Woodland bliss…
Part 5 - consisting of the rest of the holidays, a geeky son, supper with friends, a bonfire, brambles and I forget about my list completely.
SATURDAY : From my somewhat badly informed position as a mother who has never played online games and is about as switched on as melted wax on a snuffed out candle, I have a horrible suspicion that my son is what’s known as a geek! Indeed he even appears to be rather proud of this title. Which as far as I can gather consists of little more than as much screen time as possible, speaking in a language I don’t understand as often as possible and demanding small fortunes for subscriptions to enable him to continue to hold said title! As if this isn’t already quite enough, I have to look at ‘geek stuff’ decorating every available surface. The innards of old speakers, even older tape decks (yes we still have two), untold computer parts and rolls of wire plus off cuts, boxes of electronic plastic, connector type paraphernalia that I couldn’t begin to name and more often than not a guitar — I fail to see the connection. All are constant companions at every meal. The words ‘tidy up’ are obviously non existent in geek talk and ignored.
I vacuum up more tiny screws than would be found in an IKEA self build cupboard!
I try to point a guilty finger at todays switched on, linked to everything obsession but I know, that the absolute and indisputable truth is his rebellious spirit. My life of isolation and often hilarious attempts at self sufficiency was not chosen by him, so if any blame is to be taken I must hold up my hands! This doesn’t sit well. My conscience is heavy with the disappointment of having failed but I tell myself, he could be worse things… heaven knows I’ve tried to encourage a wild, nature loving spirit, I really have.
It worked with my daughter, perhaps a little too well…
His obsession though is the reason I am frantic all day. Having invited our friends from the valley to supper I am swamped with food preparation and housework. Somehow I’ve not lifted a finger indoors for a week and the kitchen is a veritable explosion of ‘son stuff’ that has no rightful place littered amongst all the ingredients needed for what I’m hoping to be a convivial ‘disconnected’ evening. I ask, sweetly of course, that he tidy everything away. The sweetness deteriorates into hissing however when by the beginning of the afternoon nothing has been touched and my vision of setting a table to delight seems more likely to end up in the box I have laid out for him.
By 7pm I am exhausted but ready, I have been a whirlwind, turning from table to pantry to chopping block, gathering up every item not nailed down that didn’t belong in my vision of a lovely evening with friends. I am tempted to use the chopping block for heads and hands at any given moment and upset both hubby and son, so much so that they are hide in the respective dens until the whirlwind abates! When I look around at the final effect however, I am thrilled and relieved to see there have been no catastrophic oversights. I even manage to find a few flowers to make the table look like spring has arrived with my guests.
I do forget to cook a side dish of lemon broccoli so we go without, nobody but me notices (son and hubby snigger, they both hate broccoli) and I have to scrape the bottom of the freshly baked bread because it’s just a little too unacceptably burnt but otherwise the evening is beautiful. Filled with just the right amount of laughter and love. Also, fuelled undoubtedly by fatigue and, just maybe, a glass too much of wine, I choke back tears when I discover that the so very gentle gentleman sitting opposite me - my friends father - is born on the same day as my own dear papa. I can’t help but think how much he would have loved this evening, although he would have grumbled about the missing broccoli.
THE DAYS REMAINING : I remember reading something many years ago now, which roughly went like this; ‘there is no bigger waste of time than doing a job really well that doesn’t need doing…’ I don’t remember who wrote these words but their significance is pointed out to me often by hubby and most vociferously. Never more so than when I spend time in woodland attached to our land that doesn’t belong to me.
Obviously I ignore him completely and continue on my little flight of fancy because between the triangle that now forms the boundary of our land — the track we uncovered during confinement mentioned in my last post — are three small plots of woodland that could be within my grasp. In total they measure not even an acre. All three are owned by one feuding family scattered all over France, none of whom have ever set foot within its overgrown wildness in all the years we have been here but in 2021 I was given information over a rather lovely glass of wine, on an even more lovely June day that I simply couldn’t ignore. A very knowledgeable French friend — a vagabond with not a penny to his name, filled to overflowing with fascinating stories of his extraordinary life — told me that should anyone maintain a piece of land unhindered by its owners for 10 years, they can legally lay claim to it.
Perhaps I should add at this point (just so you don’t think too badly of my skulduggery) that a plot of woodland is hard come by in this part of France, at least one that doesn’t have a gradient where one false step would likely break your neck. Anything accessible is coveted and protected to be passed down through the families whether they want it or not. We have tried and failed since we arrived to secure a few hectares of this seemingly sacred land and have long since given up.
Given this information though, as tiny as this plot is, I simply couldn’t just ignore the possibility of being the owner. Even if it would have to be a somewhat clandestine travail.
Since we opened the track again in 2020 I have worked as often as possible on creating paths through the trees to make access for clearing easier, I built a cabin out of all the fallen branches for the boy and his friends, albeit a very rustic one. I have spent hours letting in light so the stunted trees could flourish. Son and I even spent almost an entire week in blisteringly hot weather constructing a ramp so that he could cycle around the entire plot. Being a geek though, he has long since tired of this far too energetic occupation.
It has been and still is a labour of love.
Hence, every school half term day that lends itself to clandestine behaviour is grabbed and I disappear for as many hours as is possible into this tiny patch of woodland to continue the realisation of my dream, hoping against hope that in the next six years nobody stops me.
As it turned out, every day that was left of half term was a clandestine day!
I spend every possible waking hour possible clearing and burning. The left hand side is a tangled, almost impenetrable jungle of ivy and brambles that need to be hacked down. This is where I begin, I feel invincible, every bit the tree hugging eco-warrior I was in my youth.
All too quickly that first day though my tears of joy turn to those of sadness and frustration. Brambles make the most evil of companions while I work and my clearing reveals untold casualties. Many trees have indeed already succumbed to the too long ignored ravages of such a strangled existence; five cherry trees have toppled and lay rotting against much hardier ash trees, also an ancient pear tree, identifiable only by the few sprigs that clamour for light. Ivy rampages every trunk and branch, it’s stems so thick many take me half an hour to saw through making my arms tremble from the effort. So many countless trees are close to the end of life but I am on a mission and I am merciless in my quest.
I work methodically without even noticing the days of the week passing. My tools are simple, a bow saw, a rake and a rather nifty tool I’ve only ever found here in France for slaying brambles which I use with gusto, slashing and hacking until a clearing appears. I feel like a Samurai warrior, worthless unless I rise above the storm around me! My bonfire burns for seven days non stop — if only ‘stove’ would be so obliging — I don’t change my clothes for the entirety and ruin a brand new pair of gloves. I return to the house every evening, scratched and smokey but smiling broadly at the days accomplishments. Hubby is not impressed but even this doesn’t thwart my enthusiasm.
I am saving trees, even better, a whole woodland of trees and my list, written at the beginning of the holidays… blissfully forgotten — a fact I regret not even for a second!
I congratulate myself on at least managing to finish knitting the jumper for my daughter who will be coming back for Easter break and all the wretched paperwork is cleared and posted, alone that deserves applause.
You’re carrying me with you on your woodland walks - so please tell husband that you’re doing an extraordinary job that needs to be done of whisking people away from their everyday. Go, warrior, go!
Great storytelling Susie, I can literally see it all in my mind. 😅 Love the cabin you built!