Dreamtime

I dream a lot.

I don’t mean dream, as in fantasize about grand plans or happier futures (although I evidently do that quite a lot too). I mean dream, as in fall asleep and slip into a different world where my randomly-firing neural networks conspire with my subconscious to create alternate realities where things are just plain weird (once I wake up and reflect on them, that is …..at the time they seem perfectly normal).

Sometimes the impending weirdness and vividness of my dreams can actually put me off going to sleep at all. And sometimes, the boundary between my dreams and my ‘real’ life gets a bit blurred, and I find that I have memories of things that never really happened. It can be a little disconcerting.

But the thing I dislike most about my dreams is that some not very pleasant ones recur with a depressing degree of regularity.  And up there, ranking in frequency alongside the common-or-garden ones where I desperately need a wee but can’t find a toilet that isn’t broken/on public display/dangerous, or where all my teeth fall out, is the one that has come to be known in this household as the ‘Frustration Dream’.

In my Frustration Dream, the setting and the content may differ but the theme is always the same. I have to get somewhere within a deadline to do something very important, but I have lots of things I need to do before I can set out on the journey, or before the event occurs. And in the course of doing these necessary things, stuff happens to delay me. If I need to pack a bag, the bag will be too small, or fall apart, or turn into something else. If I need to make a phone call, the phone will not work or I will endlessly dial the wrong final digit at the end of a very, very long number. I will get on a wrong train, or into a wrong car, or it will break down, just far enough away from my destination to make it impossible for me to get there on time. Or just as I approach the destination, I will remember that I have forgotten something very important and I will have to turn round and run back to the start. And however hard I try to run, I can barely move more than a few steps, or the ground beneath me moves away, so that I am running to stand still.

Always the dream is suffused with a sickening sense of the urgency of the situation, and threaded through with mulitifarious things that stop me from achieving what I feel driven to do. It is always SO FRUSTRATING.

Now, the reason I am telling you this, is because the final day of our move from Roquetaillade was so much like the Frustration Dream, that I seriously began to wonder if I was actually awake at all.

Most of our worldly possessions had disappeared into the sunset on Thursday afternoon, aboard a Very Large Lorry, in the capable hands of Les Gentlemen du Déménagement (seriously….that’s what it said on the side of all the boxes). So, we had Thursday evening, and two more whole days left in which to thoroughly empty and clean the house, and pack our remaining bits and pieces into the cars and horse-box. Loads of Time.

As the lorry trundled slowly off down the rue du Chateau, leaving small pieces of an overhanging Judas Tree in its wake,  we sat on the stone wall at the end of the road, outside our echoingly empty house, basking in the sunlit view across the pink-tinged valley, and remembering our love-at-first-sight of the house seven years earlier.  It was a beautiful, warm, still, sunny South-of-France day. Just the perfect sort of day to make us wonder why on earth we were moving away from such a wonderful place, and such a lovely climate.

We reminded ourselves What It Was All About, and decided to take a final walk down to the Fairy Wood to proffer our thanks, bid our sad farewells, and take a final look at the stones and trees, and vines and vistas that we had come to know and love during our happy days in Roquetaillade. We went to sleep that night in a wrong room in a wrong bed, in a silent, sombre mist of thoughtfulness, such as accompanies any Big Change.

The gap between our furniture leaving, and our intended departure on the Sunday, meant that, in addition to the many items we had cavalierly told the Gentlemen du Déménagement to “laisser” (because, actually, there was no room left in our allotted space in the lorry anyway), we also needed to hang on to various items necessary for our camping-style sojourn in our erstwhile home. And of course it also meant that, since cooking would be so cumbersome without all our stuff,  we would take up my sister’s offer of a Farewell Meal on the Friday. Which of course turned into a long, half-day visit … because, it was just so nice to sit in the sunshine and relax; and because, after all, “we had been very busy lately and deserved a break”; and because we wouldn’t be seeing them again for a long while; and because, anyway, we still had plenty of time left for everything we needed to do.

