At last it looks like rain. Farmers are out in their combine harvesters several weeks early in order to save what they can of the crop. Tant pis for the ground nesting birds that still have chicks in the nest. This morning I watched un paysan who marched back and forth to a ditch to fill his bucket. Each journey was 100 metres and each bucket watered a lettuce. He had known them each as seeds. His psychological profile probably ruled out the corporate thrust yet his lettuces survive in the dust. Corporate empires shrivel overnight.
News of the cat. “Les tests sont clean.” My neighbour informed me in franglais that she had picked up on a dubbed American TV show. We did 4 kisses and then 4 with Gilles and several batches of 4 with other locals who generally do 2. The cat lady is from some other region where they do 4. Its location is too far away to be of interest, but it must be a very foreign place. No one has ever been there.
What is it about cherries? That moist succulent flesh, that deep red lustre that is too beautiful to eat and too delicious to resist.
A neighbour came a while ago with a bucket of the sweetest ever fruit. Even when we have had no real rain for eight weeks, somehow Nature digs deep and offers us her joyful gallic shrug.
Away from Nature, Sat Naff and I found the bike shop. And did they have a spoke? Non! More gallic shrugs all round. It’s an old English bike with a basket I bought in London during my eco warrior intellectual look-alike phase. We’re rusting out together.
So out came the sun and out came the bikes. We rode to Crazannes to see some wonderful stone carvings which local and international artists have created over the past ten years. I would have loved to post a photo but any publication is banned by les Lapidiales authorities. Well, if you’ve got it flaunt it I’ve always said. That’s how I pulled Gilles!
On the way home we rode into a wall of perfume at a spot named Allée des Tilleuls. That’s lime or linden in English. The heart shaped leaves connected these trees to Venus in days gone by. If you have a soul sensitive to warm air, blue sky and perfume the link is still there believe me.
Surprised by joy is a beautifully sad elegiac poem by Wordsworth – a big hero of mine. Check it out at: Surprised by Joy – poem
Nature has its seasons and we can but follow. Here in Charentes the infinity of greens begins to merge into a unity as the adolescence of Spring finds for now at least, that adult face in which it will live called Summer. Ladies, let’s not think of those wrinkles and that gravitational pull of time on our tender assets.
I often look to flowers for metaphors of love, sex and the cycle of being. I’ve added a poem called “Bluebells” to my website. It’s about those things that pass and that we cannot hold. Click here to go to my website, and select “My Poems” Emma’s Poetry
If you’ve any love of French or just its sound and music check out