefully intelligent and interesting. I made notes, sketched maps, took hundreds of photographs while I wandered back and forth in winter flux, all for later referral in front of a blazing fire in my favourite chair. But there, inky words in my notebook, images in disorganised photo files, they stayed for countless weeks afterwards because the holiday - and the next one too - was over. Emails rolled in, work, as it has a want to do, interfered, March arrived wrapped in trickster winds with promises of warmer days turning and twisting amongst birdsong and hope.

And, not a word had I transcribed…

And, now it is no longer winter!

And, none of my notes are relevant, my photos a season out of date!

I take a(nother) long, long walk, then squirrel myself away with good tea, probably/definitely too much chocolate until, slightly exhausted - its so much more complicated (make that stressful) writing for someone who is infinitely more knowledgeable on the subject - I emerge with a finished essay.

And a huge sigh of relief!

The outline of the project very briefly:

‘“discuss a walk you take around where you live, as seen from the perspective of nature observation and through the eyes of our hunter-fisher-gatherer ancestors.”

I concentrated more on the gatherer than hunter/fisher as you will see.

This is not a work of fiction, though I have woven a little enchantment into the words which themselves are woven around the seasons of the year and the paths I choose to endlessly wander.

This is the first story of four seasons walking with ghosts on Le Paradis.

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Eastwards - dawn across Le Paradis

“The footstepping biographer never actually reached his subject; only encountered at best second-order suggestions of their earlier presence: glimpses of afterglow, retinal ghosts, psychic gossamer.”
― Robert Macfarlane

Spring Equinox - Ostra (Wed, Mar 20, 2024, 4:06 AM)

Come, walk with me a while….

Spring is drifting across the hill, there has been no explosion this year, no sudden burst of lush green rushing through the meadows, no scent of wild violets accosting my nostrils as I wander the paths. Just the frequent loud shrill of a sparrow hawk in warning as she returns, once again, to nest in our gable, a vocal reminder of a gentle turning of page as if the words on that which came before have not yet spoken all they have to say. Winter always, always wanting the final word.

For millions of years seasons have changed, one rolling silently into the other, each rejoiced for its own particular reason. Be that for spiritual or practical belief or just the sheer joy of finally stepping away from the inertia of winters slow months. For our ancestors, these beliefs being inextricably entwined with necessity blur and blend into a landscape that speaks their stories in whispers, of earth, stone, flora and fauna on a profusion of forgotten paths to forgotten times.

In the wilds of West Aveyron, in an area called Le Paradis, I walk these ancient paths holding hands with the ghosts of millennia. Calloused evidence in the raw, wild and steeply sloped, now, sparsely inhabited landscape still tangible. The lives passed before, hidden beneath layers of rock and clay, between the roots of trees, interwoven with superstition spanning countless years of seasons turning.

For over a thousand years this area, these hills and valleys and all surrounding it were a hive of activity at any given point of the year, none perhaps more so than spring. The paths I meander, so many of which were originally man-made constructions forming terraces for grape vines, crisscross the South faces. Now, all but a few tumbled piles of moss covered stones hidden entirely from view from the unknowing eye, zigzag their way up through stands of oak, sweet chestnut, and wild cherry, disappearing over meadows, all traces blended and mingled by eons of footsteps, my own adding number to those gone before me.

The grape vines that grew on these slopes are long gone, ordered destroyed by government decree in the late nineteenth and again in the early twentieth century¹. They created work for the paysans for many hundreds of years providing wine for local miners in the valleys. Stubbornly, a few plants escaping disease and subsequent banning, still grow and survive despite, now, being unmanaged. But, unkempt as they are, they thrive, branches trailing through and over the walls, the paths, up into canopies of trees, are just now beginning to swell and bud, dusty rose coloured leaves will emerge with each rise in degree of temperature. Year by year, they wind their way a few meters further along the few terraced rows that remain visible, curving in lines of history as they climb the inclines, through woodland, rambling through the trees, friends I know so well now and each volcanic stone, testament to times long gone.

