A Wish is Sent

Posted on 20 November, 2008 by Val

Near the bottom of the hill that leads down from the Village to the ‘main’ road, there is an easily overlooked entrance to a small track that winds gently back up the hillside, through some footloose woodland to circle round behind the vines that we can see across the valley from our house. In the middle of this patch of woodland is a ruin – the tumbling stone remains of some forgotten dwelling of yesteryear. The fallen stones slumber lumpily beneath a blanket of vibrant green fur, and twisted oak saplings sprout resolutely from the clammy hollows.

Despite its proximity to the road, this space has a quietness to it that persists regardless of any nearby noise of humanity. It is a magical space, an interval between dimensions. It is an opening into otherness. In the wind, it is still. In the heat, it is cool and restful. In the cold, it is warm and inviting. If you stop a while, and sit silently on a tumbled stone, and empty the pebbles of your mind into the waiting pool of solitude, the space will suck you in and embrangle you with its waitingness, so that you begin to wonder if you will ever want to leave.

When we first discovered the secrets of this special place, Simon took some photos. One of these pictures found its way on to the wall near my desk at work, next to the picture of the llamas. (How We Came to This)

If you look very carefully. . . . .

If you look very carefully. . . . .

Given, as I am, to flights of fancy, I soon found myself telling curious co-workers about the Fairy Wood, near our house in France, and suggesting that if they looked carefully, with the right frame of mind and a believing heart, they would be able to see the fairies in the photograph.

Now I don’t think we need to get bogged down in a debate about whether or not fairies exist. This either/or approach to the experience of life belongs in the pre-quantum  world of Aristotelian philosophy. Current scientific thinking suggests that we can only ‘know’ what our instruments and brains tell us, and what they tell us consists of relative ‘realities’, or slices of ‘realities’. Or, as I have oft been known to remark (in the more stressful moments of my working past, and much to the irritation of my co-stressees), “Nothing’s real. It’s all just an illusion”.  As Sir Arthur Eddington is quoted as saying in “Einstein and Buddha – The Parallel Sayings”

We have torn away the mental fancies to get at the reality beneath, only to find that the reality of that which is beneath is bound up with its potentiality of awakening these fancies. It is because the mind, the weaver of illusion, is also the only guarantor of reality that reality is always to be sought at the base of illusion. Illusion is to reality as the smoke to the fire.

So let us for the moment suspend disbelief and accept that, in my world, fairies exist. And, in my world, they exist in the Fairy Wood near our house. So whenever I feel the urge to talk with the fairies (or chat with the Universe, or commune with the spirits, or delve into my subconcious…. whichever description suits you best), I take a walk down the hill with a bag full of unresolved thoughts, lay my hopes out on the altar of my woodland imagination, and just sit a while.

I used to do this quite a lot before we came to live here. Somehow, my head was full of unmet wishes in those days, and most trips out to stay in our house would include a walk to the Fairy Wood, and a bit of sitting.  But gradually, as time has passed, and my dreams have slipped imperceptibly into reality, my walking has taken me in other directions, signposted by the daily needs of our animals.

However, over the course of the last month or so, I had started to feel a tugging at the bottom of my mind. At first I just noticed how long it had been seen we had walked to the Fairy Wood. Next, I found I was getting sudden thoughts popping into my head about how nice it would be to go there, but the distractions of our daily routines pushed them quickly from my conscious mind. And then, finally, after recent events and internet browsing about the Power of Intention had started my brain fizzing with bubbling thoughts about Life’s Purpose and the future, I was walking back down the hill from my usual vist to the llamas one day, when I noticed that a particular sort of hush had fallen across the village. There was absolutely no one about. There was not a breath of wind. There was not even the sound of a barking dog to be heard in the distance. And in this quietest of quiets, I clearly heard the Silent Call of the Fairy Wood.

That afternoon, instead of taking Max for a walk on the usual circuit down into the valley and up past the lovely orchard, I decided to take him with me for a longer walk down to the Fairy Wood. I had in mind that I would sit and contemplate for a while, although I had no idea how Max would react to such unaccustomed inactivity in the course of his exciting walk.

