three gifts

in thanks for the unexpectedly beautiful way of days

Hello again dear readers, I have been awake for most of the hours of the night, hours when sweet slumber has not visited. So, with albeit tired words, I bring you a letter written through the darkness but touched with light.

My daughter visited over the weekend, we walked, a lot! An evil blast of arctic but otherwise crisp and clear weather joined us. We ignored it completely not wanting anything to disrupt mother and much missed daughter time together.

I hope you enjoy the steps…

“Her pleasure in the walk must arise from the exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year upon the tawny leaves and withered hedges…” —Jane Austin

My first gift of the weekend is rising to silence; the rain has at last ceased its thunderous racket on windows and roof. Through wisps of mist curling in the tree tops and floating above the valley, sunbeams escape where the vaporous veil is thinnest. The morning couldn’t be finer. I say silent thanks to Mother Nature for listening to my prayers.

Filigrees fingers - ghosts in the mist as they are soaked up by early sun…

Rosie arrives later in the morning. Fourteen hours later than we had planned which was too many when only less than forty-eight were possible. Gathered up with love and open arms—always—the huge wintry white sun in a bright sky, we hug each other on the platform at Capdenac Gare, all the more tightly for knowing many hours of our time had been stolen.

She in my arms, silver shine in the sky, the first lights I had seen for days. Two gifts in one day; I feel blessed.

There is an urgency in us both to make every minute count. We plan lunch side by side in the car, buy necessary ingredients from the market, pick up a parcel and drive the short distance home. Within an hour a light lunch of freshly made celery soup, topped with my accidental discovery of cumin seed and chilli flake crispy kale and grated gruyere, served with homemade soda bread, is placed on the table.

For the shortest of times the family feels whole.

It is a rare and gentle pleasure for us all… The moment is relished, the food savoured. Once devoured and the table cleared, Rosie decides which of the many rambles we have taken together she is most in need of. She has inherited my love of walking and is eager to be out in fresh clean air—you can take the girl out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the girl—William and Seth opt for the more comfortable ‘stay warm by stove’ option. An expected outcome so we waste no further time trying to persuade them and head off to the valley in the direction of a different hill. We will walk the old mine trail, it is decided.

The river, after fifty-two hours of rain, is raging. We hear the fast running water from well over 100 metres away and wonder at the wisdom of our choice. The banks of the river are still visible however and we judge—wrongly as it turns out—the path we want to take will be passable. We hike quickly up through the forest to Valzergues to combat the cold and dampness of valley shadow, only stopping to avoid being crushed by a huge pine tree being felled half way up.

There is no warning.

Crazy timing…

The broken noise of its felling, the ceased motion of life laying in demise between so many other lives still standing holds us in silence… a sadness passes between our two pairs of eyes and to those of the chainsaw wielding feller—pun intended—as we skirt branches and needles. He smiles, perhaps apologetically… no matter, it is hard to smile back.

Before we reach the village, at the highest point, both of us warmed and puffing visibly, we stop and turn to look across to the hill we live on. As we always do. At that same moment bright sunlight escapes from behind charging clouds highlighting beyond any doubt, the reason it is named Le Paradis.

Le Paradis, Aveyron dépt 12 - to the north

We stand a while, each of us lost in our own thoughts - it’s easy to do with such dramatic panorama.

and to the south

As we drop down the other, far steeper side into the valley a bitter wind whips across the fields. We walk faster, almost run, in the hope of shelter at the bottom. The sting of the wind feels like knives trying to slice off our cheeks. Not until we reach the very edge of the fields before they merge into forest does the wind calm. Curtailed by the density of beech trees and the constant twisting turning trail we are walking down, biting wind penetrates no further. But neither does what little warmth the sun had given us as once again cold damp air bites through warm clothing chilling our bones, this time with no way to avoid it. We have four more kilometres of valley bottom to walk and the brooks that criss cross the trail are wide gushing torrents. Times eight! All of which we wade through using bin liners to cover shoes and legs… not without difficulty or mishap!

We laugh at each other, a joy filled hilarity between mother and daughter simply doing something that we love which is mad!

It is too dark to stop at the mines, vast canopies of trees have obliterated almost all light along most of the trail and now, the sun has not only disappeared behind the hill they grow upon but behind the next too. Usually we search for the elusive¹fluorite that draws so many gem hunters from all over France. I read recently that the old mines at Valzergues are one of the top ten most visited by gemologists in the country. a fact that surprises me though we have often found tiny amber coloured crystals of no value ourselves. We have however, stumbled upon teams of prospecters with complicated blasting and hammering equipment which they immediately try to hide when they catch sight of us. They mine illegally but nobody ever seems to stop them. I worry that eventually this woodland and its trails will be closed to everyone, even people like myself and Rosie will be forbidden to set foot within.

Hurrying now, time and temperature against us we reach the lane and the final kilometre. The roar of the waterfall is louder than we’ve ever known, the sound reaching us long before we see its torrents of water cascading into the river. As we pass, a last few seconds of sunshine escape from between two hills, churns in muddy brown as both slip together into the dark place below.

We are almost home, cold, wet footed because bin liners just aren’t robust enough to withstand the hostility of raging rivers with hidden sharp stones beneath; I make a mental note to buy tougher bags to carry for next time!

Moments before we take the last steps in now frigid air, to the inviting and much needed warmth of home, I see a strange movement beyond the edge of the woods, it is the colour that catches my eye, almost bracken coloured but paler. Peering through the gloaming of dusk and bare branches lining the lane, tears fill my eyes as the mystery takes shape and bounds away.

The old hare is returned. He is midway between summer and winter coat changes. I have never been lucky enough to spot either he or any other at this stage of metamorphosis…

A third gift.

“Instructions for living a life.
Pay attention. Be astonished.
Tell about it.” ― Mary Oliver

With weary hugs… but always with love

1. The Valzergues mines are located near the long closed Decazeville coalfield in the municipality of Valzergues, in a triangle of the municipalities of Aubin, Galgan and Valzergues. They still contain various ores: fluorite (spath-fluorite), baryte and white quartz located in several different places, along a small stream on the right. There is also a small hamlet to the north-west of Valzergues: the village of Nespoulières. The name comes from the local dialect "NESPOULO", meaning medlar (the drupe-like, edible fruit of the medlar tree). It gave its name to a known vein: the Nespoulières vein or yellow vein. Nespoulières is built on Liassic soil, with Carboniferous soil to the east and granitic soil to the west. Fluorine (called so in its gaseous form) was mainly used in the metallurgy industry, but was also used to remove dross from cast iron for automobile parts.

Fluorite has an amber-yellow hue, but sometimes varies in colour, the deeper the colour the more value. Ranging from amber to green and finally, the most sort after indigo. We have been told of gem hunters blasting huge bolder sized chunks of fluorite from these mines, one apparently selling for tens of thousands of Euro.

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I searched a long time to find something written on The Hare during my insomnia filled night and finally, quite by accident found this wonderful letter written and illustrated by

Into the Deep Woods with James Roberts

which I cannot recommend more highly.

Moving like the Hare