We still had all day Saturday, and Sunday morning. We still had Loads of Time.

Saturday morning we went to do a little bit of shopping (we would need travel food on Sunday), and then took a few car loads of rubbish to the dechetterie. Then we went to our fields to retrieve our valuable gates and a few solidly-constructed catch-pen tying-up posts, (which took longer than we expected to dismantle), and to wallow in our memories of all the work we had put into clearing and fencing the land, and building the beautiful (if somewhat idiosyncratic) field shelter that now stood bereft and forlorn in the empty field, like a memorial to llamas and days gone by. Reminiscing so drains the energy, (and the precious minutes).

Saturday afternoon, as a slight sense of the impending undeniability of our situation began to dawn on us, we started to think about loading things into the trailer, and to prepare our many vehicles for the journey ahead. We spent some time getting the bike strapped on to the bike trailer, and clearing the llama-travelling straw out of the horse-box, and wondering, with a sinking sense of impossibility, just how all this stuff we had left, plus the chicken house and the big terrace plant pots, was Ever Going To Fit!!

And of course the weather had turned. And we kept putting things off, waiting for a gap in the rain. And we couldn’t load the trailer in the gale-force wind because the heavy ramp kept blowing shut. And we couldn’t clean the rooms until they were empty. And the rooms wouldn’t be empty until we’d loaded the cars and the trailer. And we couldn’t load the cars in the rain and the wind……

But it was ok, because we still had all of Saturday evening and Sunday morning. We still had Loads of Time.

But it was not ok, because we had run out of boxes and there were still various, disparate collections of bits and bobs that needed to be packed somewhere, somehow. And suddenly Time had Marched On, and the place was still a godawful mess, and damnit, we’d forgotten about all that gardening stuff stored under the balcony, and it was BLOODY RAINING AGAIN, and we really needed to get a bit of sleep before the Big Day Ahead.

Sunday morning.

Sunday morning and it was still raining, but at least now we could pack the bedding, and all the overnight stuff (if only we could find something to put it all in). But when should we pack the Chickens? Better wait till they had all had a chance to lay their eggs, and had a good wander about, and a good feed. But we could at least dismantle the ridiculously heavy chicken house, and carry its ridiculously heavy constituent parts up the treacherously slippery slope, and up the treacherously slippery steps, and up…up…(groan, strain, curse) up and over the stupidly high gate posts , and up the annoyingly unstable ramp into the improperly packed trailer (“the weight should really be over the axle you know!”).

And bloody hell, it’s ten o’clock already, and we wanted to be gone by midday, and where does the time go, and why is is STILL BLOODY RAINING?

And how can I pack all these stupid house-plants into such a full car? And now the dog bed won’t fit. And you’ll need that car jack in the Land Rover won’t you? But I might need it in the Omega. Which is most likely to break down? And where’s the dog? Get out of the car…we’re not going yet you stupid animal. Can’t you SEE how much stuff there is left to pack? And no we can’t put the chickens in yet – we’re nowhere near ready to go. And I can’t clean the stupid floor if you keep walking in and out with wet muddy shoes. And no you can’t have a cup of tea cos I’ve packed the kettle. Somewhere. I think.

And what shall I do with all this rubbish? The street bin is already full. And what shall I do with all this stuff? The cars are already full. And have you read the meters? No I don’t know where there’s a pen. And damn, damn, it’s eleven fifty-five and we haven’t even started cleaning yet. What do you mean you’ve packed the mop!

And please God let it stop raining. And please God, let me wake up.

Time for a last phone call to my sister before we pack the phone. Not enough time for tears.

Time to text my children to tell them I love them (in case I die in a car crash on the journey). No time to worry about the lack of response.

Time to update my Facebook status….how to express what I’m feeling right now? “Val Longley thinks that today will go on forever!”