We arrived at the entrance to the track into the wood, and it was clear from the wild profusion of vegetation growing there, that no one had walked up it for a very long time. I was childishly pleased. In theory, this track is part of a marked footpath that is on “le Sentier des Vignes”, but we have only ever once come across anyone else remotely near it, (when our emerging from the top of the wood onto the track behind the vines had totally terrified two young boys on bicycles, who thought we were a wild boar).

I headed into the ripples of gloamy green, with Max ambling affably in my wake. It felt as if I was coming home, and yet seeing it for the first time. A couple of the big stones had shifted a little, throwing up a glimpse of bare whiteness against the mossy bank. A dragon-fly dipped and swerved between the furtive branches of the loitering trees. I found my place, and sat. Max wandered on a little further up the track, then turned and whined a brown-eyed question at me when I did not follow. I told him we were staying awhile, and he lay down obediently on an autumn bed of musty woodland lees.

I always find it hard to not think. Meditation does not come easily to me, and sitting in silence makes the noise and chatter inside my head seem even louder. Counting breaths doesn’t do it for me either – I seem inadvertently to have developed the uncalled-for skill of being able to count regularly whilst still thinking about something else at the same time.

But staring helps. I think of all those magic-eye pictures that entertained me in the past (once I’d got the knack of making my eyes look through the page), and look around for something to stare at. In the windless, motionless air of this space, a single oak leaf, suspended on an invisible thread, is spinning in a shimmering shaft of low sunlight, like a Christmas tree decoration caught by rising draught.

The noise inside my head gradually subsides, seeping away into green dreams of silence. Uncaught thoughts drift hazily away. Gazing sightless at the misty stillness growing empty in the fullness of the moment, I sense the space around me holdng its breath. Listening. Waiting.

The vision of my Intention forms in my mind’s eye, and unconfined by the boundaries of language, I roll all my wishes up into one big invocation of longing, and send it out into the Universe.

As I pull myself sleepily back into the now, I hear a crunch in the dried leaves, close by. Max sits up, alert, staring up the winding path to where it disappears from sight behind the trees. A footfall? A person? An animal? Something else? Recalling the young boys’ fear of wild boar, I feel a hint of trepidation slither down my back, as I stand up, holding my breath, to peer intently into the gloom up ahead. I tell Max to ‘go see’, but instead he runs towards me, and sits close against my legs. He is no hunting dog!

After walking up the track a little way and seeing no one, nothing, I suddenly feel the need to be out in the open sunlight again. All in a rush, I bumble down the stony path with Max lolliping along beside, only slowing to a normal walking pace when we reach the dusty main track that leads back home. Out in the familiar comfort of the wide space I remember that it is the last day of October. Halloween. Maybe not a good day to be out in the woods near dusk, talking to the fairies. Or maybe the best day of all? And just to send my wild imagination into overdrive, a sudden wind springs out of nowhere, swirling the dust and fallen leaves in a vortex right in front of me. The mini whirlwind spirals upward, skirts around us and drifts off back toward the Fairy Wood.

Max and I ascend the long steep hill up to the village at a lively pace. The weather has changed, suddenly and dramatically, filling the valley with a different sort of day. Autumn leaves fall from the trees in drifts, like yellow snow. Acorns hail down, ricocheting and rolling in the road around us, making me laugh out loud like an excited child. Max catches the excitement and bounces up and down the road in front of me like a playful puppy. We reach the house, panting with enthusiasm, and flomp down to catch our breath.

When Simon returned from his afternoon llama-walk, I asked if he’d noticed the sudden onset of the wind. “Hmmm….” He tilted his head on one side and his eyes darted to the left, searching mentally for memories of his recent outdoor experience. A familiar puzzled expression clouded his features. “I think so….let me just check….” Unable as always to trust the evidence of his own senses, he took up his customary position in front of the computer, and proceeded to interrogate the data from his weather station. Sure enough there it was, captured for all to see on-screen – a massive peak in the red line of the wind graph. The moment when the wind speed had shot from 0 to 23 knots. At least not everything was only in my imagination.

We settled into our usual evening activities, Simon pleasantly tired from his especially long walk with Duc, and me rosy with a sense of resolution. My mind was clear, my heart was light, and the seed of my Intention was Out There, already germinating in the fertile garden of Universal Possibilities.

