Hello lovely ones, how delightful to have you back here with me, thank you all, as always for taking time from busy days to be with me on my hill.
How quickly the days are slipping by; the landscape, now fully clothed in spring greens is inviting, the air warmer, lighter, yet more inviting. Nevertheless, I have been forced to restrain my tendency to flit between all that is enticingly, deliciously spring, concentrate on schedules and lawless spring growth in my garden.
Since returning from a school trip at the beginning of last week I’ve had little time for journaling, little time for anything except recovery and catching up in the jungle that is not as becoming as it sounds in my vegetable patch—how does that happen in just seventy-two hours—and replying to backlogged emails. Until this morning; woken early by birdsong—my favourite alarm—finally, I have a few moments—stitched together by nightingales - thank you my precious ones—to wander aimlessly.
And, I met a man and his dogs, an orphic, ‘did that really just happen’ experience…
It is not impossible to mislay all perception of reality on these hills, be whipped up by the wind or the swirls of morning mist, even an old man and his dogs becomes a mystical story transporting all reason to beyond the edge, to liminal space. And, in this space time does not move.
The house is sleeping, my loved ones inside. It is Sunday though the day is not relevant, only that it is typical of this fickle season.
A frisky wind is blowing up from the valley into my face as I step out of the gate earlier than most people care to know. Gusts whip and chip through every blade of grass, every young leaf of tree. Acacia blossom is falling on the already polka-dotted lane, iridescent, pure-white confetti in wild celebration. The pale lemon cowslips of April have been replaced by golden buttercups, all are leaning east, directed to do so by a west wind. There is rain in the air, whether it falls heavily or lightly it is May, it will be the sort that will fall warmer and wetter than any other month of the year. It will be rain that makes mountains glow in luminous eerie green light twisted in a lush and intoxicating cocktail of petrichor and chlorophyl.
This is my drug.
Crows are cowering in the trees, sheltering from this days’ particular contrariness, buffeted, even, within the comfort of lower branches. They are unusually quiet. They know what lurks in such spring weather. Wisps of low cloud skim the River Lot twisting and turning in far valleys below me, I wonder if they are coming or going, they too buffeted, directionless. A cow bellows, also from somewhere below me, there is misery in her mooing, she sounds distraught, a difficult labour or a stillborn calf perhaps… her cry a mournful sound on the wind. A church bell rings the Angelus, adding to the ghostliness of hour, though with the rushing of the wind this too seems directionless. It would be too damp to linger on a normal day, but this isn’t one. These are precious early morning minutes, granted by nightingale song, the first solitary moments I have had in many days.
They are about to be disturbed.
Along the lane wild boar have snuffled up fresh earth, they were many, perhaps as many as fifteen, maybe more, their tracks evident, laissée1 scattered. I peer through the gloom of dawn to clarify their departure, see no stragglers, hear no sound on the wind. They are gone, wherever it is they hide in daylight hours, they are already there, I will not see them again this morning.
On the bend in the lane ahead a man whose shape I don’t recognise is walking slowly towards me, his movements deliberate, those of a person at peace with this solitary hour of the day. He approaches me wearing a rueful smile, as though, perhaps, it is crafted by too many years of enduring the pain of living in a world he doesn’t understand. I am uncertain if he is as surprised to see me as I am him, content to do so or whether he simply feels fortunate to be here on this Sunday morning in this brisk wind in May, on this silent white spotted lane. Regardless, I am somewhat dismayed to see another living soul at this hour, on this irriguous day, while relishing the few sacred moments of my own solitude.
Wearing patched jeans and a hand knitted jumper which has seen many more days such as this, his age is an indecipherable number hidden under the tanned skin of his leathery face. His eyes sparkle with a gentle, distant kindness. He carries a stick and a canvas bag, the contents of which I cannot see. His soiled hands suggest his sack of treasure to be mushrooms, though the soil condition and air are less than perfect, its bulky form also defies this likelihood. Neither he or the dog running up from sloping woodland barking wildly, its tail wagging ecstatically, cause me fear.
‘Ne vous inquiétez pas, elle n'est pas méchante2’, he calls out, filling empty metres between us with an accent as heavy and unrecognisable as he is. He need not have warned me, her friendly aura precedes her, evident in her whole curling, excited canine body as it snakes towards me, undulating waves of soft grey fur in rhythm with her tail. She is of mixed breeds I know without asking, a Lurcher—a rarity on this hill, anywhere in this area—and as friendly as every other I have known. He makes the few steps necessary to grab hold of her, smilingly apologises for her enthusiasm, ‘Laissez-la,’ I say gently, ‘Elle est adorable, j’en avais un chien comme ça, hélas, il y a très long temps maintenant.3’ I reply, at once delighted and saddened by memories of my own gypsy dogs in a different life, when I lived gypsy days…
As I crouch down to scratch behind her damp ears, he asks, his curiosity apparent, what I am doing out here alone, if I am not concerned about sangliers roaming the fields, I reply that I am not, tell him they have already passed, that there are tracks leading in the opposite direction. He offers me a wry smile, ‘On sait jamais…4’ I cannot deny the truth in this.
I stand, ready to continue walking, suddenly feeling a deep need to conjure days of my past usually left buried into my morning but am nudged by his dog, who is enjoying her ears being scratched wanting more. ‘Elle t'a laissé faire toute la journée.5’ he laughs, his eye’s adoring as he tells her to leave me be.
