I have only just got round to reading the entries in our visitor's book, and I am so thrilled by Lindsey's entry that I just had to reproduce most of it verbatim on my blog! We take so much of our peripatetic life here in the Ariege for granted, so it's a real joy to have other people remind us of those little things that are an integral part of day to day life.
So, with apologies for presenting Lindsey's elegant prose with a list, here goes......
"We are overcome.........by the house and this beautiful part of France. We particularly adored:-
the bats
the back steps from the kitchen
the livestock [cows and sheep]
the knives
the sheets
the gorgeous decor and bits and pieces and connections
the woodwork and locks
the pool and trampoline
the cosmos
cornflowers
lavender
linum
gladioli and canna flowers
the fritillarias
small blue tits
swallow tails
the source [our little waterfall]
the swallows
hoot of the owls
the redstart
nuthatch
jays
lime trees
French CD's
the pottery near Mas d'Azil
Montsegur
the outdoor games
the veg, herbs and tomatoes by the front door
having French neighbours
...................and just being here."
My sentiments entirely.
Another entry from Gordon says, so simply, "Chateau de Bardies exemplifies the grace and beauty of imperfection" - like it's chatelaine, too, I'm sure!
Friday, 8 October 2010
Thursday, 7 October 2010
A Perfect Day
Today was one of those mystical, magical days that we savour and remember before the first chilly north winds herald the arrival of winter. I always tell people new to the Ariege that the best time of year to see it in its full glory is in September and October. It can still be glorious after Toussaint but by then the weather is more unpredictable. As I try to figure out the exact words to describe the shades of blue and green that dazzled my senses all day, I am lost for words.
The closest I can get is to say one word. Vincent. His late landscapes, many of them painted after his breakdown, illustrate better than any pretentious writing the sheer, unadulterated beauty of 'La France Profonde'. My soul has been restored, which is more than can be said for poor Vincent. As a starry, starry night falls, I give thanks for the joy of days like today. It is a little too chilly to lie on a blanket under the stars tonight, but their sparkling presence makes me feel, as ever, unimportant in the greater scheme of things. I wish I knew more about them - although I am reliably informed that there is now an i-phone app that will 'read' the stars in your location for you. I must remember to download it before the weather changes.
Perhaps I am a little more reflective than usual, due to the sad loss, within less than a month of each other, of two dear friends. They will be sorely missed by all of us, and especially their children. None of us truly appreciates what we have until it is taken from us. Life and death are as inevitable as night and day. As the last of the summer flowers in the new border battle with the elements, I greedily think of next year's seed crop. It is sad to see them looking so desolate, pale imitations of their former resplendent glory, but I know that in their death, there is new life to come. Who knows where John and Bill are now, but I like to think of them sailing or playing cricket in some heavenly galaxy beyond our stars.
Anyway, back to my perfect day. I awoke at 6.20am and, as it was still dark, I padded downstairs to make a cup of tea to drink as I finished my current book - 'House Music', the wonderful diaries of Oona King, elected to Parliament in 1997 for Bethnal Green and Bow, and only the second black woman in the House of Commons. Having once harboured a half-baked fantasy of standing for Parliament myself, I can only think what a lucky escape I had. It's hell on earth for a woman, with days ending long after midnight, not to mention the sexism that inevitably pervades an institution dominated by white men in suits. Her diaries are heartfelt, honest and totally candid and they made me cry when she writes of her failed fifth IVF attempt. It more than touched a nerve for me because I've been there too. Her book should be compulsory reading for all aspiring female election candidates.
I then dozed to the 'Today' programme on BBC iplayer, after I had watched the sun come up over the misty valley below my bedroom window. I still cannot quite grasp the freedom that technology brings. You can be anywhere in the world and provided you can access broadband, BBC Radio 4 will be with you. A friend indeed. I know that I have written of this before but I just wish that the older generation could be lured away from their technophobia and opened up to the limitless possibilities for communicating with family and friends and accessing information that is just a mouse click away.
Minus husband and children, with the excuse of a bender of a cough and cold though, I marvelled, yet again, at Neil MacGregor's wonderful series on Radio 4 every morning at 9.45am, 'A History of the World in a Hundred Objects'. It will go into the annals of legendary BBC cultural series, alongside Kenneth Clark's 'Civilisation' and Jacob Bronowski's 'The Ascent of Man'. Today's object was an Aboriginal bark shield, brought back from Botany Bay in 1770 with the arrival of Captain Cook's ship. It made me think of our time living in Sydney in the early eighties, when I first became aware of Aboriginal history and their notion of 'The Dreamtime'. We could learn so much from their culture about respect for the fragility of our world, but we plough on regardless, plundering resources for the great engine of capitalism.
After a bath filled with fresh lavender blossoms from the garden, with the windows wide open and a view of our hills in front of me, I indulged myself further with breakfast on the terrace. Fig bread with fig jam, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a double espresso topped up with hot milk, is about as decadent as it gets. It felt like midsummer, but without the family and guests to look after. Heaven. Only the faded blooms in the terrace pots and the newly harvested lavender bushes give the game away.
With lots of urgent jobs to do before winter, like a kid playing truant from school, I made the conscious decision to head down to the pool [now, sadly, closed for winter because the nights are too cold]. With no one to cook for, and no one to worry about, I stayed there for most of the day. I didn't even have to worry about wearing a swimsuit. I even managed half an hour's yoga practice in the late afternoon sunshine, which would have been a very strange sight for someone with a satellite image. Naked middle-aged flesh is not the least attractive but viewed in 'up dog' or 'down dog' yoga positions, it borders on the perversely pornographic.
Afterwards, I raided our two fig trees and made some jam [well, more of a compote really, because figs are sweet enough already]. Then, because I'd made the jam, I thought I'd better make some wholemeal bread to go with it, which I did, courtesy of Richard Bertinet's marvellous book on contemporary bread making, 'Dough'. Not wishing to blow my own trumpet, it is a Miles Davis moment and I am dead chuffed. It always strikes me that bread is the very essence of life, something to marvel at and celebrate at every opportunity, and that making it connects us to a life force so much bigger than ourselves. It is no coincidence that 'Eucharist' is such a celebration.
I made a chicken stock for tomorrow's pumpkin risotto, from last night's roast chicken, some chicken soup with the remaining breast meat, and chicken in sherry and tarragon with the legs for my dinner, watering the garden in between. The woodburner is made up but unneeded. I've even planned my menu for the weekend, as Peter arrives tomorrow and we have guests for dinner. The rush will begin again in the morning and today's brief respite from the maelstrom that is everyday life will be but a distant memory once again. As I finish this, I shall head off to my bed with a cup of Green and Black's hot chocolate, Alice Sebold's 'The Lovely Bones' and Radio 4 ringing out from my laptop. Then, as I turn out my bedside light and turn off my electric blanket, with the stars outside twinkling through half open shutters, I shall give thanks for a perfect day.
The closest I can get is to say one word. Vincent. His late landscapes, many of them painted after his breakdown, illustrate better than any pretentious writing the sheer, unadulterated beauty of 'La France Profonde'. My soul has been restored, which is more than can be said for poor Vincent. As a starry, starry night falls, I give thanks for the joy of days like today. It is a little too chilly to lie on a blanket under the stars tonight, but their sparkling presence makes me feel, as ever, unimportant in the greater scheme of things. I wish I knew more about them - although I am reliably informed that there is now an i-phone app that will 'read' the stars in your location for you. I must remember to download it before the weather changes.
