Hello lovely readers and a happy welcome to new subscribers, I am delighted you could join me here for while.
Before I tell you the story of my very misshapen weekend, I need to send a big apology to all who have tried to use my ‘buy me a coffee’ link. Somehow—why am I not surprised— I messed up! By the time you reach the bottom of this letter it will be ready to use again, I hope!
Please let me know if it isn’t and of course a huge thank you for the coffee, every penny/cent/euro helps!
41 thistles.
For three dry days prior to Rosie arriving I stagger around fields and garden in a headless attempt to catch up on the three lost to flu, persistent heavy rain and various geriatric moments I’d rather not go into too much detail about, suffice to say keys were involved! Somehow, by the time the rain begins again, my list—you know how I love those—was longer than ever.
Chronic Gemini syndrome! No, no, dont laugh…
I am systematically distracted by everything.
Winter is revealing. Unless one has a garden designed to be beautiful in every season, the cold months of resting for plants and trees alike are hard to appreciate. At least that’s how mine is. Everything appears more overgrown/dead/broken/abandoned…or simply in need of moving before I even picked up a tool. I quite simply don’t know where to begin.
I manage to finish digging up all my ancient—non producing for the last two years—asparagus roots, plant out two forgotten Renne Claude plum saplings given to me by a neighbour before Christmas. I successfully dig over and weed two of my vegetable beds ready for early plantings, stack logs under the terrace left scattered behind the the hangar after tidying the last remains of three much loved walnut trees which, heartbreakingly, had to be felled to access the barn roof for continuing repairs. And begrudgingly make a start on the eternally tedious task of thistle extermination in the field. Forty-one thistles later—yes, I counted them - wouldn’t you?—I straighten my aching back with difficulty, cast my eye over what was left and estimated I’d probably managed less than a third. Utterly demoralised because I am incapable of continuing, I block toxic thoughts by the dozen… you get my drift! They remain just thoughts, they always do… but damn it would be so much less painful to just blitz the lot!
Tears for beloved trees…
Tears for thistles remaining…
Stop that train…
Friday; I flap around indoors on a sunny day—bad temper guaranteed—tormented by an ache deep down at the bottom of my spine and armies of dust bunnies hiding in corners, under chairs, blatantly marching across wooden floorboards stopping only to natter with a new cobweb with occupant spider. Relentless evidence of my lackadaisical housekeeping. Hours and much bad language later, food—favorite home cooking of course—is planned, ingredients gathered, walks mapped out—regardless of weather, the house is tidy and clean(ish), I even fill a vase with a few sprigs of tentative spring to welcome her. Two whole days of empty hours stretch before me with nothing more taxing envisaged than long walks, fresh air and longed for mother daughter conversation.
It is the first time Rosie will have spent time at home since the beginning of December, I am so absurdly excited I convince myself that by some crazy quirk of fate she will fail to arrive. So much so I check SNCF timetables hourly for cancellations, there are none in our area but when her train rumbles too fast out of the darkness flooding the empty station with light I believe it won’t stop. Idiotically—because really, what can I do to stop a runaway train—I run along side its screeching loudness almost to the end of the platform. The train overshoots the covered waiting area by many meters but eventually, amidst that ear splitting noise only brakes on trains can make, the doors slide open and she steps out, as planned, on time, smiling her love as much as I was crying mine. She hadn’t even noticed…
We hug, tightly wrapped in each others arms, oblivious of the train leaving on its onward journey, of the, now, silent, empty station.
Fear warranted? Perhaps not.
Not yet…
Unwanted guest…
I fall into bed exhausted by exertion and emotion but know before I even pull over the covers how the night is going to pass; I know this twitch preceding the turbulent torture of the wide eyed hours.
“He was afraid of touching his own wrist. He never attempted to sleep on his left side, even in those dismal hours of the night when the insomniac longs for a third side after trying the two he has.”