All I had to do now was wait. Wait, and watch for the little green shoots of Manifestation.

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To Let it Be, or Not to Let it Be….?

Posted on 17 November, 2008 by Val

This is the first post I’ve written on the new site. What better way to celebrate this auspicious occasion than to write about a very significant development in our progress towards realising our ultimate (well, for now anyway) dream.

The interesting news is that we have decided to sell our lovely house here in Roquetaillade, and look for somewhere more farming/animal-friendly, in the sense of having land around the house, a barn, and ideally some other outbuildings.

Of course, as you might expect from the way things tend to happen in our lives, this exciting development has come about as a result of a bit of fortuitous meddling by the Universe. Although I have to admit, I might have inadvertently nudged the Universe in this direction, by putting out into the ether a fairly strong intention for something like this to happen.

Let me explain…..

Those of you who have read this blog avidly since its birth in February may recall in my explanation of How We Came This, a reference to some people who had visited our house in October 2007, just before we took it off the market. Well, in one of those strange moments of synchrony (that seem to happen quite often once you start noticing them), I was at the end of our road parking the trusty old Omega a bit away from the house (where we have parked it ever since we found that there really wasn’t room for two big cars and a horse-trailer outside our front door) when I noticed someone sitting on the bench, where the old French men in berets usually sit to watch the world go by. I said ‘bonjour’, as ya do, and was a bit taken aback when the unfamiliar face responded with “You probably don’t remember me, do you?” He went on to introduce himself as Frank, one of the couple who had visited our house a year ago, and who had decided they wanted to buy it, just as we had decided we didn’t want to sell it.

He went on to explain that he was out here on a house-hunting trip, as they still hadn’t found anywhere they liked as much as they had liked our house. He had a bit of a gap between house viewings, and just happened to be in the area, so he’d come to Roquetaillade for a look around. He wondered if, maybe, would we by any chance, possibly be thinking of selling our house at the moment?

I invited him for coffee, my brain whirring frantically, trying to compute the implications of this unexpected meeting. Was this an opportunity, (to finally move to the place we thought we had wanted to find over a year ago)? Or a test, (to enable us to prove to ourselves, once and for all, that Roquetaillade was where we really wanted to stay). And what would Simon be thinking?

We drank our coffee, and chatted about the horrors of house-hunting and the evils of estate agents. We wandered out on to the terrace to contemplate the view, and talk about the eoliennes. We exchanged email addresses – “just in case” – and Frank left.

Now this little piece of happenstance occurred just before Simon’s parents were due to visit for a week, and we were a little occupied with getting the house ready and such like. Those of you who are familiar with my customary approach to house-tidiness will recognize that preparing the house for a visit is no small task, as months of neglected housework has to be crammed in to a couple of days. And then Simon was off to England to pick them up, and suddenly a week had gone by since Frank had wandered amiably into our little world and raised The Question, that we had yet to discuss.

Over the last year or so, I have frequently been struck by how much more ‘grounded’ Simon is, than I. I have yet to hear him volunteer even the slightest expression of discontent about any aspect of our current life (“C’mon, man! There must be something that pisses you off, just a tiny bit”), and he responds to my whining about anything that tarnishes the perfection of our Dream with an indulgent smile, and a reminder about all the blessings I could be counting instead. He seems to be very content with whatever comes along, and potters through his life, getting lots of pleasure out of Little Things like planting seeds, baking apple-pies, and noting the interesting phenomena recorded by his weather-station.

I, on the other hand, seem to be constitutionally incapable of just accepting Life as it is. Despite all of my Zen preaching about the nature of Life and Happiness, and all my many, many hours of contemplation and reflection on the Point of It All, I still find myself in thrall to the Demon of Future Happiness. Although all my life experience (and it feels as if there has been quite a lot of it) has demonstrated to me time and time again that, once you actually get to eat it, the grass on the other side of the fence is really just a different shade of the same sort of green, (and it goes brown, just the same, if you don’t water it), I still can’t stop myself looking longingly over the fence, and Wishing.

