GOLDEN AUTUMN GRACE

These past few months have passed by slowly. A gentle easing out of summer. Almost imperceptibly, the nights grew colder, the days shorter and the leaves transformed into flaming reds and golds and yellows and then, at their most beautiful, they silently let go and fell to carpet the paths and roadside verges. We’ve hiked, spent time with friends, failed miserably to forage mushrooms, discovered newly favourite sweet chestnut trees and marveled at the patchwork of autumnal colours, as we did last year and will, undoubtedly, do so again next year.

This is our third Autumn here. I’ve been surprised at how the short space of time we have been here, each season awakens memories, as if we have been here much longer. We climb the hill to the chapel, the familiar feel of acorns under foot, a carpet sending our feet slipping from under us. We smell the wood smoke in the air. We see the poplar’s lose their leaves gradually until only a halo of yellow is left at the very top.

We shift our daily habits as the season changes. Less time at the river that serves us so faithfully on those scorching summer days and more time in the woods where we can float walnut shell boats down the gently trickling stream. Meadows left empty the rest of the year are now wintering horses and so there we trek with apple cores and shriveled carrots. The chateau above our house is closed for the winter. Its car park is transformed from a dusty, stony space full of cars and is now empty, covered in golden brown leaves, encircled by giant sycamore and the perfect place to race and run and shout. Shaggy ink caps grow, hidden under the blanket of leaves, only discovered when feet fall accidentally upon them and their inky stain marks the sides of shoes.

 

This cycle is age old but against it the girls grow fast and in a blink of my eyes they both seem ‘big’. Ever more independent, reaching higher, running faster, tying knots, untying knots, telling stories, telling jokes, whispering their plans between them. I don’t know why but right now my love for them feels at its fiercest so far. I watch them as they play, further and further away from me, I listen to their questions, ever more complex, I see their eyes observing the world around them and I feel the responsibility of doing my best for them. Right now the wider world is not always the one I want for them. As they grow they will discover more and more of the injustices others or they themselves will face. Something inside of me breaks at the idea that some of their innocence will be scraped away. Inevitable but painful. I try to arm them with a confidence in themselves so that they may live by their own values and have the strength to dream of something better, something that honours the beauty that’s already here before us. Sometimes this is hard because I feel as if we are living through a time that is overwhelming for all of us.

“Madame” an elderly man called after me- we found your scarf in our quartier. I paused a moment, this small village broken into ‘quartiers’. Streets added up and then divided into separate pieces of a tiny urban puzzle. To me the village is all one, too small to break down into where-we-live and where-you-live. It stayed on my mind. I thought of how that for a lifelong resident, of course this makes sense. To my children too: Down by the river. Up at the chapel. In the woods. Along the stream. The bamboo forest. The market place. The allotments where the great walnut tree casts its mighty shade. The allotments where someone keeps their cows. The old railway line and the dank dark tunnel. The weir hidden along a path treacherous with brambles.

And the newest of our discoveries, right in the centre of the village. The stream full of crayfish. The smell of mint rises upwards as we wade along the edge of the water. It’s before nine in the morning and we are searching for crayfish. Among the watercress and small stones we find six, two large ones and four smaller ones. “A family!” Little I squeals. Nothing makes her happier than animals or objects organised into the familiar structure of a ‘family’. For a while we returned here lots, almost daily. Saying hello to our new, rather reluctant, companions and marveling at the luxury of perfume that rises from the ground as small legs push through water mint and watercress.

I feel thankful that I arrived here not being able to drive, however much harder it has made things at times. In those early days it was nothing but necessity to seek out new places, hidden, forgotten, far. All that wandering and sitting still and watching the girls play. Lonely at first. All the greetings and short conversations turned long with other people who call the village home. (I also feel thankful that I now do know how to drive!) I just hope we don’t forget to live these slow days in hidden corners as we are pulled toward sparkling newness further afield.

Now it’s the cusp of winter. The wind bites cold and we are wrapped in coats and scarves and hats. The rain too has arrived. Drumming its gentle rhythm on the roof. The small lake has welcomed great egrets, herons and cormorants for the winter. We’ve also spotted a Kingfishers which we hope is there to stay. The girls giggle madly at the egret trying to perch at the top of a tree as the top most branches bend and its wings spread out to catch its balance. I would never have imagined that bird watching could be such fun.