Perhaps I am a little more reflective than usual, due to the sad loss, within less than a month of each other, of two dear friends. They will be sorely missed by all of us, and especially their children. None of us truly appreciates what we have until it is taken from us. Life and death are as inevitable as night and day. As the last of the summer flowers in the new border battle with the elements, I greedily think of next year's seed crop. It is sad to see them looking so desolate, pale imitations of their former resplendent glory, but I know that in their death, there is new life to come. Who knows where John and Bill are now, but I like to think of them sailing or playing cricket in some heavenly galaxy beyond our stars.
Anyway, back to my perfect day. I awoke at 6.20am and, as it was still dark, I padded downstairs to make a cup of tea to drink as I finished my current book - 'House Music', the wonderful diaries of Oona King, elected to Parliament in 1997 for Bethnal Green and Bow, and only the second black woman in the House of Commons. Having once harboured a half-baked fantasy of standing for Parliament myself, I can only think what a lucky escape I had. It's hell on earth for a woman, with days ending long after midnight, not to mention the sexism that inevitably pervades an institution dominated by white men in suits. Her diaries are heartfelt, honest and totally candid and they made me cry when she writes of her failed fifth IVF attempt. It more than touched a nerve for me because I've been there too. Her book should be compulsory reading for all aspiring female election candidates.
I then dozed to the 'Today' programme on BBC iplayer, after I had watched the sun come up over the misty valley below my bedroom window. I still cannot quite grasp the freedom that technology brings. You can be anywhere in the world and provided you can access broadband, BBC Radio 4 will be with you. A friend indeed. I know that I have written of this before but I just wish that the older generation could be lured away from their technophobia and opened up to the limitless possibilities for communicating with family and friends and accessing information that is just a mouse click away.
Minus husband and children, with the excuse of a bender of a cough and cold though, I marvelled, yet again, at Neil MacGregor's wonderful series on Radio 4 every morning at 9.45am, 'A History of the World in a Hundred Objects'. It will go into the annals of legendary BBC cultural series, alongside Kenneth Clark's 'Civilisation' and Jacob Bronowski's 'The Ascent of Man'. Today's object was an Aboriginal bark shield, brought back from Botany Bay in 1770 with the arrival of Captain Cook's ship. It made me think of our time living in Sydney in the early eighties, when I first became aware of Aboriginal history and their notion of 'The Dreamtime'. We could learn so much from their culture about respect for the fragility of our world, but we plough on regardless, plundering resources for the great engine of capitalism.
After a bath filled with fresh lavender blossoms from the garden, with the windows wide open and a view of our hills in front of me, I indulged myself further with breakfast on the terrace. Fig bread with fig jam, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a double espresso topped up with hot milk, is about as decadent as it gets. It felt like midsummer, but without the family and guests to look after. Heaven. Only the faded blooms in the terrace pots and the newly harvested lavender bushes give the game away.
With lots of urgent jobs to do before winter, like a kid playing truant from school, I made the conscious decision to head down to the pool [now, sadly, closed for winter because the nights are too cold]. With no one to cook for, and no one to worry about, I stayed there for most of the day. I didn't even have to worry about wearing a swimsuit. I even managed half an hour's yoga practice in the late afternoon sunshine, which would have been a very strange sight for someone with a satellite image. Naked middle-aged flesh is not the least attractive but viewed in 'up dog' or 'down dog' yoga positions, it borders on the perversely pornographic.
Afterwards, I raided our two fig trees and made some jam [well, more of a compote really, because figs are sweet enough already]. Then, because I'd made the jam, I thought I'd better make some wholemeal bread to go with it, which I did, courtesy of Richard Bertinet's marvellous book on contemporary bread making, 'Dough'. Not wishing to blow my own trumpet, it is a Miles Davis moment and I am dead chuffed. It always strikes me that bread is the very essence of life, something to marvel at and celebrate at every opportunity, and that making it connects us to a life force so much bigger than ourselves. It is no coincidence that 'Eucharist' is such a celebration.
I made a chicken stock for tomorrow's pumpkin risotto, from last night's roast chicken, some chicken soup with the remaining breast meat, and chicken in sherry and tarragon with the legs for my dinner, watering the garden in between. The woodburner is made up but unneeded. I've even planned my menu for the weekend, as Peter arrives tomorrow and we have guests for dinner. The rush will begin again in the morning and today's brief respite from the maelstrom that is everyday life will be but a distant memory once again. As I finish this, I shall head off to my bed with a cup of Green and Black's hot chocolate, Alice Sebold's 'The Lovely Bones' and Radio 4 ringing out from my laptop. Then, as I turn out my bedside light and turn off my electric blanket, with the stars outside twinkling through half open shutters, I shall give thanks for a perfect day.
Wednesday, 25 August 2010
Where Has This Summer Gone?
I really can't believe that my last blog posting was at the end of June, post Glastonbury and pre Speech Day, and that we are now staring out of the window at pouring rain in anticipation of yet another British Bank Holiday weekend. Our return from foreign pastures anticipated two lots of exam results, both, thankfully, excellent. We are all ecstatic, despite the downpours, unlike the poor, desperate people of Pakistan. It's good to know that we are leading the fund raising efforts to help alleviate unimaginable tragedy and loss. Bardies already seems a long way away, though, thank goodness, I shall be back there in a fortnight's time to savour the hint of autumn in the evening air. Where has this summer gone?
As most people know, we opted out of our blues festival this year. The combination of a weak pound and the prospective double dip recession, back in December when the contracts were due to be signed, unnerved us. I desperately wanted Ian Siegal and his band to headline, not a cheap option at the best of times. We feared that many of our followers would decide to stay at home. So, in January, with deep regret, we decided to forego our bi-annual jolly and, I have to say, I missed it more than I ever thought I would.
I missed the camaraderie of 'Team Bardies', the boozy nights around the barbeque with old friends and great music [or great friends and old music?], even the endless trips to the 'decheterie' and the cash and carry. I missed the thrill of seeing Tim and Tina's faithful green and white striped tent rise up on the lawn at Bardies, like a kraken awakening from a deep slumber. I missed the sense of anticipation as the countdown begins and sundry musicians wander in at all hours of the day and night. I missed the sounds of silence as Sonny Black performs his solo set and the revelry of a reggae final set from Jeremiah Marks, with everybody singing along as though their lives depended on it. Roll on 2012, when we promise to put the show back on the road for Peter's big birthday.
There were many compensations though. The tender, loving care, and huge expense, that we have ploughed into the garden this year has paid off, although Simone's 'tilleul', which shades our outside dining area, remains very sick. The new grass is verdant and seems to have doubled the size of the garden, now ablaze with cornflowers, cosmos, sweet peas, cocosima and gladioli. It may not have survived so well under the tramplings of fun loving festival goers! I am so thrilled that we have finally begun to bring the garden back to life, with Sarah and Pascal's help, and I am sure that our festival followers will be amazed in 2012 by the transformation.
The St Lizier Festival, a classical music festival held in the cathedral of our nearby town, provided a rather more sedate musical backdrop to this summer's family holiday. It runs from the end of July until the middle of August each year. Mademoiselle Henry, our predecessor at Bardies, had been a patron of the St Lizier Festival. David Lively, the festival's music director and Annie Soubion, the festival organiser, knew her and had been to the house before we had bought it. Of course, we had to invite them to lunch! We were thrilled to bits that Felicity Lott, performing at the festival for the second time, came with them. With a brother-in-law who was a conductor, I know exactly what opera singers can be like. Instead, Felicity is the antithesis of the egotistical 'prima donna', charming, attentive, generous and great company. Her glorious concert of Schumann 'lieder' and French 'chansons' the following evening was a privilege to attend indeed. That someone of such reputation and stature should be happy to perform in the depths of the French countryside is testament to her joy in bringing her favourite music to a wider audience. It was one of the highlights of our summer.