I wish we didn’t have to walk so far to see the llamas every day. I wish they could all be in one place where we could check on them and interact with them more easily. I wish we didn’t have to keep carrying heavy bales of hay up steep hills. I wish we had a water source on the llama land. I wish we had somewhere to store the hay. I wish we had a proper, closeable shelter from the elements for the llamas, in case of sickness or injury. I wish we had easy access on to the land for the trailer. I wish we had a flatter field with more space, so the llama poo wouldn’t relentlessly congregate in a heap around their hanging-out area. I wish we had more room to grow vegetables. I wish we had some fruit trees. I wish we could have our chickens pottering about in a yard outside our back door. I wish there was more grass for the llamas to eat. I wish it rained a bit more. I wish we could just let the dog outside to run around on our own land.

And so on.

Generally, I try to keep these thoughts squashed down quietly inside my head, and to concentrate instead on being happy in the Now. And when there seems to be no choice in the matter, that is quite easy to do, especially when the Now has sooooo many lovely things going for it. But I must admit to experiencing a recurring sense of dissonance between the various elements of my current belief system. On the one hand, I do believe that the key to Happiness is to live fully here and now, in the present moment. On the other hand, I do believe in the Law of Attraction (which simply says that you attract into your life whatever you think about, so that your dominant thoughts will find a way to take form and become visible), and the Power of Intention (when you make a clear, committed decision, the Universe opens the universal floodgates, bringing you all the resources you need to realize your goal, sometimes in seemingly mysterious or impossible ways). And the thing about any sort of Power is that it is only anything if it is used. So is it alright to wish for stuff, or isn’t it? Let’s leave that thought on the psychological shelf for a moment, and get back to the plot.

So… Simon is way ahead of me in the Enjoying-Life-As-It-Is stakes, and I remain a Slave to Craving. But I am ashamed of this weakness, and I generally hesitate to draw attention to it. So, even when I am thinking “Wow, Yes!!! What an Opportunity. Let’s get on the internet and begin the mouth-watering search for the Perfect Place”, what I actually say to Simon is, “Funny about meeting Frank again like that……?” And when he doesn’t immediately respond to mirror the thought that is fidgeting edgily in my head, I leave it for a bit, and contemplate the best way of bringing up the fact that actually, maybe, I might quite like to think about the possibilities that selling this house might open up.

Needless to say, by the time I have given in to the insistent whinging of this fidgeting thought, and let it out to run brazenly around the open playground of a decisive conversation with Simon, the Moment has passed. I email Frank to say we’ve thought about things, and would be willing to consider selling the house. He emails back to say they’ve found a house that they are considering making an offer on, followed shortly after by one saying that they have decided to go ahead with buying the other house.

After a few moments of childish, heart-wrenching, bitter disappointment (an immature trait that has never left me – but at least I don’t actually cry and wail out loud any more) my psychological immune system is triggered by the fact that this is How Things Are, and I start to look on the bright side. And, let’s be honest, living here has many, many bright sides. The weather is lovely. The scenery is spectacular. The views are gorgeous. We have settled in, and know how things work around here. We have friends. We have a very comfortable house. We won’t have to deal with all the hassles and horrors of actually moving.

As Daniel Gilbert says in his book “Stumbling on Happiness”;

We find silver linings only when we must……We just can’t make the best of a fate until it is inescapably, inevitably and irrevocably ours.

Once I know that an option is closed, I can relax, and get back to the full-time occupation of Living in the Moment. And all is fine and dandy, until…..

Until that little Demon starts up his niggling chatter again. Suppose that really was the Universe giving us another opportunity to do what we really want to do? Suppose that it is true that ‘He Who Hesitates is lost’? Suppose it was Right that we didn’t sell the house last year (our being here, with all the land-borrowing/buying/not-buying saga has resolved a long-standing issue in the Village, and got both families what they actually wanted, in a way that could never have happened if we hadn’t offered to buy the land in the first place), but suppose our work here is now done? Suppose we should have jumped at the opportunity, and now we’ve missed the boat and our Destiny will sail off into a rosy sunset without us? Oh if only I could Let it Be……

But then, one day, happily browsing Facebook (which is a good displacement activity, that keeps your conscious mind occupied, whilst letting your underbrain do a bit of consolidating) I happened upon a virtual group called “I believe in the Law of Attraction”. I clicked on the link, and entertained myself reading the articles and following other links, until I pretty soon found myself immersed in the whole Power of Intention thing again. Then, irresistibly, I followed a link aimed at “Those of you interested in disproving the Law of Attraction” to read an unusual interpretation of scepticism, and found myself here.