Time for a last email-check before we disconnect the internet.  Not enough time to send any. Only one new email….a Facebook Notification – “Gilles Jaulet commented on your status – SSSSSnifffff, bye bye nice neighboors!!!”

Still not enough time for tears (but getting dangerously close).

Time for Simon to try to catch the chickens. Easy except for Pretty. “She’s getting a bit wary these days”.  Now to get them from the cage into the re-mantled hen house in the back of the packed horse-box. A flurry of feathers and obscenities. Angry thoughts of divorce fade as the door is closed triumphantly on the last one.

Pressured thoughts of deadlines explode. We HAVE to get a move on. The chickens can’t stay in there all day and all night without food and water. We have to get to Mike and Suzanne’s before dark. “How long did you say it will take?”
“The GPS says seven hours….not including breaks”
“WHAT?”
But it’s two-thirty already. And we haven’t finished packing. And we haven’t done the cleaning. And these stupid terrace plants take up too much room. And WHY do you need to take a half-used bag of cement? And where are those CDs I left out for playing on the journey? I can’t believe you packed them!! Now I’ll have to listen to Bob Dylan over and over and over again all the way. Or (even worse) French radio. “Nostalgeeee”. Wonderful!

And you know I can’t see in the dark. And I’ll die, and the chickens will die  if it gets dark before we arrive. And I can’t find the dog’s lead – I had it in a bag with his food. Oh my god, I think I must have put it in the stuff you took to the tip earlier. And now I have no lead for the dog! And how can I take him for a wee at a service station, without a lead…and (sniff) this is horrible, and (sob) this is like a bad dream, and (scream) where’s THE BLOODY LEAD?

Time for Simon to calmly consider the mental state of his ranting wife, and the necessity for decisive action to ensure that an untimely slide into complete insanity does not ensue at this inopportune moment. Avoiding the widely accepted (but risky) cure for hysteria, Simon instead holds me firmly by the shoulders and tells me to take a deep breath. “This is not good. I’m worried about you. Why don’t you start off now, and I’ll catch up with you on the journey?”

“But…”
So many buts…..
But I can’t leave you to do all the cleaning. It’s not fair. But suppose you break down after I’ve left? But suppose I break down? But where shall I meet you on the way? But how can I answer the phone when I’m driving. But what if the bike comes off the trailer? But how will I take the dog for a wee without a lead? And where did I put that BLOODY LEAD?”

But eventually Simon and Good Sense prevail, and I cram a last few things into the car, along with the very patiently waiting dog, and leave. No time for sentimentality. No time for last-looks-over-the-shoulder at the House-of-Our-Dreams-That-Was. Time for one stop, as per instructions, about five minutes down the road, to check that the straps holding the bike to the trailer are still tight

And then, Time warps again.

The long, long journey that I invariably detest as a passenger puts on a new dress. It is not dull and grey and boring. It is peaceful and creamy, and pink and easy and…well…sort of dream-like. The bike-trailer floating along behind me is insignificant, save for the unexpected benefit it provides in obscuring my vision of any tail-gating drivers irritated by my slow progress. I feel no need to drive fast. I will just drive and get there when I get there. Momentary worries about how Simon is progressing with the cleaning up, and whether he has left yet, subside beneath the calming drone of Bob intoning the impending Fall of Hard Rain. My autopilot kicks in, and my agitated consciousness kicks off its shoes, puts its feet up and takes a break.

I know the way without thinking about it. The road unwinds ahead of me, leading me fluently though the steady swish of rain and the sweeping curves of the long ascent to the high fog-snuggled plateau of the Grandes Causses. Time is timeless. Concentration is effortless. I am in the Zone and All is Well with the World.

Until I reach our agreed Meeting Place. The first aire-with-facilities after the Millau Bridge. Where, bizarrely, after driving around the whole layout twice, trying to find a good car-and-trailer parking spot close to the ‘facilities’ (it is still raining), I open the car door and step out to be greeted by Simon who has just that second pulled up beside me. What are the chances of that?