A fortnight later, we were privileged to have a writer to stay. It seems to me that people who are at the top of their profession have no need to show off. Generosity of spirit is what singles them out as truly exceptional people. I know that there are many bad tempered geniuses but they are seldom able to pass on their wisdom, which is a shame in a world where mediocrity often seems to be the norm. We all need role models to inspire us, whatever age we are, and spending time with tremendously talented people leaves a warm afterglow, rather like the residual energy that always seems to me to emanate from a Jackson Pollock painting. Bardies has always been a natural home to creative people, musicians, artists, writers and journalists [and the occasional politician!] so it's always a joy to continue the tradition. It never ceases to amaze me just how privileged we are.
Two trips to Barcelona, one to drop off my sister and daughter at the airport, the other for me to take the ferry to Mahon, took me up and over the Pyrenees, via Ax and Puigcerda. How I love that drive! The second time I went via my friend Meredith's lovely house in Axiat, along the Route des Corniches. Both times, the weather was wet, grey and misty until I emerged from the Tunnel del Cadi, eleven euros out of pocket, into blinding sunshine. We found a lovely little boutique hotel in the Ramblas, which was perfect in every way. Barcelona, like New York, never seems to sleep and I could happily have watched the street mime artists from my window late into the night had I had the energy.
The staff could not have been more helpful, and never more so than when my trusty, ancient Jeep Cherokee decided to refuse to respond. Eventually, after a few tears of frustration and the odd Basil Fawlty kick, we got going. I am loathe to admit this, but I had to fill up in an out of town Barcelona petrol station with the engine running for fear of being stranded, unable to turn the engine on, once again. My poor sixteen year old daughter didn't know whether to stay with me and risk being blown to smithereens, or hide in the shop and risk just being severely maimed and burned! Fortunately, the pumps were a long way from the shop, so nobody witnessed my reckless necessity. Never again! My nerves aren't up to it.
A night in Castillon, with dinner 'al fresco' on Sarah and Pascal's west facing balcony with a myriad of chiaroscuro shades, and another with the Languedoc's most knowledgeable wine experts at my friend Caroline's delicious house and 'conserverie' in the Lauragais, rounded off our last few days in 'la France profonde'. It's been a busy summer, as ever, but a tremendously enjoyable and rewarding one. Our 'locateurs' have had nothing but praise for the 'esprit' of Bardies and our hard work getting it all ready. It is a joy to share it, especially now that the children seem to prefer to hit the summer high life of Cornwall and the Balearics. I await their return to more homely holidays chez nous. Meanwhile, I count the days until my joyful return. As the nights begin to draw in, I am thankful for the neat stack of logs piled high in the garage. It will not be so very long before we will be needing them, I fear. As another long, lazy summer slowly moves towards 'la rentree', we wonder at where the time went, yet again. And, as September beckons and I move into my sixtieth year, it becomes a metaphor for my life. Time really does speed up the older one gets.
As most people know, we opted out of our blues festival this year. The combination of a weak pound and the prospective double dip recession, back in December when the contracts were due to be signed, unnerved us. I desperately wanted Ian Siegal and his band to headline, not a cheap option at the best of times. We feared that many of our followers would decide to stay at home. So, in January, with deep regret, we decided to forego our bi-annual jolly and, I have to say, I missed it more than I ever thought I would.
I missed the camaraderie of 'Team Bardies', the boozy nights around the barbeque with old friends and great music [or great friends and old music?], even the endless trips to the 'decheterie' and the cash and carry. I missed the thrill of seeing Tim and Tina's faithful green and white striped tent rise up on the lawn at Bardies, like a kraken awakening from a deep slumber. I missed the sense of anticipation as the countdown begins and sundry musicians wander in at all hours of the day and night. I missed the sounds of silence as Sonny Black performs his solo set and the revelry of a reggae final set from Jeremiah Marks, with everybody singing along as though their lives depended on it. Roll on 2012, when we promise to put the show back on the road for Peter's big birthday.
There were many compensations though. The tender, loving care, and huge expense, that we have ploughed into the garden this year has paid off, although Simone's 'tilleul', which shades our outside dining area, remains very sick. The new grass is verdant and seems to have doubled the size of the garden, now ablaze with cornflowers, cosmos, sweet peas, cocosima and gladioli. It may not have survived so well under the tramplings of fun loving festival goers! I am so thrilled that we have finally begun to bring the garden back to life, with Sarah and Pascal's help, and I am sure that our festival followers will be amazed in 2012 by the transformation.
The St Lizier Festival, a classical music festival held in the cathedral of our nearby town, provided a rather more sedate musical backdrop to this summer's family holiday. It runs from the end of July until the middle of August each year. Mademoiselle Henry, our predecessor at Bardies, had been a patron of the St Lizier Festival. David Lively, the festival's music director and Annie Soubion, the festival organiser, knew her and had been to the house before we had bought it. Of course, we had to invite them to lunch! We were thrilled to bits that Felicity Lott, performing at the festival for the second time, came with them. With a brother-in-law who was a conductor, I know exactly what opera singers can be like. Instead, Felicity is the antithesis of the egotistical 'prima donna', charming, attentive, generous and great company. Her glorious concert of Schumann 'lieder' and French 'chansons' the following evening was a privilege to attend indeed. That someone of such reputation and stature should be happy to perform in the depths of the French countryside is testament to her joy in bringing her favourite music to a wider audience. It was one of the highlights of our summer.
A fortnight later, we were privileged to have a writer to stay. It seems to me that people who are at the top of their profession have no need to show off. Generosity of spirit is what singles them out as truly exceptional people. I know that there are many bad tempered geniuses but they are seldom able to pass on their wisdom, which is a shame in a world where mediocrity often seems to be the norm. We all need role models to inspire us, whatever age we are, and spending time with tremendously talented people leaves a warm afterglow, rather like the residual energy that always seems to me to emanate from a Jackson Pollock painting. Bardies has always been a natural home to creative people, musicians, artists, writers and journalists [and the occasional politician!] so it's always a joy to continue the tradition. It never ceases to amaze me just how privileged we are.
Two trips to Barcelona, one to drop off my sister and daughter at the airport, the other for me to take the ferry to Mahon, took me up and over the Pyrenees, via Ax and Puigcerda. How I love that drive! The second time I went via my friend Meredith's lovely house in Axiat, along the Route des Corniches. Both times, the weather was wet, grey and misty until I emerged from the Tunnel del Cadi, eleven euros out of pocket, into blinding sunshine. We found a lovely little boutique hotel in the Ramblas, which was perfect in every way. Barcelona, like New York, never seems to sleep and I could happily have watched the street mime artists from my window late into the night had I had the energy.
The staff could not have been more helpful, and never more so than when my trusty, ancient Jeep Cherokee decided to refuse to respond. Eventually, after a few tears of frustration and the odd Basil Fawlty kick, we got going. I am loathe to admit this, but I had to fill up in an out of town Barcelona petrol station with the engine running for fear of being stranded, unable to turn the engine on, once again. My poor sixteen year old daughter didn't know whether to stay with me and risk being blown to smithereens, or hide in the shop and risk just being severely maimed and burned! Fortunately, the pumps were a long way from the shop, so nobody witnessed my reckless necessity. Never again! My nerves aren't up to it.
A night in Castillon, with dinner 'al fresco' on Sarah and Pascal's west facing balcony with a myriad of chiaroscuro shades, and another with the Languedoc's most knowledgeable wine experts at my friend Caroline's delicious house and 'conserverie' in the Lauragais, rounded off our last few days in 'la France profonde'. It's been a busy summer, as ever, but a tremendously enjoyable and rewarding one. Our 'locateurs' have had nothing but praise for the 'esprit' of Bardies and our hard work getting it all ready. It is a joy to share it, especially now that the children seem to prefer to hit the summer high life of Cornwall and the Balearics. I await their return to more homely holidays chez nous. Meanwhile, I count the days until my joyful return. As the nights begin to draw in, I am thankful for the neat stack of logs piled high in the garage. It will not be so very long before we will be needing them, I fear. As another long, lazy summer slowly moves towards 'la rentree', we wonder at where the time went, yet again. And, as September beckons and I move into my sixtieth year, it becomes a metaphor for my life. Time really does speed up the older one gets.