A few more days of browsing through the Best of StevePavlina.com, and I had read the 10 Reasons why You Should Never Get A Job, discovered My Life’s Purpose in About 20 Minutes, got to grips with Cause-Effect v Intention-Manifestation, and duly considered The Meaning of Life: Intro. I had also listened to a podcast about becoming a Lucid Dreamer, and discounted the well-intentioned advice about How to Become an Early Riser. And, freshly armed with a slightly clearer notion of my life’s purpose, and a reaffirmed belief in the Power of Intention, I decided to take a walk down to the Fairy Wood for a little chat with The Universe……..

(to be continued)

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Outrage in the village!

Posted on 17 November, 2008 by Simon

The calm of the village has been disturbed! A special council meeting has been held, and a unanimous denunciation of the culprits has been published and distributed to all households.

Council message sent to all households

Council message sent to all households

So, what is this all about?

The language is so strong, and at the same time so elaborate and flowery. It’s a lovely example of how a group of ordinary French men and women express themselves formally . . .

We unanimously condemn the facts which occurred in the night of November 10 and denounce them.

We are shocked by such irrational and incomprehensible acts appearing to come from another time from their lowness and their improbability.

We are offended and we are indignant at the attitude of irresponsible people who by their barbaric acts throw opprobrium on our village and its inhabitants and we make a point of stating our sympathy with those who were touched psychologically and materially by these despicable insults. We assure them of our support and our full solidarity. It is in this sense that we will study the possibility of an official assistance in order to accelerate the repairing of the damaged buildings.

During this painful time, we ask all our constituents to show calm and self-control so that serenity returns as fast as possible within our commune

We make a point of recalling that a public inquiry begins on November 17, 2008 in the Mairie concerning the request to exploit a gravel pit by the PATEBEX company. As part of this, any person can familiarise themselves with the file, express themselves on the register of the inquiry or give information to the enquiry chief who will be present.

We hope that democratic expression returns quickly and that our village regains its well being as soon as possible and becomes again, as it deserves, a place where one lives well.

Cordially yours

The unanimous Municipal Council

All this stems from something which did strike us, now we are fully acclimatised to the calm, peaceful nature of the village, as pretty shocking. During last week, when I was walking down to the village square, I was amazed to see that someone had been spraying graffiti.

Graffiti on the Mairie officeGraffiti on houses

Now, this sort of graffiti is quite common across rural France as a protest method. We have seen it many times where there is some local campaign against, for example, the closure of a school class, or the establishment of a rubbish dump. We’ve always assumed that it was the action of local people trying to express oppositon and gain support from passing motorists.

In our village, however, it seems that some ‘activist(s)’ have taken it on themselves to spray graffiti messages on other people’s property, protesting against a proposal to develop gravel extraction in part of the valley between here and Limoux. We don’t know much about the proposal, though we do know that it will be out of sight (and hearing) from our house. The area has a long tradition of quarrying (hence the name of the village, which means ‘slashed rock’) and there are two active quarries within the commune. There seems to be very little negative impact on the village – other than the presence of some large lorries carrying stone on the road from the quarry to Limoux. You can sometimes hear quarrying activities across the valley on some walks out of the village, but never from where we live.

We can’t detect any strong local opposition to the gravel proposal, but perhaps we are missing something? At the moment, it seems more likely that the village has suffered another external input from environmental campaigners – like the bizarrely destructive attack on the wind turbines a couple of years ago (see blog). One of the houses that was graffiti’d belongs to Mme Burgat, a really nice old lady who we occasionally have coffee and biscuits with. She seems to know pretty much everything about what’s going on in the village, so we’ll call in to see her and express our sympathy, and see what she can tell us about all of this.

Storm in a teacup? I expect so. It’s funny how something that would be common-place in a city can seem so disturbing when you live somewhere as tranquil as this! I guess the reaction of the Council would seem over-the-top to an outsider. Me, I’m right there with them, showing calm and self-control, and awaiting the return of serenity.

