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Short-lived beauty
I have commented before on the range of ‘nature’ that surrounds us here. We also often admire the efficiency of French public services from which we benefit. Today, I experienced a conflict between these two good aspects of our new life.
Walking up the hill to the llamas, I spotted a bee orchid growing on the roadside. These were rare sightings on the chalk downs of my childhood, but apparently are pretty common around the Mediterranean. Their amazing flowers are remarkably like bees in appearance, and it appears that they fool bees into attempting to mate with them, and so pollen gets transferred and the flowers fertilised. According to scientist Richard Dawkins, bees in the past have caused the evolution of bee orchids. Male bees, over many generations of cumulative orchid evolution, have built up the bee-like shape through trying to copulate with flowers that look most convincingly like bees, and hence carrying their pollen.
On returning home, I got out my camera and took some pictures (including the one here).
Within minutes, along come a pair of large tractors, with high-tech flail mowers, and neatly trim all the road verges within the village boundary. And yes, the orchid is gone . . . .
Such are the contradictions of life. Perhaps the orchid could only grow where the grass was shorter, because of previous mowing.
The Mystery of the Absconding Llama
Simon has just emerged from the recently organised garage (there is now cat-swinging room, at last) where he has been employing his new-found joinery skills in the reconstruction of the sorry wardrobe that fared somewhat disastrously in the infamous trailer trip to our dream life. Apparently, I was meant to be doing a llama-related blog, to update folks on the post-escape situation, rather than indulging in a personal, (although literary) rambling on the nature of Past, Present and Parenthood. So….
Since my return to Roquetaillade on Monday, things have been as they should be. It is tempting to fantasize that Valentine had missed me during my five-day absence, and was looking for me when he escaped, but even egocentric me recognizes this as a bit unlikely. However, his Houdini-like escapades remain a mystery.
We have still found no evidence of fence-breaching, and the possibility that an uninvited visitor may have either accidentally or deliberately let him out of the gate is a possibility from the Realm of Paranoia, which we refuse to entertain. Given that Valentine appears to be a ‘follower’ rather than an independent spirit, we can only therefore conclude that:
Faced with the prospect of yet another hot, hard day’s work adding two more lines of wire around the whole perimeter to make the fence ‘more secure’, I attempted to discourage Simon from this (his favoured) course of action on the grounds that, if it was a) above, it would be unlikely to happen again, and if it was b) adding intermediate wires would do nothing to stop him jumping over the top.
So Simon settled for putting in some extra wires in the area near the gate, (where the relative flatness of the land, and the open area outside the fence, made a potential ‘squeezing-through-the-gap escape’ seem remotely more possible) and rather than risk wasting further energy on pointless, knee-jerk reactions, we agreed to ‘monitor the situation’. I’ve always been a fan of the Wait-and-See approach to Life’s apparently troubling events. But then I am naturally very lazy (not always a bad thing), and I wasn’t here last Sunday to suffer, first-hand, the immediate panic induced by Valentine’s extra-curricular activities, and so was less concerned than Simon about potential worry-related sleep loss.
Every day since then, on our regular visits to supply Duc and Valentine with llama-style junk food and human interaction, we have approached their home ground with varying degrees of trepidation. And, as if to string out this wherethehellarethey? moment for us as long as possible, the little beasties have taken to hiding deep in the undergrowth, right at the furthest, highest extreme of the land.
To be fair, they do (generally) come bounding down the land in response to the enticing sound of grain rattling in a bucket, or even, on a good day, to the hearty call of “Here, Llamas!” But there are the odd times when, for what seems like an eternity, we can only spy one bundle of whitish wool in the sea of green, and the adrenalin meter starts to buzz. Oh, for an open field of flat grass. Or a small-holding where all the fields are inside your own land boundaries.
Still, as we so often seem to be saying these days, so far, so good. They are both still there, still healthy (Valentine’s injured foot looks better and better each day), and still happy to come to us when summoned. The next step (groan – more work!) is to build a catch-pen near their gate, and get into the regular practice of taking them for walks (which, after-all, was meant to be the whole goddamn point of all this!).<
The other llamas are behaving impeccably in their accustomed llama style. Elif is still being aloof, and being a dominatrix par excellence. Pedro is still being more aloof than Elif, cultivating his Clint Eastwood ‘Man Alone’ persona, which is only slightly marred by his tendency to run like a scared rabbit whenever we approach him with outstretched arms. Fatma continues to eat like a vacuum-cleaner, to resist Pedro’s further attempts at romantic coupling, and to fart spectacularly whenever silence decends. Anna continues to be utterly approachable and adorable, and has recently discovered that she can get her whole neck, up to her shoulders, through the third square down in the wire fence, and can therefore happily graze on all the low-down greenery outside, that is unreachable by the rest of the gang.