Monday, 28 June 2010
Music and Sunshine
The 40th Glastonbury Festival has just ended and my two sunburnt teenagers are wending their weary way home after the hottest weekend in a very long time. As Glasto virgins, they trundled into the sprawling site laden with wellies and waterproofs in the firm belief that mud was the norm. Watching it on television from the cool of our drawing room, it could have been 'Reggae Sunsplash'. Indeed, seeing the sensational Stevie Wonder performing last night, just as the sun was going down, transported me back down memory lane [a trip I seem to make more and more often these days!] to being at Sunsplash in Montego Bay in Jamaica, in1981, not long after Bob Marley had died from cancer.
Rita Marley, Peter Tosh and the rest of the Wailers were bereft without their leader and we all missed him dreadfully. Sunsplash was not the same without him. Then, on the last night, just as the sun was coming up, the opening chords of 'Master Blaster' rose from the stage. There, to pay his respects and lift us all from our misery, like a vision from the Old Testament in dreadlocks, was the great Stevie Wonder himself. It was one of the greatest musical experiences of my life and I have never forgotten the sheer joy, the camaraderie, the sense of belonging and the feeling of 'one world' that such a great man evokes. It was the closest I've ever been to heaven on earth!
When we texted our daughter around midnight last night, the reply came back immediately. "I have just had the best one hour and forty five minutes of my life!" I knew exactly what she meant. Music on a grand scale is a truly collective experience. Alex Grousset, a good friend of ours, brilliant jazz percussionist and sometime drummer in my husband's old rock and roll band, 'Route 66', used to say, "When people play music together they will not fight each other." He has put this into effect by setting up a charity in Africa which provides second hand instruments to the most volatile places on that war ravaged continent and promotes inter-tribal and inter-religious harmony. Stevie Wonder knows this better than anyone and his gentle call to a better world speaks louder than any self-interested politician. Mind you, as he says, "If I wasn't blind, I'd sure kick some ass!"
I also watched Toots and The Maytals, another Sunsplash veteran, and, as they sang, 'Monkeyman', I remembered vividly Jeremiah Marks' great set at our last Blues at Bardies festival. Glastonbury it wasn't, but in it's own little way, it achieves a similar objective. Everyone dancing and singing along with Jeremiah on the last night was a sight to behold! We run it, with the help of many loyal and very hard-working friends, for everyone, friends, musicians, locals and punters alike. It is a collective, and it shows. Because we include food and booze in the ticket price, everyone shares in meals and music. And, touch wood, the sun has always shone. We are very proud of it, not least because we have had some of the UK's greatest blues players come to us, including the Matt Schofield Trio, Ian Siegal, Sonny Black, Dave Kelly and Jeremiah. It was our kids', and their friends', first experience of a music festival and one of the reasons, I'm sure, that they have all so quickly acquired their parents' music aspirations.
We are so sad not to have run it this year. Seeing Glastonbury, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia for B at B. It wasn't meant to be, I know. We were brimming with great ideas and intentions this time last year, not least in getting Ian Siegal back, but the exchange rate did for us! At, effectively, 1:1, when we emailed our list of supporters no one was prepared to commit at the time that we needed to firm up some contracts. It's totally understandable. To fly out at the most expensive time of the year, probably with children in tow, hire a car and book into the 'Eychenne' or similar is a costly exercise at a time when most people are having to cut back on household expenditure. We have always heavily subsidised the festival but even we had second thoughts about the feasability of financing it this year. We had just wanted to break even, but, sadly, it would have been impossible.
We wouldn't have been able to run it with less than 180 paying punters and, at most, I suspect we would only have made 80 to 100. Flying out all the musicians or paying astronomical French taxes on top of hefty fees, was a fixed cost we would have been committed to regardless of numbers. It was a tough decision and many people, I know, were disappointed. Watching Glasto, now that the exchange rate has improved significantly, I did wish that we had gambled a bit and gone for it. It's a funny thing in life but usually, if you want something enough, you take risks and are rewarded for your fearlessness. Not always, though, it has to be said!
As a result of our procrastination, our summer plans are very much more relaxed. Instead of charging around like a blue-arse fly, booking hotels, flights, cars, marquees, food, booze, helpers etc I am writing blogs, going to summer parties and generally enjoying the best that the sunshine has to offer. It is a strange experience because much as I love peace and quiet, I miss the razzle dazzle of music and sunshine chez nous. We will definitely do a festival in 2012, for Peter's BIG birthday. Next year, for mine, which I don't really want to broadcast too much, we may do something smaller. I've always had a hankering for 'Baroque at Bardies'! Watch this space, double dips, debt crises and potential Greek defaults permitting. We live in uncertain times, for sure, but we musn't give up without a fight. Music makes you feel good beyond the trials and tribulations of everyday life. Music and sunshine remains a heady brew and we intend to keep the alchemy going for a while yet. You can follow our progress by logging into 'bluesatbardies.net'. We hope to see you rocking with us again very soon! A bientot.
Rita Marley, Peter Tosh and the rest of the Wailers were bereft without their leader and we all missed him dreadfully. Sunsplash was not the same without him. Then, on the last night, just as the sun was coming up, the opening chords of 'Master Blaster' rose from the stage. There, to pay his respects and lift us all from our misery, like a vision from the Old Testament in dreadlocks, was the great Stevie Wonder himself. It was one of the greatest musical experiences of my life and I have never forgotten the sheer joy, the camaraderie, the sense of belonging and the feeling of 'one world' that such a great man evokes. It was the closest I've ever been to heaven on earth!
When we texted our daughter around midnight last night, the reply came back immediately. "I have just had the best one hour and forty five minutes of my life!" I knew exactly what she meant. Music on a grand scale is a truly collective experience. Alex Grousset, a good friend of ours, brilliant jazz percussionist and sometime drummer in my husband's old rock and roll band, 'Route 66', used to say, "When people play music together they will not fight each other." He has put this into effect by setting up a charity in Africa which provides second hand instruments to the most volatile places on that war ravaged continent and promotes inter-tribal and inter-religious harmony. Stevie Wonder knows this better than anyone and his gentle call to a better world speaks louder than any self-interested politician. Mind you, as he says, "If I wasn't blind, I'd sure kick some ass!"
I also watched Toots and The Maytals, another Sunsplash veteran, and, as they sang, 'Monkeyman', I remembered vividly Jeremiah Marks' great set at our last Blues at Bardies festival. Glastonbury it wasn't, but in it's own little way, it achieves a similar objective. Everyone dancing and singing along with Jeremiah on the last night was a sight to behold! We run it, with the help of many loyal and very hard-working friends, for everyone, friends, musicians, locals and punters alike. It is a collective, and it shows. Because we include food and booze in the ticket price, everyone shares in meals and music. And, touch wood, the sun has always shone. We are very proud of it, not least because we have had some of the UK's greatest blues players come to us, including the Matt Schofield Trio, Ian Siegal, Sonny Black, Dave Kelly and Jeremiah. It was our kids', and their friends', first experience of a music festival and one of the reasons, I'm sure, that they have all so quickly acquired their parents' music aspirations.