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Musing on Rising

Posted on 13 November, 2008 by Val

Getting up early has never been one of my favourite occupations. Ever since I can remember, dragging myself into harsh, daylight consciousness from the dim and cosy depths of dream-filled sleep has been my greatest challenge of every day.

I have always been impressed, and somewhat disconcerted, by Simon’s ability to leap out of bed at the first bleep of the alarm. Over the time we have spent together, I have tried to teach him the gracious and honourable art of the Lie-In. He can now at least appreciate the notion of slobbing around in bed for a bit, with a cup of coffee and a good book, (back-ache permitting) but his lying-in abilities have yet to extend to the professional level of being able to stay-asleep-for-a-very-long-time.

Of course, this apparent incompatibility in our approaches to the start of the day has brought me many benefits over the years, mostly in the form of breakfast or, at minimum, a cup of coffee in bed in the morning. But I have also been able to revel in those special, extra minutes of deliciousness, stretching out alone in the still-warm comfort of semi-consciousness, slumbering contentedly in the nether world between dreams and imagination.

As Tom Hodgkinson states in his admirable book ‘How to be Idle’;

Everyone knows that the mind…is actually at its freest when we are lying in bed dozing in the morning… Not only is early rising totally unnatural but I would argue also that lying in bed half-awake – sleep researchers call this state ‘hypnagogic’ – is positively beneficial to health and happiness.

He goes on to expound and evidence the theory that greatness and late rising are ‘natural bedfellows’, and actually manages to devote three whole chapters of the book to the art of idleness (in the form of staying in bed) during the hours between 8 and 11am.

Given my belief in, and commitment to, the benefits of late-rising, how then has it come to pass that, every other day, I find myself rising hastily from the comforts of my friend the bed, struggling bleary-eyed into yesterday’s clothes and wellington boots, and bursting out into the cool air of the morning garden, even before the sun has peeked its shiny head above the covers of the surrounding hills? The reason for this otherwise unaccountable transformation in my getting-up habits is…The Chickens.

The Chickens, it seems, need as much daylight as possible during the course of the day to keep them acting in accordance with their chickeny reason for existence – namely the Laying of Eggs. As the days get ever shorter, and they go to bed ever earlier, not a moment must be wasted in the morning before they are let out into the productivity-ensuring brightness. Of course, if this were the only reason for letting them out of their pretty little house at the crack of dawn, I for one could happily go without ever eating an egg again, in exchange for a few more moments in bed. But there is, as always, more to it than that. And the more to it that there is, is Chicken Shit.

The chickens’ house is undoubtedly pretty (see blog post ‘After the Llamas’ – Friday 18 July 2008) – even if, from some angles, it does look rather more like a Wendy House than a serious bit of agricultural animal housing. But it is not big. It’s big enough for four French hens to snuggle up together for a comfortable night’s sleep, safe from the wind, the rain and Mr Fox. But it’s not really big enough to sustain a hygienic, poo-free sleeping environment without extremely regular (ie: daily) cleaning attention. Also, in order to stop the naughty little avians from sleeping and excreting in the nest boxes, we block them off at night with a recycled piece of shelf wood, which has to be removed early in the morning, so that desperate layers don’t seek alternative venues for their creative activities.

The upshot of all this is that someone has to get up to let the chickens out as soon as it gets light. And someone has to clean out all the night’s accumulation of crap before the chickens’ enormous feet trundle it into the nest boxes to dirty-up the pristine squares of straw where our soon-to-be-dinner ingredients will hopefully be deposited. Now, in the spirit of fairness that is the hallmark of every successful relationship, Simon and I have reached an unspoken agreement that the letting-out-of-the-chickens-in-the-morning should be a turn-taking activity. But somehow, when it comes to any form of toilet-cleaning activity, the task invariably appears to fall to me.

I suppose it serves me right for harbouring a tendency toward a cleanliness-related Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Other people (ie Simon) would probably leave it a while before thinking it needed doing. But I just cannot rest easy until the task is done. So even when it is Simon’s turn to get up to let the chickens out, my supposed restful lie-in transforms within minutes to a dissatisfied exercise in procrastination, as my dysfunctional psyche struggles to resolve the endless battle between my innate laziness and my OCD. Most days, the OCD wins, and I simply have to get up and head outside to do the Wendy-house-work.