It is early spring, the awakening is slow but already every path I turn onto is overhung with wild plum and blackthorn blossoming in clouds of white flowers. Honeysuckle and wild clematis ramble through and over every fallen tree and branch, every displaced stone, on a warm spring day, I walk in a drifting wave of sweet perfume. Daisies dot the meadows to each side in their age old ‘he loves me, he loves me not’ way, a few brave dandelions tremble in sunshine petals, in yet to lose its sharpness of winter, euphoric, fresh spring air.

Honeysuckle, wild plum and Lychen on blackthorn branches

And, almost every tree, plant and leaf visible has a use, especially in spring when many plants are at their most nutritious, goodness multiplied, concentrated in budding leaves, germinating seeds, now as it has been for those eons of years passed before - Flora and fauna working in harmonious symbiosis. We, human beings² have learned much from this harmony, the healing qualities of plants, the parts to use, their derivatives, those that are deadly - notably the mighty hemlock here - those that are more suited to nourish livestock - wilted ³dandelion leaves for poultry, vetch for sheep—the timber best for burning, that which can be cut for immediate use - Ash wood can be burnt when still green - that which needs to be seasoned. And, that which should never be burnt indoors—Elder which supposedly gives off cyanide gas and probably due to this reason was believed to bring ill fortune, considered witches wood.

Below these terraced paths etched in by stonewalls, Lichen covered blackthorn covers much of the scrubland, creating impenetrable thickets where the land is either too steep or too stony to work. Blackthorn timber is strong and dense, was used for tool handles and staffs, pegs to secure beams and primitive bows when and if a hunter had the good fortune to find a long and straight enough branch. It is wild boar territory, a few acres of land almost impenetrable that, at my own peril I search constantly for such a treasure⁴ but have never been so lucky.

Honeysuckle too is abundant, tangled in the briars, its pink edged fuzzy young leaves appearing courageously early, often before the month of January is but a memory. I must wait though for the sweet scented flowers until later spring months. Gathered plentifully for thousands upon thousands of years all parts were used as remedies for respiratory problems, cramps, convulsions and according to the 17th century herbalist Culpepper;

“…procures speedy delivery of women in travail… and whatsoever griefs come of cold or obstructed perspiration.”

Believed also, when used as an ointment, to clear blemishes and freckles, even sunburned skin. As such was used by ladies wishing to appear less weather worn, less paysanne to their loved ones.

I gather great armfuls…

Wild remedies gathered, passed down through the ages, infinite whispered secrets. So many forgotten, lost to the ravages of industrialisation and modern imagined necessities.

As I climb the path to the ridge running westwards, no longer tracing the lines of old terraces but animal tracks adopted by human(s), the land is sparse of vegetation by comparison to that of lower slopes. The soil here sits on mostly metamorphic rock formed by thousands upon thousands of years of volcanic movement. Indeed the many, sometimes exaggeratedly pointed hills in this area forming part of the great Massif Central, are extinct volcanoes. But, it is here, just over the ridge and to either side I meander animal made paths that never cease to beckon and beguile, my footprints, transient, over theirs, badger and hare, boar and deer, pine marten and fox, all are present through scattered copses of silver birch, their trunks still nestled in fading copper bracken. At this time of year alive with some of natures most glorious colour schemes.

Coleridge speaks of it as the 'Lady of the Woods.' It is remarkable for its lightness, grace, and elegance, and after rain it has a fragrant odour.

Betula Pendula

Though I am not stopping here for breathtaking colour, as eye-catching and magically hypnotic as it is. The under-lands awaken, sweet nutrients explode, the woodland matrix is tingling with life!