We are so sad not to have run it this year. Seeing Glastonbury, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia for B at B. It wasn't meant to be, I know. We were brimming with great ideas and intentions this time last year, not least in getting Ian Siegal back, but the exchange rate did for us! At, effectively, 1:1, when we emailed our list of supporters no one was prepared to commit at the time that we needed to firm up some contracts. It's totally understandable. To fly out at the most expensive time of the year, probably with children in tow, hire a car and book into the 'Eychenne' or similar is a costly exercise at a time when most people are having to cut back on household expenditure. We have always heavily subsidised the festival but even we had second thoughts about the feasability of financing it this year. We had just wanted to break even, but, sadly, it would have been impossible.
We wouldn't have been able to run it with less than 180 paying punters and, at most, I suspect we would only have made 80 to 100. Flying out all the musicians or paying astronomical French taxes on top of hefty fees, was a fixed cost we would have been committed to regardless of numbers. It was a tough decision and many people, I know, were disappointed. Watching Glasto, now that the exchange rate has improved significantly, I did wish that we had gambled a bit and gone for it. It's a funny thing in life but usually, if you want something enough, you take risks and are rewarded for your fearlessness. Not always, though, it has to be said!
As a result of our procrastination, our summer plans are very much more relaxed. Instead of charging around like a blue-arse fly, booking hotels, flights, cars, marquees, food, booze, helpers etc I am writing blogs, going to summer parties and generally enjoying the best that the sunshine has to offer. It is a strange experience because much as I love peace and quiet, I miss the razzle dazzle of music and sunshine chez nous. We will definitely do a festival in 2012, for Peter's BIG birthday. Next year, for mine, which I don't really want to broadcast too much, we may do something smaller. I've always had a hankering for 'Baroque at Bardies'! Watch this space, double dips, debt crises and potential Greek defaults permitting. We live in uncertain times, for sure, but we musn't give up without a fight. Music makes you feel good beyond the trials and tribulations of everyday life. Music and sunshine remains a heady brew and we intend to keep the alchemy going for a while yet. You can follow our progress by logging into 'bluesatbardies.net'. We hope to see you rocking with us again very soon! A bientot.
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Thirty Five Tons of Gravel and a Solitary Beehive
I cannot believe that so much time has flown by since my last posting - ever thus it was at this time of year. Like everyone living with a garden in a temperate climate, and many in less hospitable environments, the garden currently dominates our time management. Those of us with school age children also have the added anxiety of support for angst- ridden teenagers with school and college exams to contend with. The teapot has certainly taken a hammering, thankfully not the gin bottle. And then, of course, there are all those delightful summer invitations that pour into our email and letter boxes to tempt us away from our labours.
The most enchanting of them all this year was for the opening night of Garsington Opera's magical 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', the most perfect opera for the Lady Ottoline Morrel's stunning garden at Garsington Manor. I know she's been dead for the best part of seventy years but her legacy lives on. The gardens were designed and constucted by Philip and Lady Ottoline Morrel between 1915 and 1926. Everywhere you walk evokes the spirit of the bygone age of the Bloomsbury set. At the entrance to the auditorium you pass Lady Ottoline's ilex tree and a liquidambar planted by King George V1 in 1926, when still Duke of York. Overbearing, pretentious and pompous many of them may have been, but you cannot begrudge them their passions, and gardening was certainly one of them.
The herb juice fuelled trysts of Hermia, Helena, Demetrius and Lysander and the marital contortions of Tytania and Oberon could easily mirror the libidinous activities of that extraordinary group of supremely talented people. There are certainly plenty of hidden niches around the Italian garden to share with statues of Amphora, Venus, Daphne, Cupid, Pluto and Apollo, amongst others. And then there are the borders, filled with the most spectacular array of quintessentially English summer flowers, the wild garden and the lofty regimental box's of the lower garden to admire and covet. Not since Charleston and Sissinghurst have I been so inspired in my plans for Bardies. When the subsidiary barn is finally knocked down I intend to make an Italian garden within the retaining walls. We can but dream....
Sadly, I am no Ottoline, Vita or Vanessa but, fortunately for me, I do not have to be. Our French predecessors at Bardies had their own vision for the garden. Our box hedges are formal and square, unlike the quirky conical specimens at Garsington, but they too define the structure of the garden. All we have to do is work within them. This year, with the help of the wonderfully talented Pascal and Sarah, we began to remove the all-invading 'hypericum' in an attempt to create new summer borders. Poor Sarah has had nightmares over it all because of the vagaries of the weather and because much of the new border has been grown from seed. It has been designed to provide summer flowers for the house, as well to feast the eye whilst dining under the lime tree. We have also begun a new rose and clematis walkway, helped by my darling baby brother who shovelled out all the rocks by hand in the pouring rain. Each year we plan to do a different section until this magical garden is fully restored to its former glory.
Germaine's 'tilleul' [lime tree], planted in 1912 to celebrate her birth, has been brutally battered by the snows and winds of this last, hard winter. The weight of snow in the centre has left it seriously mutilated. Fortunately, Simone's tree, planted the following year in 1913, survived with little structural damage. Monsieur Mangan, who last amputated it in 1995, has his surgeon's instruments at hand to come in July, once the 'florissante' has finished. He assures me that there will still be enough shade below but the surgery, I suspect, will be drastic. We have also lost the eucalyptus by the pool, the price of being a non-native evergreen genetically incapable of dealing with our harsh Ariegois winters. Global warming continues to play its tricks, and never more so than this spring when 30 degree temperatures were immediately followed by heavy snowfalls. The farmers are at their wit's end.
The seasons alter: the spring, the summer,
The chiding autumn, the angry winter change
Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which;
[from Benjamin Britten's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', libretto adapted from Shakespeare by Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears]
We have laid two new areas of lawn [well, Pascal has!] and we have our fingers crossed. The top one is looking good and the pool area is coming on too [having paid the price in the past for shortcuts with turf around the pool]. It had to be done. Next year we will do the top lawn, not least because the plumber has just ploughed a trench right through the middle of it to re-install the pool's water top-up system, mysteriously cut off many years ago. The wanton destruction of the lawn made me cry, but at least I am now motivated to completely reseed it in the autumn. The pool rockery has been augmented and with the recent rainfall, is now full of flowers. Our experiments with alpines are paying off. A radical new step has been the laying of thirty five tons of gravel along the paths and below the two 'tilleuls'. It has given the garden a completely different, more 'tidy', look but hopefully it will have the additional benefit of retaining much needed moisture. Poor Lawrence and Florian did a stirling job with the wheelbarrow.
Beth Chatto's influence and vision creeps up on all of us as we battle on with weeks, or months, of little rainfall. Things have been so bad in recent years that the water 'citerne' has become redundant in July and August. Water is horrendously expensive here and, in any event, we have a duty to try to preserve it, especially as our neighbouring department, the Aude, regularly has water bans. Being so close to the Pyrenees, we have to date avoided such drastic measures, which not only destroy months of work in the garden but also render swimming pools useless because it is forbidden to top them up.
Meanwhile, tragically, our bees seem to have succumbed to a mystery malaise. In every previous year they have thrived here, pollinating our 'tilleuls' and borders, as well as our wild flowers in the meadows, throughout the summer. Frederic, the bee man, is at a loss as to the reason so many of them have died, scattered in droves in the dormitory. On examination, they appear healthy but they are most definitely deceased. The only explanation seems to be the heatwave that preceded May's unseasonal snowfall. There was a hive under the pantiles, now empty, and he is sure that the heat below the terracotta must have created an environment close to a 'tagine'. Horrifically, they must have been baked to death and swarmed too late to recover. We wait to see if they will return to a new home, in a proper hive placed on top of the tiles on the garage.