But every Cloud of Compulsion has a silver lining. After all these many years of staying in bed until the last possible second, (plus a bit longer), and then passing the following minutes in a blind haze of frantic catching-up activity, in order to avoid the consequences of my slothful behaviour, I have, at last, discovered the joy that is the Early Morning.

Dawn is truly a wonderful time of day. And on some mornings, when the imminent rise of the sun casts a pinkish golden glow over the flimsy mist swirling silently skywards from the deep-green folds of the valley, and an unseasonable cricket gently chirrups close in a motionless tree, the sheer and utter beauty of the moment quite simply takes my breath away.

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Wind turbines

Posted on 3 November, 2008 by Simon

You’ll perhaps (I hope!) have noticed some changes to the appearance of this blog.

We thought that it was time to update the original, and liked the idea of a photo in the header. This meant I was hunting for a picture that would work well in the very elongated format necessary. What better than a view of the nearly completed expanded ‘parc des éoliennes’ which dominates the hilltop on the opposite side of the valley from our house.

The first 8 éoliennes were erected in 2001, the year before we bought the house. They are on a 600 metre high ridge known as the ‘Pic de Brau’ about a kilometre away from the house. We’ve spent many an hour sitting on our terrace contemplating their ever-changing appearance: their colour varies from grey to white to orange/pink/scarlet depending on the sun and the clouds.

In November 2006, we were astonished to hear in England that some ‘eco-terrorists’ had attacked the éoliennes. On the internet, we saw our neighbour, the mayor of the commune, talking to French national TV about this bizarre event. Apparently, in protest against the environmental impact of increasing wind generation in France, someone used tyres, gas bottles and petrol to light fires in two of the éolienne columns. Since then, no-one seems to have claimed responsibility, though the police claim to be still active in investigating it. During August 2007, the remains of the two fatally damaged turbines were removed.

We then heard that there was a plan to greatly enlarge the ‘parc des éoliennes’ – as well as replacing the two that had been burnt, another 20 were to be built along the ridge. I can imagine the reaction that this might provoke if it were announced for an English beauty spot. The ridge is certainly a magnificent viewpoint – you can see the Pyrenees in the South/West, the Corbieres in the East and the Black Mountain in the North. There’s also loads of interesting bird life – including a range of eagles.

So, did we feel a sense of NIMBY outrage? Well, no. In fact, we were quite excited by the whole project. We’d always enjoyed the original eight, so surely 28 would be even better? You hear stories about noise, birds being killed, landscapes disfigured, etc. And yet in our experience, none of the scare stories actually turn out to have any basis in reality.

And for the village, there’s an economic dimension. The original eight produced a revenue of around 25% of the total commune income. It seems that the expanded ‘parc’ will generate about a quarter of a million euros a year for the local coffers. When locals want to maintain and develop facilities, including a village school, this seems pretty compelling.

It’s not about trading off destruction of the environment for monetary gain, though. I think the ‘parc’ is becoming a thing of beauty, a magnificent sculpture. And it’s making about 22 megawatts of energy from a renewable source . . . . Would anyone prefer a nuclear/gas/coal power station?

So, along with most of the villagers it seems, we are fans of this development. And it seems appropriate for it to feature at the top of our blog. Have you seen a prettier power station building site . . . . ?

Language note: éolien is an adjective meaning ‘to do with the wind’ or ‘driven by the wind’. éolienne is a modern noun meaning ‘wind turbine’. Aeolus (in French ‘Éole’) was the Greek God of the wind.

(Click here for local paper article, which is interesting if you can manage the French)

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Baby fits in

Posted on 2 November, 2008 by Simon

The new baby is becoming a member of the group. The others show a careful interest, and Elif is watchfully protective.

Elif may be a new mother, but that doesn’t mean that she changes in every respect. As always, she eagerly awaits the arrival of the day’s food treat. Babies are tolerated but not the centre of attention when there is food to be eaten – sensible priorities when you live with a greedy group like this!

Capucine is still not eating any concentrate – and probably won’t until she is weaned. This means that both she and the new baby are free to wander around when the grown-ups are eating. And of course, that means that they can explore the humans who come to see (and film) them.

Press the ‘Play’ button above to see some video taken on Wednesday – when the baby was two days old.

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