A short lived slot at the beginning of spring lasting barely fourteen days usually combined - so cleverly - with the new moon in March, is when the silver birch trees - amongst many others - are at their optimum tapping period. Birch sap has been used widely across Europe for centuries, much folklore is attached to these elegant trees, every part having its use. The sap, believed to have rejuvenating properties as well as being a strong antioxidant is without doubt the most well known, I cannot resist an afternoon in March - in hopeful optimism of miracles - idling on mossy, bracken covered banks, when the sap is almost audible in its rush to nourish the body it sits within, while I wait for silky waters to fill my jars, serenaded by birdsong from above.

Sacred moments of gathering amidst the whispers of gentle silver ghosts.

Sap collection… my first jar (right) was tainted, the tree, though in appearance looked healthy, was diseased.

I turn from the silver birch, leaving my jars to collect the sap, startling a deer as I leave, white bottom flashing as it bounds through bracken and bramble. Taking a long stretch of open farmland towards La Badoque flooded in places due to recent heavy rainfall, I notice one half of a Wild Cherry fallen at the edge of the land (prunus avian) a victim of disease or perhaps drought. Bark is peeling in thin sheets from the trunk, I make a mental note to return with a bag big enough to carry a few kilos. In common with rhubarb leaves, cherry bark, when macerated in cold water until stinking horribly makes an effective insecticide. Our ancestors used it as a head lice treatment… I imagine the smell alone may well have evicted such unwanted guests!

Woodland and hill are quietly waiting in winter attire for the optimum day to unfurl, florescent green moss covering the many thousands of meters of grey stone a sharp contrast to the faded residue of winter. Each moss covered stone laid, touched by many hands before mine, speaks a thousand stories of other calloused, sun burned hands, of straw hats and sore backs. Of rustic tools made from wood and iron. Of families, some, in this lost and almost forgotten part of the country, still working the land in much the same way as it has always been. I wonder, as I follow the lines, if the monks that introduced wine to this region all those centuries ago, used the moss as pillows to draw out impure thoughts as was their belief…

I continue, walking eastwards, now along the ridge, towards the tiny hamlet of Negrin, where just one family remain, I stop a while at the only working vineyard on the hill. There are perhaps less than five hundred vines, planted four years ago on the only south facing plateau. There are no terraces, no moss covered walls. There is no need, the owner has the history and stories of the past etched in his blood, on his weathered face and hands. As I pass, his pruning for the day completed, he greets me with a smile, he knows me well. He knows the English lady that wanders the hill, talking to stone and tree and flower...

We sit a while as the sun sets over the vines, beside him, his dog and his tools. The same tools used by his father and his before him, they too containing stories, the remnants of a time before ours.

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I could write pages and pages of details on the remedies and uses of all that grows here on Le Paradis but at the risk of boring you and losing myself in irrelevances I have chosen only those plants which are most prolific.

If you have read any of my previous letters you will have established already that I walk - endlessly - with all senses open, I place one foot in front of another with one purpose; to know this hill, so aptly named Le Paradis, as if it were my own garden. To see, hear and feel the experience of every detail of natures myriad wondrous gifts both past and present. For twenty years I have had - and still have - a burning need to know every change, every tree that falls, every bird that calls, every first flower, first leaf to unfurl.

Every story.

I hope you enjoyed this early spring wander in wonder of past and present, that you will return in summer for another…

With love

1. Almost all the vines in Europe , France being hit especially hard, were wiped out by the parasite Phylloxera in the late 19th century, replanted after it was found that grafting European roots to new American varieties yielded an exceptional crop and then banned again on the premise that the wine caused blindness - an invented story by those concerned with over production.

2. The presence of Neanderthal man has been found here dating back to 130,000 and 35,000 years BC, flint tools were discovered and two sites have been the subject of modern archaeological excavations

3. Dandelion (Taraxacum officinale), in French is called Pissenlit - “piss” meaning exactly as it sounds, “en lit” meaning in bed, this due to the diuretic effect of its components.

4. My husband is a traditional bow maker, I am always on the lookout for good straight branches, Blackthorn, Plum, Cherry and Elder especially.

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Let's Take A Walk