We all have a duty to preserve the bee population and I can't bear to think of their permanent demise at Bardies. Like many people, I used to be frightened of them, not least because my sister-in-law and nephew both have to carry 'epi-pens' for fear of being stung and succumbing to encephalitic shock. In reality, bees seldom sting. Now I see them as our friends, part of our future and the future of our delicate world. Our solitary beehive is a beacon to the future. If they return, it will be more than an omen. It will be the start of a new adventure for us, with the help of Frederic. There used to be hives here and our predecessors produced their own honey. There is no reason to suppose that we cannot do the same. Honey from Bardies sounds like nectar from heaven - we await their return with bated breath.
The most enchanting of them all this year was for the opening night of Garsington Opera's magical 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', the most perfect opera for the Lady Ottoline Morrel's stunning garden at Garsington Manor. I know she's been dead for the best part of seventy years but her legacy lives on. The gardens were designed and constucted by Philip and Lady Ottoline Morrel between 1915 and 1926. Everywhere you walk evokes the spirit of the bygone age of the Bloomsbury set. At the entrance to the auditorium you pass Lady Ottoline's ilex tree and a liquidambar planted by King George V1 in 1926, when still Duke of York. Overbearing, pretentious and pompous many of them may have been, but you cannot begrudge them their passions, and gardening was certainly one of them.
The herb juice fuelled trysts of Hermia, Helena, Demetrius and Lysander and the marital contortions of Tytania and Oberon could easily mirror the libidinous activities of that extraordinary group of supremely talented people. There are certainly plenty of hidden niches around the Italian garden to share with statues of Amphora, Venus, Daphne, Cupid, Pluto and Apollo, amongst others. And then there are the borders, filled with the most spectacular array of quintessentially English summer flowers, the wild garden and the lofty regimental box's of the lower garden to admire and covet. Not since Charleston and Sissinghurst have I been so inspired in my plans for Bardies. When the subsidiary barn is finally knocked down I intend to make an Italian garden within the retaining walls. We can but dream....
Sadly, I am no Ottoline, Vita or Vanessa but, fortunately for me, I do not have to be. Our French predecessors at Bardies had their own vision for the garden. Our box hedges are formal and square, unlike the quirky conical specimens at Garsington, but they too define the structure of the garden. All we have to do is work within them. This year, with the help of the wonderfully talented Pascal and Sarah, we began to remove the all-invading 'hypericum' in an attempt to create new summer borders. Poor Sarah has had nightmares over it all because of the vagaries of the weather and because much of the new border has been grown from seed. It has been designed to provide summer flowers for the house, as well to feast the eye whilst dining under the lime tree. We have also begun a new rose and clematis walkway, helped by my darling baby brother who shovelled out all the rocks by hand in the pouring rain. Each year we plan to do a different section until this magical garden is fully restored to its former glory.
Germaine's 'tilleul' [lime tree], planted in 1912 to celebrate her birth, has been brutally battered by the snows and winds of this last, hard winter. The weight of snow in the centre has left it seriously mutilated. Fortunately, Simone's tree, planted the following year in 1913, survived with little structural damage. Monsieur Mangan, who last amputated it in 1995, has his surgeon's instruments at hand to come in July, once the 'florissante' has finished. He assures me that there will still be enough shade below but the surgery, I suspect, will be drastic. We have also lost the eucalyptus by the pool, the price of being a non-native evergreen genetically incapable of dealing with our harsh Ariegois winters. Global warming continues to play its tricks, and never more so than this spring when 30 degree temperatures were immediately followed by heavy snowfalls. The farmers are at their wit's end.
The seasons alter: the spring, the summer,
The chiding autumn, the angry winter change
Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which;
[from Benjamin Britten's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', libretto adapted from Shakespeare by Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears]
We have laid two new areas of lawn [well, Pascal has!] and we have our fingers crossed. The top one is looking good and the pool area is coming on too [having paid the price in the past for shortcuts with turf around the pool]. It had to be done. Next year we will do the top lawn, not least because the plumber has just ploughed a trench right through the middle of it to re-install the pool's water top-up system, mysteriously cut off many years ago. The wanton destruction of the lawn made me cry, but at least I am now motivated to completely reseed it in the autumn. The pool rockery has been augmented and with the recent rainfall, is now full of flowers. Our experiments with alpines are paying off. A radical new step has been the laying of thirty five tons of gravel along the paths and below the two 'tilleuls'. It has given the garden a completely different, more 'tidy', look but hopefully it will have the additional benefit of retaining much needed moisture. Poor Lawrence and Florian did a stirling job with the wheelbarrow.
Beth Chatto's influence and vision creeps up on all of us as we battle on with weeks, or months, of little rainfall. Things have been so bad in recent years that the water 'citerne' has become redundant in July and August. Water is horrendously expensive here and, in any event, we have a duty to try to preserve it, especially as our neighbouring department, the Aude, regularly has water bans. Being so close to the Pyrenees, we have to date avoided such drastic measures, which not only destroy months of work in the garden but also render swimming pools useless because it is forbidden to top them up.
Meanwhile, tragically, our bees seem to have succumbed to a mystery malaise. In every previous year they have thrived here, pollinating our 'tilleuls' and borders, as well as our wild flowers in the meadows, throughout the summer. Frederic, the bee man, is at a loss as to the reason so many of them have died, scattered in droves in the dormitory. On examination, they appear healthy but they are most definitely deceased. The only explanation seems to be the heatwave that preceded May's unseasonal snowfall. There was a hive under the pantiles, now empty, and he is sure that the heat below the terracotta must have created an environment close to a 'tagine'. Horrifically, they must have been baked to death and swarmed too late to recover. We wait to see if they will return to a new home, in a proper hive placed on top of the tiles on the garage.
We all have a duty to preserve the bee population and I can't bear to think of their permanent demise at Bardies. Like many people, I used to be frightened of them, not least because my sister-in-law and nephew both have to carry 'epi-pens' for fear of being stung and succumbing to encephalitic shock. In reality, bees seldom sting. Now I see them as our friends, part of our future and the future of our delicate world. Our solitary beehive is a beacon to the future. If they return, it will be more than an omen. It will be the start of a new adventure for us, with the help of Frederic. There used to be hives here and our predecessors produced their own honey. There is no reason to suppose that we cannot do the same. Honey from Bardies sounds like nectar from heaven - we await their return with bated breath.
Monday, 19 April 2010
Blog Not At Bardies
Oh well, I suppose it was inevitable that Iceland and Mother Nature would seek revenge for past injustices. I was already feeling slightly guilty about hopping on yet another Easyjet flight to Toulouse from Bristol, 'sans famille' this time, so soon after our Easter sojourn, when the news came through. The glacier topped Mount Unpronounceable, aka Eyjafjallajokull, had decided to wreak havoc on the travelling public just as the Easter vacation was ending. Our lust for exotic holidays and city breaks, with no thought of any consequences other than a delayed take-off slot, left many of us stranded in airport lounges whilst volcanic ash, steam and dust blocked our incoming flightpaths more effectively than any potential terrorist outrage.
I count myself as one of the lucky ones. My journey originated just an hour's train ride from my home and it was easy enough to follow updates on Easyjet's website from the comfort of my study. Friends and family are scattered around the globe wondering how they are going to get back to work, school and important exams. My hairdresser's 9.00 am appointment last Friday had to be cancelled because his client's flight into Heathrow from Vancouver had been turned round half way. No late cancellation fee there then! Some friends are stuck in Val d'Isere [tough?], another on the floor of Bangkok Airport [seriously tough!]. The stories are fast becoming apocryphal and many of us will dine out on them for months.
As I unpacked my packets of seed and summer bulbs this morning, which I had set my heart on planting, and the two metres of crisp blue and white linen with which I was going to make a Roman blind for the kitchen, I felt decidedly uneasy. The weekend papers had been full of doom and gloom, especially the more serious analyses focussing on the likelihood of Mount Katia exploding into life and dwarfing anything we have seen from her little sister. Even these articles, though, seemed tame compared with the predictions of the father of Gaia theory, James Lovelock, shown as part of BBC 4's enlightening 'Beautiful Minds' series.
