“Every thing was to take its natural course, however, neither impelled nor assisted.”
― Jane Austen
Hello dear friends new and old, welcome to you all and thank you for sharing a few precious moments of your time with a few of mine. I am eternally grateful that you’re here.
The sun is shining, there is a cacophony of birdsong rejoicing in melodious confusion from every tree, I even have two peony heads about to bloom and more tiny grapes on the vines than ever before. Regardless that it has felt like March since March - (three consecutive months of March, just imagine that for a moment…) magic is being unstoppably conjured from the gloom and, with absolutely no fuss!
But the roof is leaking, despite my husbands chosen trade -1le cordonnier est toujours le plus mal chaussé! The gutter, I can’t speak of the gutter, I might cry. The rain pours in everywhere it shouldn’t, thunderstorms rattle the slates and the wind whips branches from trees as if they were made of tissue, mud slides down the banks taking yet more trees with it… and I find not giving in to frustration, equally, bad temper and lack of inspiration and fighting inertia become my most important daily quest.
Each time I think it might be all over, a countable few seconds of sunshine circle, brief hope fill those seconds then, inevitably, the storms return.
Because I don’t have the magic necessary to stop them, I join in…
Waiting for a day…
I spend inordinate time staring from my kitchen window, wishing and hoping, even praying, for some warmth but most of the south of France is experiencing unstable weather, has been on all the days since the beginning of March, perhaps even November… I don’t remember walking on dry earth as we did for the two years prior, neither the feeling that summer solstice is barely three weeks away. My hill looks like early summer but feels so far from that.
Foolishly, I research why… I unearth a wealth of interesting facts and one very depressing one; the instability is not due to leave us until early June, even mid-June - or later - imagine crying my eyes out emoji!
The cause?
The cold drop.
The cold drop?
"The cold drop is an upper-air low", explains Marc Hay, journalist and weather and climate specialist for BFMTV. "Very cold air aloft and warmer air in the lower layers are causing instability”
All relatively straightforward and clear, but why? Out of curiosity utter frustration and threatening hypothermia I read further, through a maze of information with links to a whole other maze of information only to find out that this is a phenomena with little explanation. I know the how but not the why!
Evidently ‘the cold drop’ is caused by a small part of the jet stream becoming detached from the main which then hooks up with some really mean, icy polar air, drags it off to party somewhere above five thousand feet causing a high low pressure. This high-low is a sort of rogue pressure system that enjoys nothing more than creating havoc, by falling quickly to invite warmer, lower air to join in loudly and drunkenly at every available moment possible, the result is frequent stormy weather, but more especially rain.
Heavy rain, I watch it fall day after day, relentlessly cold and dark and grey.
“Water does not resist. Water flows. When you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress. Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you. But water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. Water is patient. Dripping water wears away a stone. Remember that, my child. Remember you are half water. If you can't go through an obstacle, go around it. Water does.”
― Margaret Atwood
Joining the melee…
The thought meanders, unbidden, through my grumblings of the cold drop and its unacceptable duration, that perhaps I might just curl up with Sassy and what for it to end. Cats have an absurd ability to be cosy, on any chair, in front of stove, on the table, even squeezed between or in old boxes, they happily ignore the weather, the cold, the dark, purring in oblivious contentment…
As I type this on the penultimate day of May, a fine mist of rain is falling. A west wind is blowing clouds through the fields and trees, if I had to pick just one word to encompass the monochromatic light, the sensation of floating and equal stagnation, it would be be wu(i)thering. If I lived in Scotland it would be called A dreich day, an anticipated meteorological norm but this is the SW France - I’m freezing, inside me damp feels like it’s crumbling bones, curdling words. I suffer all this, not with grace but unforgivably, vociferously - because purring is beyond me.
There are just two euphoric mornings when on waking and throwing open the shutters, a telltale primrose glow rises over the hill, followed soon after by a golden sphere. I don’t even dress before flying out of the door with still, sleep blurred eyes and my camera.
These moments are fleeting…
I have not the slightest care of either time of attire, only a deep need to be part of this dazzling dawn light that beckons in ethereal layers of night chilled air, to be touched and swallowed by it, to glisten as gloriously as this rare morning filled with birdsong and golden light does. I want to tumble down the hill and evaporate with the mist, I want to perch gracefully on a branch as a bird would do, sing my heart out in thanks for the unexpected gift of light climbing out of the darkness.
I want to memorise every changing moment, feel the colour of this blessed hour, understand the alphabet of the shimmering heads of barely, read the poems in the clouds - this is where I keep my smile - I know I must hurry…
A few good things…
Swallows sweep and swoop across the hill once more, they do not nest close to the hamlet but they are here. I let out a long held breath, I sigh joyful with relief as fears abate. The golden oriels, the nightingales too, also return, the hill is alive with the sound of their sweet voices… again, I am drawn to join them - Oh to sing as they do, in gracious song.
Whilst my most of the garden suffers by my side in the cold drop, my tomatoes thrive. They are as tall as triffids and already proffering flowers. This also is where I keep my smile.
Since yesterday Sonny is back in the meadow - at last, at last - with an unbearably cute orphan called Jersey to keep him company until the females arrive in July.
I said I wouldn’t but how could I not?
Ever so slowly, splashes of scarlet begin to peep out from their hidden places and just like that, I know what has been missing…
Sylvia Plath calls them, “Little bloody skirts.” Within just a few days, shaking, frilly red skirts are everywhere.
By the end of this month I have learned to enjoy walking in endless rain.
With never ending hope for warmer days, may your month of June be blissful…
With love
PS I forgot the cow parsley, how could I forget so many clouds of flowers.
Something I’ve loved;
has written about his 1000 mile walk along the Camino de Santiago, he calls it a midlife journey of love and loss, I’ve enjoyed every word so far… below is a link to the beginning;
The shoemaker is always the worst shod.
It sounds hard Susie with gutters failing and endless work to do. Was a relief to hear there are some positives: an abundance of tomatoes, beautiful bird song and cute sheep!
Love the Margaret Atwood quote..." “Water does not resist. Water flows....."
Sunny thoughts and vibes from NZ despite the rainy day here xx
Nature nests with bloody red skirts and swallows soar through the sky. Take each day let the drops of rain accumulate in buckets for summer dry days to come. Welcome the splash 💦 on the rooftop. Perhaps you have snails about your grapes. A delicacy that should not wait. Adorn your plate. Be thankful . You are blessed.