Yesterday was midsummer’s day. Exactly six years since we bought this house, and set the ball rolling down the slope of fate toward our present destiny. In the evening, as on our very first night here in 2002, the village celebrated the summer solstice with many hours of wine, food and very bad french music at the Salles des Fetes.
I didn’t join in. Nor, I think, did our friend and neighbour Giles (whose family were new to the village at least 30 years ago) and Veronica (his Chilean wife – who arrived here this March). Outsiders all.
Although I wish to learn to speak French (the lessons are going quite well), and to understand the local culture sufficiently well to be able to get through each day without causing offence, I feel no desire to become a fully ‘integrated’ member of this small society. Indeed, I think it would not be possible. To be a real part of this village, you would have to have been born here, as would your parents and their parents before them.
However, if we can but do no harm, and make no enemies, I will be content. And whilst there are times when I miss the anonymity of the city, and crave the isolation of the hermit, I still feel lucky, and enormously grateful for the life we have here.
Since I last wrote, the weather has turned hot as a very hot thing – between 30 and 33 degrees for most of the day – and not surprisingly, the llamas have got very thirsty. Typically, this hot, dry spell has neatly coincided with Simon’s trip to England, which means Poor Weedy Me has total responsibility for getting vast quantities of water up to the two fields, morning and evening.
Of course, my paranoia about possible llama deaths from heat stress makes me want to keep checking they are all alright, so I’d be visiting them at least twice a day anyway. At least until
a) I am convinced that they really can cope with this climate, or
b) I can’t be bothered any more. (This heat breeds an awesome degree of lethargy).
My visits have to be early in the morning or late in the evening, as any time in between is just too damned hot (I would probably die of heat stress, let alone the llamas). Taking this morning’s quota of 30 litres between the two fields, I discovered that the increased call on the water supply is not just because the llamas are very thirsty. In fact, they seem to have taken to attempting cold baths in the water buckets to cool themselves down. I caught Valentine, Ana and Pedro all sticking their feet and heads right in the water, and splashing about like naughty children in a nursery. No wonder the water gets muddy so quickly.
Since I have yet to pluck up the courage to drive the land rover round to the rough land (given my luck with technological equipment, I’d almost certainly damage something in my amateur attempts to use the various knobs and gears to go off-road), I have been carrying the water for The Walkers all the way from the road near the Breeders. To make myself keep going when my neck and arm muscles are screaming in pain, and biting insects are sticking to the sweat on my forehead, I pretend I’m a marine in training, and fanatasize about how fit and strong I will become. I draw the line at chanting marine-type songs as I march though, for fear of drawing unwelcome attention from the locals that I pass along the way, out early pruning their vines before the sun gets too high.
Not much sign of the body beautiful yet though. Just stretched arms like an ape, sunburnt shoulders, and a face full of itchy, red spots. Oh, Simon is such a lucky man!
Anyway, in the absence of any real news (still no letter from the Notaire or SAFER….quelle surprise), and therefore of anything worth writing about, I have begun work on a “Pooh Corner type map” as suggested by Jane in her comment on the last post. If nothing else, it’s an absorbing way to pass a few hot hours. Apart from that, I have passed the empty days while Simon is away failing to make cherry jam, failing to write poetry, and failing to meditate my way to enlightenment.
Sitting in the shade and solitude of the terrasse, looking out across the summer-filled valley to the distant wildness, is very conducive to the arising of profound and creative thoughts. Unfortunately, the soporific heat is not conducive to the embodiment of such thoughts in any form that requires physical or mental effort. Perhaps, after all, I’m just too idle to become enlightened.
Ah well. There’s always the next life….
Just before I end this midsummer monologue, to return to the cartographic artwork, here’s a thought I’d like to share…
Given the opportunity, would Buddha have meditated in a deck-chair?