James Lovelock is now a gentle, kindly ninety year old with a mind as razor sharp as ever. He talks softly, like a benevolent great uncle dispensing toffee caramels. He is mesmerising. But what he has to say is more terrifying than anything anyone else has said on the subject of climate change. It is, as far as he is concerned, completely irreversible. Nothing any of us chooses to do will make the blindest bit of difference to the inevitable outcome. We are doomed. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are riding out in full regalia and they are closer to our tails than any one of us is prepared to acknowledge. In short, the great Sir James Lovelock thinks that we have ten years grace, possibly a little longer with a good wind behind us. 'Shock and Awe'? We ain't seen nothin' yet! Famine, water shortages, war, death, there was not a single cheery word in the whole interview. At most, a mere billion of us will survive. How depressing is that?
I looked for some degree of comfort from the fact that he would say that, wouldn't he? After all, he is ninety years old. His life's work is done and he can afford to make a mistake now. But no, he knocked that one on the head by saying that he was a great grandfather who fears dreadfully for the youngest members of his family. Like the rest of us, he fears for his children's children. His life's work has been about the interconnectedness of every aspect of nature. We have been shown the warning signs, the breakdown that has occurred, and now it is too late. We are looking at catastophe beyond our comprehension. Perhaps, methinks, the power and wrath of Eyjafjallajokull is a metaphor for what is to come?
So today, as I took Charlie, our dog, for a walk by the river at Laverstock, I was struck by how beautiful it all was. The ducks and drakes were swimming along with their baby ducklings in tow, with not a care in the world beyond the needs of new parenthood. The sun was shining through the trees, a little too hazily for my liking [was that an ash cloud dispersing above me?] and the birds fluttered overhead, not daring to come any closer because of Charlie's eager presence. Wild daffodil and narcissi were hanging on to their beautiful trumpets for just a little while longer. I wished I'd had a basket for the new nettle shoots, which will make a great spring soup or wild weed pie. Life was beautiful. Everything was beautiful.
And then I thought, 'Bugger Lovelock!' He may well be right. Then again he may not. 'Que sera, sera'. I'm not going to let him spoil my joy in the world. Hope springs eternal and all that. I vowed to live each day as if it were the world's last. We must all strive to do our utmost to preserve what we have, to love, protect and cherish it and to give thanks for the simple joys of life. If each of us changes the way we look at the world, if we stop taking it for granted and try to give back more than we take out, then maybe, just maybe, enough of us will survive to ensure that we will have a future. I must not fly! I must not fly! I must not fly!
I count myself as one of the lucky ones. My journey originated just an hour's train ride from my home and it was easy enough to follow updates on Easyjet's website from the comfort of my study. Friends and family are scattered around the globe wondering how they are going to get back to work, school and important exams. My hairdresser's 9.00 am appointment last Friday had to be cancelled because his client's flight into Heathrow from Vancouver had been turned round half way. No late cancellation fee there then! Some friends are stuck in Val d'Isere [tough?], another on the floor of Bangkok Airport [seriously tough!]. The stories are fast becoming apocryphal and many of us will dine out on them for months.
As I unpacked my packets of seed and summer bulbs this morning, which I had set my heart on planting, and the two metres of crisp blue and white linen with which I was going to make a Roman blind for the kitchen, I felt decidedly uneasy. The weekend papers had been full of doom and gloom, especially the more serious analyses focussing on the likelihood of Mount Katia exploding into life and dwarfing anything we have seen from her little sister. Even these articles, though, seemed tame compared with the predictions of the father of Gaia theory, James Lovelock, shown as part of BBC 4's enlightening 'Beautiful Minds' series.
James Lovelock is now a gentle, kindly ninety year old with a mind as razor sharp as ever. He talks softly, like a benevolent great uncle dispensing toffee caramels. He is mesmerising. But what he has to say is more terrifying than anything anyone else has said on the subject of climate change. It is, as far as he is concerned, completely irreversible. Nothing any of us chooses to do will make the blindest bit of difference to the inevitable outcome. We are doomed. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are riding out in full regalia and they are closer to our tails than any one of us is prepared to acknowledge. In short, the great Sir James Lovelock thinks that we have ten years grace, possibly a little longer with a good wind behind us. 'Shock and Awe'? We ain't seen nothin' yet! Famine, water shortages, war, death, there was not a single cheery word in the whole interview. At most, a mere billion of us will survive. How depressing is that?
I looked for some degree of comfort from the fact that he would say that, wouldn't he? After all, he is ninety years old. His life's work is done and he can afford to make a mistake now. But no, he knocked that one on the head by saying that he was a great grandfather who fears dreadfully for the youngest members of his family. Like the rest of us, he fears for his children's children. His life's work has been about the interconnectedness of every aspect of nature. We have been shown the warning signs, the breakdown that has occurred, and now it is too late. We are looking at catastophe beyond our comprehension. Perhaps, methinks, the power and wrath of Eyjafjallajokull is a metaphor for what is to come?
So today, as I took Charlie, our dog, for a walk by the river at Laverstock, I was struck by how beautiful it all was. The ducks and drakes were swimming along with their baby ducklings in tow, with not a care in the world beyond the needs of new parenthood. The sun was shining through the trees, a little too hazily for my liking [was that an ash cloud dispersing above me?] and the birds fluttered overhead, not daring to come any closer because of Charlie's eager presence. Wild daffodil and narcissi were hanging on to their beautiful trumpets for just a little while longer. I wished I'd had a basket for the new nettle shoots, which will make a great spring soup or wild weed pie. Life was beautiful. Everything was beautiful.
And then I thought, 'Bugger Lovelock!' He may well be right. Then again he may not. 'Que sera, sera'. I'm not going to let him spoil my joy in the world. Hope springs eternal and all that. I vowed to live each day as if it were the world's last. We must all strive to do our utmost to preserve what we have, to love, protect and cherish it and to give thanks for the simple joys of life. If each of us changes the way we look at the world, if we stop taking it for granted and try to give back more than we take out, then maybe, just maybe, enough of us will survive to ensure that we will have a future. I must not fly! I must not fly! I must not fly!
Sunday, 4 April 2010
A Dance to the Music of Time
Is it really two months since I scribbled my last blog? I cannot quite believe that the snow has come and gone, leaving battered pantiles and a hole in the roof, and that the daffodils and narcissi are now semi-deceased. To be fair, they have hung on to their short spring flowerings for rather longer than usual because it's still pretty nippy around here at night. Our local ski resort, Guzet Neige, has no snow so there are no excuses for not getting on with the all those horrid jobs that the winter's hibernation and closed shutters has hidden from view these past six months. Out of the cupboard have come mops, buckets, brooms, sundry tins of emulsion and oil paints, and a long handled implement 'pour oter les araignees' [grovelling apologies for not having worked out how to accent my typescript, and on a blog about France, too!]. I'm sweeping out the cobwebs in more ways than one!
I have spoken before about the rhythm of life here, which I guess is much the same in the Welsh mountains, or the Highlands of Scotland, as it is in the Jura, the Massif Central or the Pyrenees. The long dark nights of winter, with only moonlight and the stars to guide one, limited both one's desire to venture too far afield and also one's ability to do so. Provisions were laid down for the lean times that followed Christmas. In my case, much of my pantry's contents has come from Intermarche or are left over from my big Waitrose pre-Christmas, pre-family's arrival, festive shop. I did, however, make a pear and ginger chutney, a beetroot and ginger chutney [I love the fire of ginger in winter!], a Christmas chutney, jars of piccalilli, some figs in vodka [more fire in the belly!] a Christmas cake and some chilli jam [Hot! Hot! Hot!]. We are still chomping our way through this eclectic collection of leftovers and, I have to say, there is nothing quite like a small slab of Christmas cake with one's 'cafe au lait' or even a 'tranche' of post prandial Roquefort.