And little Capucine gets bigger every day, eating grass and hay as well as her mother’s milk, and continues to terrorize all the others with her relentless and childish antics. Only she can jump repeatedly on Pedro’s back and remain unscathed. Only she can lean on Elif’s legs and not be spat at. Only she can stop grown men in their tractors, as she races wildly along the fence line and pirouettes in the dust bowl, like Bambi in a woolly baby-gro.
So, we still have to clip Pedro’s toe-nails (somehow), and get Anna over to the Rough Land, and pour Pour-On anti-parasite stuff on to all their flighty backs. Oh and there’s the garden to fence, and the chicken-house to build…..
And there was silly me thinking I had time to sit and read great works of French literature.
Posted in Llamas
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Remembrance of Things Past
Saturday again. The weekend. Strangely, one of the things I miss about not being at work, is looking forward to the weekend. Since, every day, we can choose (llama-crises excepted) how to spend our time, the weekends are notable only by the reduction in the commuting traffic (three cars a day passing by, rather than twenty) and in the amount of agricultural work carried out around us.
Today is a lovely, quiet day. Not lovely in the English sense of perfect blue skies and uninterrupted sunshine (which, let’s face it, can get boring after a while), but lovely because it is just the right sort of day for sitting and doing nothing at all, except watching the light shift and change as gentle showers pass over, followed by bright sunshine that steams the roof and intensifies the birdsong. Distant thunder rolls lazily over the hills. Not a breath of wind.
Sitting under the awning on the terrace, listening to the rain spattering on the canvas, evokes nostalgia for camping experiences of the past. Just as yesterday’s balmy evening heat and cicadas in the pine trees brought back memories of long-ago south-of-France holidays. How is it possible to feel nostalgia for something one still has? Maybe it’s simply that a true appreciation of the present comes hand in hand with an awareness of its transience.
I’ve done quite a lot of nothing since getting back here last Monday, after a busy few days in Derby, cramming six weeks worth of mothering into a five day visit to my children. Despite the fact that I was amply able to fill my time with household chores, clothes-washing and shopping, the return to find my children managing very-well-thankyou without the constant ministrations of their mother did a little to ease the guilt I feel at having deserted them for my new life in France, and gave rise to the realisation of my increasing superfluousness to their lives.
They are ‘my children’ no longer. They are young adults with lives of their own, making their own choices, forging their own destinies, and doing things ‘their way’. They have survived without my constant reminders to ‘not drink too much’ when they go out, to take their phone/keys with them, to water the plants and to put the bin out on Wednesday morning. Whilst I’m sure the shopping and washing I did for them during my visit was greatly appreciated, it was none-the-less a treat, rather than essential to their well-being.
Perhaps it is the dawning of this realisation, and a sense of having to let go of the past, that has conjured up those recent experiences of nostalgia. The hardest thing about being a parent is learning how to not keep being one.
“Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself….You may give them your love, but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls. For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday….” (Kahlil Gibran).
Maybe, all this time for doing nothing, is the time for going ‘A la Recherche du Temps Perdu’. Maybe, at last (llama-crises excepted) I have time in my life for Proust.
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The Great Escape
In which Valentine plays the role immortalised by Steve McQueen (but without the bike) . . . . .
On Sunday afternoon, I was peacefully gardening, using earphones and my mp3 player to block out the sound of a group of British artists who had encamped alongside our house for the day (there are downsides to having a lovely view!) Unexpectedly, Linda (Val’s sister) and Pete, and their son Will and daughter-in-law Tabitha arrived for a quick look at the llamas.
So, we pop up to the field, and I am happily explaining the character of llamas while we offer them goodies over the gate. And then, I turn round and see the unbelievable sight of another llama walking up the road outside the field!
It’s Valentine. Within seconds, while I’m still trying to work out how he could have got here, he’s climbed the bank and all the other llamas are rushing forward to greet him at the fence. Well, not quite, as Pedro is attempting to bite lumps out of him, and all hell is breaking loose.
Another one of those adrenalin-laden periods follows. I rush out of the field and somehow climb the bank. Putting myself between Valentine and Pedro seems too much of a challenge, as I am poised on a narrow path at the top of a two metre drop – and they are concentrating solely on their own conflict. So, I just grab Valentine’s halter, and half throw myself back down the path. He follows – he doesn’t really have any choice – and he has to give his attention now to preventing himself from falling down the bank on top of me!
Having gained the initiative, I frog march Valentine round into the catch-pen at the bottom of the field. At the same time, I’m shouting instructions to everyone else. “Linda, you block that gap and stop Pedro coming down! I don’t think he’ll push you out of the way.” “Pete, you go and get some wire, and tools from the house, to fix the fence to separate the field again. And some llama leads and some food!”
