A hill and I - Summer

Part two - star gazing and river walks…

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 for returning for this second of four essays exploring the paths and terraces, flora and fauna, traditions, beliefs and remedies on and surrounding the hill I live on - a wilderness of past and present entwined in seasonal change.

For those of you who are new to A hill and I and would like to (t)read the paths of Spring, you’ll find a link at the bottom of the page for the first essay and for those who may - like me - have read so many other incredible pieces of writing here on

Substack Writers

since that you can’t remember the first, here is a recap;

The outline of the project very briefly:

I was invited way back in December 2023 to guest write a post for Alexander M Crow, an offer I accepted with an equal dose of surprise and pleasure.

Alex asked this;

‘“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 concentrate less on the hunter/fisher than the gatherer of remedies and those are not always what you’d expect, as you will see. Remedies can take many forms!

It 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 second essay of the four seasons, whispering of natures ways and my endlessly walking Le Paradis.

My summer walk….

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Earl morning light on Le Paradis. Early June….

“Paths are the habits of a landscape. They are acts of consensual making. It's hard to create a footpath on your own...Paths connect. This is their first duty and their chief reason for being. They relate places in a literal sense, and by extension they relate people.

Paths are consensual, too, because without common care and common practice they disappear: overgrown by vegetation, ploughed up or built over (though they may persist in the memorious substance of land law). Like sea channels that require regular dredging to stay open, paths NEED walking.”
― Robert MacFarlane, The Old Ways: A Journey on Foot

Summer Solstice - Jun 20, 2024, 10:50 PM

Little by little through usually ever warming days of June, summer breathes its idleness in almost suffocating eupnea over the hill, day after hot day of dry, dusty air hang in undulating waves, every long hour a heady, burning, breathless act in an attempt to search out cool. Only the faintest scent of faded Tilieul¹ drifts enticingly on an occasional balmy breeze to distract from the lethargy.

These are sultry, dry months in the wild hills of West Aveyron. Time stands still. The air stands still. Neither sound nor colour have changed in all the millennia passed before us. Dawn slides gently across the horizon in palest of lemon turning, without stopping for the apricot glow of earlier spring months, to molten silvery white which lingers in a sky devoid of any other colour of texture for most of the day. The hill is resting. Only an occasional fierce storm will succeed in hustling its apathy from complete inertia.

The wind that precedes the storm….

The inhabitants wild or otherwise are restless now, the harvest and storing has already begun, a seemingly endless task of gathering and preserving for the cold winter days ahead. As I meander up the hill the tiny merises² are noticeably absent underfoot, I search amidst the branches for a taste of their tart sweetness but find only two tiny berries within reach. These trees are hardy and resistant, they have been important to both human and animal since Neolithic man roamed alongside deer and wild boar. Merisier is still a sort after timber for crafting into fine furniture, the berries still collected to make a winter syrup high in anti-oxydants and vitamin C, even the stalks of the cherries are kept for a tisane used for a variety of complaints. Wild boar spend many night time hours snuffling and turning the earth for these tiny fruit though they will find slim pickings in this harvest.

Hazy days of heat waves drift across stubble where barley and wheat once swayed and when the heat allows it I join the drifting. From the corner of my eye or ear perhaps, I sense tiny movements; field mice dart deftly into their tiny earth bound homes, hundreds of tiny crickets leap to safety at the sound of my thunderous footfall. Cattle bellow mournfully, molested by incessant buzzing flies searching for moisture, a few brave sparrows and a meadow lark sing halfhearted, listless notes but for all the weeks of summer there is no other sound. This deeply evocative music that has not changed for eons, their iambic verse is the song of summer.

More often than not though, an ever present necessity for seeking cooler air in the valley, is all encompassing. Summer music still fills the air but unbearable heat is less clingingly oppressive. Walking the trail leading from high, sweltering meadows down to the river, the constant cacophony of crickets is replaced with the less frantic hum of cicadas. Or perhaps, their song is more frantic than I know… these, too short lived, latent summer visitors, singing from tree tops filling the air with sound, sense the number of true summer days, adults live only as long as the very best of summer lasts and the time it takes them to reproduce. Whether as larvae, nymphs or adults they are a rare sight, most will still be quietly incubating in bark and earth until their metamorphic moment arrives. I cannot help but feel they deserve more time to serenade each other …

This year the river in the valley named Riou Viou³ is flowing still, winter and spring rain - as yet to end - has been abundant. Walking the tumbled stones of a dry river bed or paddling shallow pools where water is trapped and has ceased flowing will be an unlikely pastime this summer, saving trapped troutling also - I hope. Likewise perching on boulders dangling hot dusty feet in the river or floating lazily in the only swimming hole.