It's a creative leap to find uses for mixed peel and dried fruit long after the Christmas Tree Fairy has been dispatched back to her 350 odd night's annual beauty sleep. But, surprise, surprise, I finally cottoned on to a use for them, courtesy of my old friend, the master baker and Bath cookery school owner, Richard Bertinet. A fortnight before Easter there appeared in my inbox, like manna from heaven, Richard's scrumptious recipe for hot cross buns. I have never been able to find hot cross buns here in the Ariege, so first thing on Good Friday morning, and for the first time in my life, I actually made them, cross and all! I had to change the recipe a little, because I needed to use up some dried cranberries lurking behind a surplus Christmas pudding but, I have to boast, they were rather good straight out of the oven and dripping with 'beurre d'Isigny'.
Then later, like our predecessors here, long before us, we even had a big bonfire to get rid of the garden rubbish, which had lain lost under a weight of snow through most of the winter. Why is it that it always looks as though one's garden has been stolen at this time of year? Bonfires are as much a part of seasonal ritual as food choices, are they not? Historically, bonfires marked the two significant seasonal events of the calendar. In some areas, the fires were lit at Midsummer and at Christmas. In others, they roared into action during Carnival and Lent. All over the countryside, struggling horsemen could find their bearings by following the light from the fires on the hilltops. The fires were a celebration of new life, sprung into being at the solstice, which took on new meaning as the harbinger of fertility; of people and animals, and especially of the fields [I always think of poor Edward Woodward in 'The Wicker Man' at the rather more extreme end of such celebrations!].
This dance to the music of time existed in the days when the agricultural calendar consisted of twelve months and two seasons. Whilst the two distinct seasons still exist here deep in the Ariege, much of urban France, like the UK, has surrendered its primitive rituals to fears of pyromaniacal outbreaks in contravention of strict EU health and safety legislation. When you can buy mince pies in September and Easter eggs in January all sense of the rhythm of nature and the seasons disappears. When electric light, admittedly now much dimmer with longer lasting lightbulbs, and television maintain a uniformity of time over an individual's twenty four hour day, it's that much harder to 'go with the flow'. In Salisbury I'm as guilty as the next person, allowing my day to begin with the 'Today' programme and to end with 'Newsnight'.
As long dark, bitterly cold nights give way to light mornings and longer evenings, we look forward to the heat of summer as 'nous otons les araignees'. Today, Easter Day, is the great celebration of new life. Christianity, with its emphasis on the Ressurrection of Christ, may have highjacked much older pagan traditions but the sentiment remains. We all celebrate, well the non-vegetarians amongst us, with a leg of new season's lamb, new potatoes and, here in France, asparagus. As I write this, the meat is slowly roasting in the oven whilst my daughter waits for me to make our family speciality celebration cake, a chocolate almond torte, using up almonds left from Christmas ground fine in the food processor. Tomorrow, we shall have that most traditional meal of 'lundi de Paques', wild asparagus omelettes. And, as my darling husband has just found his father's old classical 'LP's' in a box, we shall listen to a 1960's recording of Scottish Opera's 'Der Rosenkavalier' on the newly installed, old turntable as we toast the new season. Sadly, Peter's father left us long ago, before the children, so as we listen we remember the past as well as look forward to the future. The music of time, though, will continue to play on in our hearts.
I have spoken before about the rhythm of life here, which I guess is much the same in the Welsh mountains, or the Highlands of Scotland, as it is in the Jura, the Massif Central or the Pyrenees. The long dark nights of winter, with only moonlight and the stars to guide one, limited both one's desire to venture too far afield and also one's ability to do so. Provisions were laid down for the lean times that followed Christmas. In my case, much of my pantry's contents has come from Intermarche or are left over from my big Waitrose pre-Christmas, pre-family's arrival, festive shop. I did, however, make a pear and ginger chutney, a beetroot and ginger chutney [I love the fire of ginger in winter!], a Christmas chutney, jars of piccalilli, some figs in vodka [more fire in the belly!] a Christmas cake and some chilli jam [Hot! Hot! Hot!]. We are still chomping our way through this eclectic collection of leftovers and, I have to say, there is nothing quite like a small slab of Christmas cake with one's 'cafe au lait' or even a 'tranche' of post prandial Roquefort.
It's a creative leap to find uses for mixed peel and dried fruit long after the Christmas Tree Fairy has been dispatched back to her 350 odd night's annual beauty sleep. But, surprise, surprise, I finally cottoned on to a use for them, courtesy of my old friend, the master baker and Bath cookery school owner, Richard Bertinet. A fortnight before Easter there appeared in my inbox, like manna from heaven, Richard's scrumptious recipe for hot cross buns. I have never been able to find hot cross buns here in the Ariege, so first thing on Good Friday morning, and for the first time in my life, I actually made them, cross and all! I had to change the recipe a little, because I needed to use up some dried cranberries lurking behind a surplus Christmas pudding but, I have to boast, they were rather good straight out of the oven and dripping with 'beurre d'Isigny'.
Then later, like our predecessors here, long before us, we even had a big bonfire to get rid of the garden rubbish, which had lain lost under a weight of snow through most of the winter. Why is it that it always looks as though one's garden has been stolen at this time of year? Bonfires are as much a part of seasonal ritual as food choices, are they not? Historically, bonfires marked the two significant seasonal events of the calendar. In some areas, the fires were lit at Midsummer and at Christmas. In others, they roared into action during Carnival and Lent. All over the countryside, struggling horsemen could find their bearings by following the light from the fires on the hilltops. The fires were a celebration of new life, sprung into being at the solstice, which took on new meaning as the harbinger of fertility; of people and animals, and especially of the fields [I always think of poor Edward Woodward in 'The Wicker Man' at the rather more extreme end of such celebrations!].
This dance to the music of time existed in the days when the agricultural calendar consisted of twelve months and two seasons. Whilst the two distinct seasons still exist here deep in the Ariege, much of urban France, like the UK, has surrendered its primitive rituals to fears of pyromaniacal outbreaks in contravention of strict EU health and safety legislation. When you can buy mince pies in September and Easter eggs in January all sense of the rhythm of nature and the seasons disappears. When electric light, admittedly now much dimmer with longer lasting lightbulbs, and television maintain a uniformity of time over an individual's twenty four hour day, it's that much harder to 'go with the flow'. In Salisbury I'm as guilty as the next person, allowing my day to begin with the 'Today' programme and to end with 'Newsnight'.
As long dark, bitterly cold nights give way to light mornings and longer evenings, we look forward to the heat of summer as 'nous otons les araignees'. Today, Easter Day, is the great celebration of new life. Christianity, with its emphasis on the Ressurrection of Christ, may have highjacked much older pagan traditions but the sentiment remains. We all celebrate, well the non-vegetarians amongst us, with a leg of new season's lamb, new potatoes and, here in France, asparagus. As I write this, the meat is slowly roasting in the oven whilst my daughter waits for me to make our family speciality celebration cake, a chocolate almond torte, using up almonds left from Christmas ground fine in the food processor. Tomorrow, we shall have that most traditional meal of 'lundi de Paques', wild asparagus omelettes. And, as my darling husband has just found his father's old classical 'LP's' in a box, we shall listen to a 1960's recording of Scottish Opera's 'Der Rosenkavalier' on the newly installed, old turntable as we toast the new season. Sadly, Peter's father left us long ago, before the children, so as we listen we remember the past as well as look forward to the future. The music of time, though, will continue to play on in our hearts.
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