Having got Valentine secure, I can contemplate the situation. Obviously he’s feeling pretty sorry for himself, as having come round to see the old gang, Pedro’s roughed him up again. I realise that the situation might still be far from under control – Valentine never goes anywhere without Duc, and yet here he is on his own. Where’s Duc? Do we have another llama/vineyard potential devastation scenario? Pete returns and I set off running to the rough land, carrying food and a lead.
I reach the gate to the rough land, and my heart is hammering away. Not just the running – but the realisation that there’s no sign of Duc.
I’m starting to panic now, and can’t really work out what to do next. And then, as I climb further up the field, I spot him right at the top of the slope, inside the fence, happily foraging among the bushes. He hasn’t escaped after all!
I persuade Duc to come down to the gate, by tempting him with concentrate food. There’s no sign of how Valentine escaped, and Duc seems very calm. I decide that I need to take him to secure accommodation with Valentine, until I can work out how the escape happened.
Great idea. Only problem is – Duc’s having none of it. There’s no way he’s going to let me put a lead on him. And as we haven’t got a catch pen in this land yet, I’ve got no chance of making him go along with my wonderful plan.
As I sit there, giving Duc small handfuls of food, which he carefully takes with his neck fully extended, ready to jerk away the instant I make any move with the lead, I realise I need a Plan B . . . .
I can’t leave Duc on his own. I can’t get him over to Valentine. So, I must bring Valentine back to Duc – and worry later about the possibility of another escape.
And later on, this is how it works out. After Lin and Pete and family leave, I go back to Valentine – who’s cushed down feeling sorry for himself (with Pedro still patrolling up and down, saying ‘let me at him’). After a token struggle, he allows himself to be put on the lead, and calmly walks back to the rough land with me.
I leave Duc and Valentine together for the night, still unclear how Valentine escaped, and whether they will be there in the morning.
Lots to reflect on. I remember some words in an email to Val from Tom, one of her former colleagues:
“You should totally call the BBC to come and make a series about your llama adventures. . . . It’s pretty inspiring stuff . . . and a stark warning for any husband who doesn’t take his wife’s crazy plans seriously.”
Tom, you are more wise than you know!
Better than work?
I often think about how different my life is now, compared to when I had a ‘normal’ job. In France, where there seem to be rules covering everything (although experience suggests many of them are blatantly ignored in rural areas!), my status is unequivocally ‘retired’. I debated this with the notaire when we were signing up to buy the additional land. He was relentlessly logical: “but Monsieur, it is not important that you were a fonctionnaire or that you intend to be an agriculteur, at the moment you are retraité . . . . “
I think that lots of people will have had images of me, retired, relaxing in the south of France. Of course, I also had some of those images . . . . So how does the reality compare?
At the moment, Val is in the UK for a few days, so the llama care is all mine. As are the other various pressing responsibilities that seem to be significantly harder to manage in France (largely because many of them have to be handled in French!). So, I am committed to twice daily trips to the two pieces of land. At a minimum, these trips take approaching an hour each – assuming I maintain our approach of walking whenever possible (part ethical, part economic). The garden needs a lot of work, as our vegetable area increases. There is still unpacking and sorting to be done. Currently, I also have to sort two new tyres for the Land Rover (punctures in well worn tyres). And my motorbike needs a new battery – ordered online, so I have to be here to greet the postman each morning.
Each day seems to go by remarkably quickly. And much of it seems to be spent in ‘maintenance’ activities, which don’t let you sit back in the evening with a real concrete sense of achievement. I worry about the challenges to come (just how do you persuade a stud llama to stand still so you can trim his overgrown toenails?). I am working physically quite hard. And yet . . . .
And yet, I know that I would not even consider going back to my earlier life. The BBC (website and radio) reminds me how British politicians are obsessed with new ‘initiatives’ and their own self-importance. I occasionally scan the on-line edition of the Derby Evening Telegraph and wonder at the nonsense that seems to have overtaken local government. All this has a rather morbid fascination, but it also reminds me of the anger and stress I have left behind.
I really value about my new ‘retired’ life:
- being in the country, where a busy road means one car in 10 minutes
- constantly being immersed in ‘nature’ – with eagles above and lizards below
- learning about llamas and puzzling out how to deal with them
- making, fixing, growing things – and getting better at it
Above all, I am in control . . . . not of the outcomes, because disasters are much more likely here than they were in Derby. But I am in control of what I do. I can choose. And I suppose, paradoxically, that I like being able to make bad choices, and then learn from them.
Posted in Life
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