Cool reflections of water boatmen in the of the swimming hole…

In the sizzling heat of a summers afternoon I seize these days at every opportunity with infinite gratitude. The river has stories to tell, Kingfishers to be amazed by as they dart so swiftly in swoops and turns to trap water boatmen, damsel flies, cray fish and yes, troutling too.

Damsel fly form the order Odonata (suborder Zygoptera) - Demoiselles (FR)

Seeking out fresh cool air where the suns rays barely pierce the dense canopies of trees, succumbing to the softness of fragrant mossy earth; many free hours can be passed this way, conserving energy a necessity to stay hydrated and cool, a justifiable excuse to lay down a while, find a soft grassy hillock and rest while watching and wondering, with constant amazement, how nature looks still so at ease. Only under the shade of old oak and chestnut trees is there gentle respite from the relentless heat, where sunlight is painted in stripes made shimmery with leaf light, where the air whispers rather than shouts. Perhaps this year will be kinder… whether it is or it isn’t, traditions will continue. The first cut of winter hay is already baled and stocked in dry barns, the barley swaying now long, golden beards in warm summer breezes, is ripening, harvesting will be the last dusty endeavor until tall maize is mature enough to cut in early autumn.

Almost all original paths have been so neglected or forgotten, left to the will of the wild they are mostly no longer visible. Those that were formed as connections between residents and farms gone completely, ploughed in to the hill with time or simply reclaimed by natures rampant resources. The original cobbled lane used for thousands of years before me is still navigable in places but was replaced by a more direct tarmac and concrete route during WWII. This new lane winds down the west side of the hill bordered by ancient trees and farmland and just before connecting with the main road veers off back to the East down to the river then onwards to the small villages of Ruhle and Auzits.

I use the original chemin⁴ often; Le Chemin qui mène Bramarigues à la rivière⁵ which passes just below my home skirting both sheep fields as it leads down to the valley bottom, in its entirety is difficult to navigate. Overgrown with briars, blackthorn, honeysuckle and ancient Elder, the branches are now heavy with ripening fruit holding all the healing goodness for winter remedies and food in their glossy berries. I am hampered by all of these for many hundreds of meters, in sections where wild is at its densest, onward direction is invisible without the use of the cadastre. This ancient path used by residents on the hill to lead cattle and sheep down to the river to drink forms a small part of the track Seth and I revealed during confinement in April and May 2020. My feet tread its path every day, fueling my passion and determination to keep open at least one link to tradition and the old ways.

Every year I uncover a little more…

None of this is more calming or healing than a balmy summers night. After closing in my chickens I walk the lane to its furthest accessible point to sit in cooling air. Nestled within the shrill of crickets and grasshoppers again, their song the epitome of summer evenings, I find solace from the heated days in the presence of a hare, my enduring muse. His graceful silhouette dances under a celestial tapestry of cool light as I watch, at last, in stillness. My silent gaze fixes upon him, my favourite mysterious, elegant creature as he nibbles serenely on sun-kissed parched remains of wild oregano and thyme, his ears alert and eyes gleaming under the light of the stars, unaware of my adoration and wonder. He is concentrated only on feeding himself nutrients necessary for this time. Above me the fading light disperses fast into velvety indigo, constellations Orion and Cassiopeia cast their ancient glow, painting the night with stories as old as time, picking out my path as they have done for all of time, for all those that walked before me, all those too, that walked before them. The wilderness envelops us, a symphony of nocturnal whispers as the soft rustle of leaves prepare for seasons to come, our beings merge, evaporate into the tranquil embrace of nature. In these moments, I am not merely an observer but a part of the wild, a silent witness to the hare’s nocturnal ballet beneath a vast, star-studded sky.

Cattle wander past, slowly, conserving their energy for tomorrow’s heat, they cast me an uninterested glance and continue on and I sigh at all of natures divinity, wanting for nothing more than this precise moment to last.

“The compact between writing and walking is almost as old as literature -- a walk is only a step away from a story, and every path tells.”
― Robert Macfarlane

I am twelve hours late publishing this letter for which I offer my apologies. I hope, despite my unavoidable tardiness you have enjoyed this wander through the summer months on my hill and would love for you to join me again in autumn for the third scheduled for Sunday, September 22 at 2:43 PM.

Belated summer solstice greetings to you all.

With love

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Let's Take A Walk

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A hill and I - Spring

1. Tilleul (FR) Linden tree in English - (Tilia)

2. Merises (FR) wild cherry - (Prunus avium)

3. The Riou Viou is twenty-seven kilometres long from its source in Escandolières to its outlet into the Riou Mort in Viviez. I will write I of this river in a future publication.

4. Chemin (FR) - Rural lane or pathway

5. The Lane that leads from Bramarigues to the river - couldn’t be more precise meaning