Quiet on the hill.

Battling bugs, boar and Rambo... plus a few local facts!

A FEW FACTS

The Aveyron is considered by many as 'La France profunde’.  It is the 6th largest department in France in terms of area and yet has one of the lowest populations of approximately 280,000 inhabitants. Part of the relatively newly named region of Occitane (formerly the Midi-Pyrenees) it is situated on the South Western point of the vast and mountainous Massif Central. The economic capital city is Rodez. No matter which direction you take the landscape is breathtaking. Panoramic views will greet you around almost every corner, wooded hills scattered with tiny, picturesque hamlets and deep gorges through which the rivers Lot and the Tarn flow.  I read recently that these two rivers, when paired with the Truyere and the Viaur to the North, make the power of water in the Aveyron really quite extraordinary, feeding an impressive sixteen power stations throughout France every day.  It also boasts ten of the one hundred and fifty-six ‘plus beaux villages de France’.  Added to this, without a fuss, it has mastered the art of integrating the traditional with contemporary; if you head south of the capital city of the Aveyron on the A75 you come to the worlds tallest bridge, designed by British architect Norman Foster and opened in December 2004, it is feat of engineering worth driving to, not only for its magnificent and brilliant design but if you time your crossing for either sunrise or sunset, its sheer elegance as it stretches over the Gorge du Tarn, will quite literally take your breath away.  I know because I saw for myself one morning at an ungodly hour when heading to the hospital in Montpelier for one of many appointments with the amazing doctor who, against all the odds, managed to enable my husband to work once more after his accident.

In contrast, there are dozens of sites of archeological and architectural interest, the beautiful 12th century Abbey at Silvanès, formerly a Cistercian monastery, the haunting Sainte Foy Abbey in Conques, which brings tears to my eyes every time I set foot inside, to name but two and there are quite literally hundreds of lesser known ancient sites, roman bridges, dolmens and menhirs. The historical diversity of the Aveyron is immense.

In summer the whole department is heaving with holiday makers, all dressed in their designer best and sporting the latest in high tech everything; wealthy tourists support a large enough part of the economy in an area that is reliant predominantly on agriculture - they are mocked (privately of course, no frenchman or woman would be so bold as to air their views publicly) for their city ways and tolerated!  But in winter, an almost ghostly silence falls, there is no longer the hum of traffic in the valley as camper vans crawl up steep inclines with an impatient, sporty something or other leaning on the horn behind them as they attempt to pass, or motorbikes, engines screaming as they take the hairpin bends at breakneck speed.

In winter the silence is blissful…

WINTER

The wildlife, deer, hare, (sadly not the wild boar who roam the woodlands relentlessly all year round) like the tourists, have all deserted the higher slopes of the hill to gather in the lower pastures and woodland where warmth and shelter can be more easily found.  Many of the birds have migrated to warmer climes. The only constant, no matter the season is the cawing of the pigeons, the screeching of crows and jays and the tap tapping on dead branches of green and greater spotted woodpeckers ringing out their messages to each other. I’m certain this is the case, I’ve wasted many hours listening to them and the beats between the taps are far too regular to be otherwise, a little like bird rap maybe...? And, of course, the magnificent buzzards and kites that so love to taunt me as I stand poised unmoving on the ground below to shoot with my camera. From their high branched perches they miss not the slightest movement though and fly off in the opposite direction the moment they see even the tiniest twitch of my eye.

All the livestock have been herded back along the lanes, mostly unwillingly, to be crammed, disgruntled, into their winter quarters, muddy and bored of eating silage and hay already. My mini flock of Ouessant sheep, also bored of buckets of dried food and hay, systematically ring-bark the fruit trees in the orchard and escape their electric fenced field constantly, even with the voltage turned as high as it can be! This is simply their ploy to get my attention in order that I give them more nuts which they find infinitely more preferable than the meadow grass at this time of year, however, they don’t win this battle, no matter how many times I arrive, late for work, with mud on my jeans and hay in my hair!  And I don’t think I’ve ever seen them even try the hay despite the fact I pay for the best, mostly they just scatter it around their hut and sleep on it instead!

So now, my hill is quiet, it sleeps, taking slow winter breaths in preparation for spring, daylight hours are short and I have the impression that half of my day is spent in darkness.  I rise every morning at 6 am, wrap myself in as many layers as possible and brave the somewhat frisky air in the kitchen to do battle with ‘stove’ who still, after fourteen years, obstinately refuses to stay alight overnight! I wonder idly, as I search for more paper and kindling, praying that the wind is blowing in a favourable direction, if talking it into submission would be a viable option but at the risk of waking hubby and son, I refrain.  Once victorious though and the glowing warmth of tangerine flames can be felt, all is forgiven, I put the kettle back on the hob, still warm from sitting there through the night, (this I have learned) open the window to clear the smoke and wait for it to whistle at me.

Winter also means I must feed and check my sheep in the dark. A somewhat dangerous occupation even with a torch, primarily because Rambo my ram (‘bo’ as in ‘beau’ - I know, I know, that’s a really corny name) as handsome as he is, he is also a mean brute, who has a sneaky habit of creeping up behind me and giving a sharp butt with his horns to whichever part of my body happens to please, usually my bottom but thighs and knees too are a favorite! He has left me with many bruises, although not as many as Duncan, my last brutal beast!  Then there are mornings when I can hear wild boar grunting close by as they snuffle the ground with their snouts in search of roots and acorns, obliterated completely by the dark. I don’t hang around - on boar mornings I drop the bucket of feed, launch the hay over the fence and run!

This evening though, I sit here in a warm kitchen and ‘stove’ is behaving! All the chores are dealt with and tonight I notice it is light until 18h30, a fact that I celebrate by filling my tiny glass, instead of just half full as I usually do but right to the top, with homemade plum wine to sip while I prepare supper for my family. My son, although now on his twelfth day of absence from school this year having caught every bug and germ possible, is finally recovering from his most recent acquisition; a flu virus, the like of which I have never seen in one so young - not Covid according to the test but certainly violent enough for me to consider hospitalisation. He appears to have emerged from this with an even bigger appetite than he had before! I consider bulk buying pasta and noodles just to keep up with new demands !

I feel fortunate though, my life in this too big for three, draughty 18th century farmhouse is far from easy but after our fourteenth winter here I know what to expect, I know that tomorrow at least three barrows of logs will have to be hauled in from the leaky barn, up 11 steps to be stacked ready for using over the next few cold days, I know that when the weekend arrives I must address the problem of what to do with my veggie patch which has failed for two years on the run, I know also that I look about as close to a designer clad tourist as a pearl does to a stone! My knuckles are split and my hands are calloused but I no longer notice. It’s a small price to pay for living on Le Paradis.