LOVE, SWALLOWS AND A MOUNTAIN TOP.

I feel as if I have had so very little time to write recently. It’s a source of great frustration that when I feel most inspired is often when I am the busiest and when I finally sit down to write, all the tiny scraps of paper with my hastily scribbled notes on have long since disappeared into the debris of our home. Two lines of sudden inspiration in biro lost somewhere among the vegetables piled in baskets, the crockery, a chipped bowl full of lose change and hairbands, tea bags and jars full of pasta… Clutter and mess. A whole other story. Anyway, here I am, home alone with a filthy kitchen but time to write.

This summer I yearned for home. I’ve written about this before but I will do again, I'm sorry if it is repetitive but perhaps it's just a song I'll always have for all the places I have called home in England. I’ve dreamt of afternoons in a pub with a pint of cider. I missed charity shops and bookshops brimming with books that aren’t written in the ‘passé simple’. I even missed slow moving traffic heading back into Bristol after a day at the sea when our skin tastes of salt and the children sleep in sticky car seats. I missed the smell of BBQs drifting along the terraced streets where we used to live. I missed the fluorescent chalk paint circles marking out guilty dog poos when here nobody cares and everyone stands in it. I have a new baby niece who I won’t meet until Christmas and that broke my heart a little. When I began to feel all these yearnings casting a long shadow over the present I challenged myself to not miss what was happening now in a fog of nostalgia.

We didn’t go far and didn’t stop working but we did enjoy a beautiful summer because we took time to appreciate the little things. We have met new people and got to know other friends better. We have discovered new places and revisited places from the past two summers. This part of the world comes alive throughout these hot, sticky months: Street theatre festivals, crowded lakeside beaches, busy cafe terraces… It’s strange not to go on holiday in France during the month of August because it seems as if that’s exactly what everyone else is doing. We reminded ourselves that we didn’t need a holiday. It’s the everyday happenings that add up to what makes our lives what they are. I feel lucky indeed to have a life that feels so rich right now. 

 

This summer has been a patchwork of precious moments and connection. Our neighbours offered us a box of chocolates and, at that moment, it was such an unexpected and kind gesture that my eyes welled up with tears. We saw small fish swimming along the lake shore, throwing themselves out of the water onto the sand and then twisting their bodies to return to the water. We watched closely and saw the larger fish pushing them toward the shallows and catching them in their mouths, swallowing them instantly. The girls learnt to recognise the tracks of wild boar and fox scat. As we reached up to pick blackberries we discovered that lizards climb amongst the brambles and saw them scuttle away. Friends visited and we drank wine and danced to music in the village square. We saw a squirrel leap just above my finger tips onto the branch of another tree and then disappear immediately into the leaves. The girls rode their scooter and bikes under the covered market with the other children who congregate their, whooping and squealing and racing. We saw vultures so close that Little I is certain that she saw their eyes. I’ve sat in the woods with friends and heard one woman’s story of sexual assault and how we want different for our daughters. Our daughters who, at that moment, were playing in mud and leaves and in the stream, flowing with late summer’s gentlest trickle of water. Life sometimes feels dreamy here but of course some things are the same as anywhere else.

Since soon after arriving here we wanted to climb Bugarach, a small mountain to the east of here. We finally found the right day with the best weather we could hope for and set out. The path winds up the mountain, first through woodland and then begins to climb more steeply. The path became quite challenging with small stretches of smooth rock and then stretches with loose rock that slips underfoot. We climbed at Little I’s speed. Listening to her chatter, her non-stop chatter: The clouds, the view, the hazelnuts, the dung beetles, could she have another chocolate biscuit, the blackberries, could she try to climb that tree, could she take her shoes off, could she have another chocolate biscuit. After the first two hours or so we had climbed up past a number of columns of rocks that now lay behind us. Little I’s chatter continued. The girls concentrated, leaning into the path as it steepened and finding the best hand and foot holds. “I love ‘escalade’” shouted Little L. “Me too” shouted Little I, diving ahead to keep up with her sister. Finally we arrived on to a small plateau and ahead of us wound the final two hundred metres of path. It clung onto the mountainside and the downwards slope to the right made me feel slightly light headed. Reluctantly we forced Little I into the sling. It felt cruel to not allow her to finish her first mountain climb which she had so enthusiastically undertaken but Little I is not known for going slowly or carefully when we ask her to and the risk felt too great. Then we arrived at the summit. The wind blew stronger. The girls devoured their picnic, ignoring the compliments from fellow hikers, too preoccupied in making sure that the other did not get more saucisson than would be fair. The view from the summit stretches out to the sea toward the east, to the imposing Canigou, to the Black Mountains in the north and the many other peaks of the Pyrenees to the south. It’s not a huge mountain but it felt magical. Hundred of swallows were gliding on the air currents around us, coming hardly an arms length from us. The wind blew our hair about our faces. The sky was a perfect blue. I had such a feeling of pride. I was overwhelmed at how unexpectedly enthusiastically our children had climbed this mountain. How they had enjoyed the challenge as we had. Sometimes an experience or a moment in time can mean so much, even if you don’t know why. I don’t believe in God but if I did and if God had a face, this would be it. Love on a mountain top with swallows chasing insects in the wind. 

 

 

The descent took a little less time but still required a lot of concentration. Little I had a half hour power nap on Florent’s back and then resumed the walk. We finally climbed down the steep rocky path and arrived in the woodland where the trees roots were the only obstacles. The girls raced each other with energy that perplexed both Florent and I who were fairly exhausted. They filled their pants with moss and calling to the other to do ‘target practice for spears’. I’d finally lost the battle to keep them from walking bare foot and another walker passed us, tutting his disapproval, as they scampered along the path littered with brambles and sharp rocks. On the way home we treated ourselves to ice cream in a small town. Pretty close to perfect.

THE HOUSE

Florent painted the exterior of the house this summer. He replaced bits of render, exposed some of the writing on the front of the house (at one stage the house was a shop selling cotton thread, back when the textile industry dominated the village) and then mixed his lime and pigment to repaint the house. It makes such a difference to arrive at our front door and look up at a clean, newly painted building than what was there before. Behind we chose to white wash the wall to bring extra light into the courtyard.

Next was the second half of the stairs, leading from the first to second floor. All the steps have been replaced, although are covered with cardboard to protect them for the moment. 

Finally another batch of hemp and lime this time to insulate the first floor's south facing wall.