― Vladimir Nabokov
I read for a while, willing my eyes to begin their sleep ritual. The heaviness remains obstinately weightless. A sliver of moon dances through the window casting the faintest of shadows across the barn roof. Dark slates glinting. I listen to the night sounds, an owl, usually calming in the dark hours, malevolently calls from a tree outside the window behind me. Message clear. A mouse scurries in the attic, backwards and forwards, tiny feet pitter-pattering above me sounds reverberating through the silence. It may as well be an elephant - I turn over.
Again and again…each turn feeling more uncomfortable than the turn before, my phone clock glares 03h26 in the darkness, I will myself not to move knowing too well the consequences… but small hour of the morning imaginings are vivid, too vivid.
I get up, pace the moonbeams and glare at stove willing compliance.
Nothing hampers bliss like lack of sleep but I refuse to allow my body, failing in the mere detail of sleep, to ruin our weekend.
Rosie and I leave the following morning armed with cameras, clementines and water. I am tired but capable, my back isn’t rested but the pain is no more than a dull ache, I can do this!
We walk for almost four hours, lost in abandoned forest paths and conversation, the weather is kind, the fresh air kinder. By the time we return, the health app on my phone informs me we’ve walked 13 km and climbed the equivalent of 94 flights of stairs.
Who needs sleep anyway!
900 tonnes of Lithium burning…
We have lunch together, a family, whole on the hill, eating good food, drinking highly potent homemade elderflower wine—bottled in Aug, 2021 according to the label—knowing nothing at all of a sky filling with toxic fumes from a factory fire gathering strength three valleys away. Only when we unanimously decide to take in some evening air do I notice plumes of acrid smoke leaping to greet a deepening night in the distance.
Fire is so final, the building was unused but nevertheless for decades many families have survived difficult times through the work it provided, it formed an important part of a valley community. I feel tears pricking my eyes at this loss. Later, as news trickles in on airwaves, sadness turns to horror. Seventy fire fighters are called to the scene. Some, specialists in the handling of dangerous fumes, from as far as Marseilles 5 hours away.
900 tonnes of lithium batteries were still being stored in the warehouses…
The guest returns…
A second night of weightless eyes taunts me, winking from every dark corner, lasers of paranoia burning away circadian rhythm.
I sleep for one hour.
Combined with the previous nights depravity a fatigue of monolithic weight grips my shoulders, legs and arms. I try to mould myself into a normal day, am forced by various vertiginous errors to accept the impossibility and be still. Though motion, physically, is impossible, my head refuses to agree and against every will possible I am forced to spend Sunday in a delirium of insomnia induced inertia.
A weekend - unplanned.
“The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,
Gang aft agley.
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
— Robert Burns (to a mouse)
The fire at the factory still burns, the thousands of gallons of water used to put out the flames no match for oxidising lithium batteries and a smog of smoke, toxic fumes and cloud is only just lifting from the area surrounding the factory, we are outside the five km danger limit but the metallic smelling air feels poisoned.
It is far from the weekend I’d longed for.
With love and light always and hopes for better days.
What I have read and loved this week;
Barrie and JoJo, aka Mrs Feasts and Mr Fables not only write here on Substack they also have the most beautiful website celebrating people, places and purpose. You can find their veritable haven of curiosities, poetry, short fiction, field notes and of course encouragement here. How they find time to do all they do while renovating their farm in France I don’t know but they do. And they do it scrumptiously!
I also discovered
, a wonderfully informative publication filled with articles, stories, interviews and so much more - an absolute must for all francophiles!
Oh dear, Susie - slightly less pressure on the accelerator seems to be called for! I also don't sleep well if I have overly exerted during the day. And as for those spiders' webs....I just call them my natural art installations 😉🙃
Oh Susie, you drive yourself so hard! Please take my ‘do as I say, not as I do’ advice and put rest higher up your to do list. Even if it leaves thistles standing. In my experience there is something about physical exhaustion that ridiculously induces insomnia. Makes no sense at all!
I hope you had a lovely time with Rosie nonetheless and find time to rest a little this week. Xx