We move in unison as if to resume our solitary wandering but before he does so he asks, ‘Avez-vous vu passer un lièvre ce matin ?6’ I tell him I haven’t but—though I have no real desire of engaging in further conversation—he has caught my attention, why would this man I have never met before ask me such a question, does he know? I am curious, not fearful but questioning, it would be easy to watch a person unawares on this hill…
We fall easily into conversation; our mutual love of lurchers, hares and early mornings, of silent solitude—despite the gusty wind in the trees this morning—the magnificent scenery stretching out in each direction we turn, we agree on the good fortune of living within its folds. His voice holds an ethereal quality that I cannot quite place, nor, strangely—considering my joy at finding myself finally alone on waking—do I want it to stop. It is as though each of us begins the next sentence with the thoughts of the other, it is an uncanny exchange of quiet kindred and I am beginning to feel bewitched.
‘Et vous monsieur, vous l’avez vu ? Pourquoi vous le cherchez ?7’ I venture because he has kind eyes and is still smiling and I am intrigued and suddenly a little worried. Perhaps the contents of his bag are not what I believe them to be…
He tells me that he sees him most mornings when walking his dogs, that he has watched him for four years. I am instantly deeply envious, of his revelation, his life, to be so free as to have nothing better to do than watch for a hare on this hill. I have watched for many more and am rarely as lucky. I ask what he is like this hare he sees every morning, what he has learned. He smiles even more broadly. Evidently I have injected a little humour into his morning, he replies with a wink, the other eye sparkling mischievously, he laughs loudly, for a moment I see the young man he once was. Perhaps shouldn’t have been quite so taken aback when he replies,
‘Celui que je vois, il fait souvent l'amour !8’
Gathering my shock into a place he won’t recognise it I reply in mock horror,
‘Mais c’est pas vrai… en pleine journée, même devant le renard ? Il a de la chance, alors’9.
We laugh together, a fleeting moment of harmless, aged flirtation, appreciation one for the other, perhaps, for other moments in years long gone.
A second dog appears, more timidly than the first, she is mildly reprimanded by her smiling owner, lies down panting in fragrant clouds of rain drenched pignut and forget-me-not. She has obviously been hunting, I pray it isn’t the hare, then, silently reprimand myself for even thinking it could have been. This intriguing gentleman may well be poaching, but the hare is not his prey.
We talk a little longer, the wind has silenced, is calmer, rain is just beginning to fall, he mentions, breathing in deeply, the invigorating scent of the earth. There is an easiness between us, a kindredness we both recognise. I ask where he comes from but he replies vaguely, with a sweeping gesture of his arm, ‘là bas, là haut’10. Which literally could be anywhere in these vast hills under this fading morning sky. Anywhere at all except where we are standing.
He drifts off, calling ‘à bientôt’ to me as he goes, still smiling, whistling his dogs in the same breath. They obediently follow as he walks away to wherever his whim is carrying him. I hope that perhaps it won’t be the only meeting we have, I hope that perhaps we might cross mornings again but as I turn to look back down the lane after him, both he and his dogs, like the wild boar, have vanished and I know he is already wherever he wants to be, I know, also, the unlikelihood of ever seeing him again.
Take the sky away from me, leave me only the light of insect wings at dusk…
Briefly - I am relieved, not simply to be home, safe—mostly unscathed—after three of the most exhausting days life has ever thrown at me but to find the verges, overflowing with colour, scented by burgeoning spring flora, have not been mowed down in my absence. Lawless growth is bending into the lane, where light permits pushing skyward too; a veritable rave of weeping, waving wands and fronds of welcome as I drive from the main road up to Le Paradis, every revolution of tyre on tarmac more liberating, the tightness of tension in my neck and arms and back, wound up over previous days loosen and disperse with pollen and petal as I fall in love all over again with the extraordinary beauty of this hill of volcanic rock I call my home.
Small birds have disappeared from my windowsill. As they do every year, while the sparrow hawk rears her young, they make themselves invisible. They will return, slowly, cautious of her presence but they know this routine well. They are patient, they wait.
Also, from my tiny patch of commandeered woodland, as I wade through riotous carmine-pink Herb Robert one evening to say goodnight to adored sheep friends, I hear feisty squabbling hidden between branches; a jay and the sparrow hawk, both are vocal in their complaining. Both are stubborn, one is fiercer, neither will capitulate. I do not wait for a finale.
Since I returned the nightingales have woken me thirty minutes before first light every morning.
With love from fields of swaying gold…
Laissée - French for wild boar poo - the word comes from the verb laisser (to leave) because they literally leave their poo behind them as they walk.
‘Don’t worry, she’s not dangerous’
‘She is adorable! I used to have a dog like that, alas, a very long time ago now.’
‘You never know’
‘She’ll let you do that all day’
‘Have you seen a hare this morning?’
‘And you sir, have you seen him? Why do you search for him?
The one I see, he make love often !’
‘Really, in plain daylight, even in front of the fox? He is very lucky then.’
‘Over there, up
Susie! What a wonderful encounter. And you described it so well. I was envisioning it in my mind so clearly.
I read a piece recently— the author’s name isn’t coming to me at the moment— about the importance of “weak” connections. It’s about how interactions with people not in our immediate circles open us up, make our lives more whole, and thus make the world better. This engagement certainly fits in this category I believe. And now you’ve shared it with us so thank you.
This piece also reminded me of when I lived in West Virginia Farm country many years back and first heard the bleating of cows who had been separated from their calves. It was one of the most mournful sounds I’ve ever heard and has lived in me ever since.
Such an intriguing encounter. Could be the opening scene of a novel...
And the light of those dancing insect wings... I wouldn't be surprised if they turned into fairies dancing in the dawn to the nightingale's songs.
That school trip, I feel exhausted just thinking about it, good to hear you're back safely, reunited with the hill and her wondrous surprises.