He is Very Pleased to see me. He has been Really Worried about me. I realise I must have been driving very slowly. Or he must have been driving very fast. We have (caffeinated) coffee to wake up our snoozing consciousnesses, and Simon phones Mike to tell him how late we will be. My heart sinks when I hear the numbers of our predicted time of arrival.

Back at the cars we say affectionate goodbyes, and I promise to stay within viewing distance of Simon following me. This of course means that I will have to drive the rest of the way with one eye on my wing mirrors to check Simon’s whereabouts. And just as I am about to drive out of the car park (past an inexplicable No Entry sign) Simon flashes his lights to stop me. The number plate is falling off the back of the bike trailer and nearly dragging on the gound. We pull over to the side of the exit road and he Fixes the Problem. It is a ‘good thing’ he was behind me to notice.

The break has rested my stiffening limbs but ruined my Flow. Anxiety crept back into the car when I was busy giving the dog a drink, and now it is sitting heavy on my aching shoulders and and whispering not-at-all-sweet nothings into my all-too-easily-worried ears. I am torn between getting as far ahead of Simon as I can, so that I can be alone again in that place where all I have to worry about is Right Here, and staying as close to him as possible, so that I will know if he has a problem, and he can help me if I have one. But I know that Simon is worried about me (and the bike on the trailer), and that if I disappear into the foggy sunset ahead of him, he will have a thoroughly anxious journey.

The next million hours pass in an endless series of wet and miserable ups and downs, where I lose sight of Simon on the uphill stretches where the weight of the fully-laden horse-box drags him down, and then spoil his speeding-up descent by slowing down in front of him to make sure he is still there. As the night-time darkness slides in to thicken the already dark wetness, it becomes harder and harder to see where I am going and where I have been. Familiar milestones postpone themselves eternally. Everything is much further than I remembered. Time drags oppressively but passes too quickly. It is getting later and later but I don’t seem to be getting any nearer our destination.  However fast I drive, the road moves faster in the opposite direction. I make no headway against the dark waves of heavy rain that obscure the lights of overtaking cars as they speed happily away in front of me towards other futures. There is no sign of any lighthouse. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. There is no end to this tunnel of dark, wet Time that keeps me struggling onwards to nowhere in an endless present of tiredness and worry.

Often at such a point in my recurring dreams, Simon, disturbed by the groans and whimpers I apparently utter in my restless sleep, will shake and wake me up, so that we can both return to a better rest.  I wish that I was dreaming this journey. I think that maybe I am.

Suddenly the road ahead becomes wide and bright, and full of booths and barriers. I pull up alongside a payment machine and step out into the night to walk round to the French side of the car, and put my card in the machine. Simon pulls in at the adjacent booth. He smiles big and wide, and asks how it’s going. He doesn’t need me to answer. He agrees to go in front for the rest of the way because I can’t see a bloody thing, and I have no idea where to go when we get off the motorway.

Simon pulls out ahead of me and I slip into the shelter of the furrow he ploughs in the sodden blackness ahead of us. Once again the drive becomes easy. All I have to do is follow the two red lights glowing like little beacons of hope at the back of the horse-box.  It is easier to keep up a steady speed, with a safe focus to follow, and Time becomes Normal once again.

When we eventually reach Mike and Suzanne’s it is far too late to think about getting the chickens out, dismantling their house to get it out of the trailer, reassembling it within the waiting confines of Mike and Suzanne’s pristine chicken pen, and putting them back inside it for the rest of the night. We figure that by now they are either asleep or dead. Either way, they can wait till the morning.

It is too late to eat. It is too late to be sociable. We have to get up early to get the chickens sorted before heading off to Moulins to arrange insurance on the House-of-Our Dreams-To-Be, and to get to the Notaire in time for the Big Signing Event. It is too late to do anything other than head towards the waiting bed, and pray to the god of Restful Sleep that I might be able to make it through just this one night without any dreams at all.