garden party.

Back in Britain.

A dash across the channel.
Parents.
Old friends...
the requisite accompaniments.

Sunshine and Calvados

Calvados tasting in Bayeaux, and a welcome wander in the sun by the stone canals.
A second last evening at 'le Chateau', and pause to look back at the last 6 weeks on the Normandie coast.
...
The quiet, ordered morning procession of geece.
A sky-blue eyed blinking regard, looking for food.
...
The rolling, up and down song of the Norman accent.
Words and meaning dragged from melodiously mumbled conversations.
...
Rich verdant green and brown, and everywhere the air thick with the sweet wet smell of things growing.
...
Endless evening light of sunsets that refuse to find the horizon, even as midnight approaches.
...
The creamy scent that fills your nostrils as you dip your bucket in the vat to take the morning milk
...
The calmly expectant 7am lineup outside the Boulangerie.
2 Baguettes and a viennoise s'il vous plait.
...
Broadbeans, lettuce, potato, strawberries, carrots, rhubarb and more picked straight from the garden to the table.
...
The quietly laconic comments from Hugues, delivered with a perfectly poured Pastis.
...
The regular random thump, and click of strolling claws as Bellis works her way through the house.
...
The dramatic family history, retold with engaging passion by its central, matriarchal figure.
...
Long, rambling, morphing conversations with Dominique, across 2 languages history, politics, food, farms and life as it should be lived.
...

If I were a government...

Ever since Franklin Roosevelt swept into power with a bold series of measures to combat the international economic malaise of the great depression, the first 100 days of a governments office has become a yardstick by which their effectiveness may be judged.
Energetic reformers such as himself, and Whitlam in Australia, built their reputations upon the rapid implementation their legislative agendas.
lounging with a book, a pot of coffee and a croissant (no, truly... I am really am eating a croissant) it occurred to me that I have just passed the 100th day of my voyage.
Ive always been one for the value of reflection and analysis, so it seems appropriate to look back upon the last 100 days, with some thought to just how history may view what has transpired therein.
100 days.
Ive traversed 3 languages, 4 countries, 5 Nations and 25000km.
With beard, and without, ive been buffeted by gale and snow, sleet, rain and hail. There've been thunderstorms, sunshowers, and skies every colour of the palette.
Ive travelled on planes, trains, buses, ferrys, cars, bikes and sailing boats... and a fair few miles up hills, mountains and down valleys, dells and rocky shorelines.
Ive borne witness to confirmation, death, pregnancy, birthdays, engagement, escape, return, happiness, frustration, anger, joy and sadness.
Ive met friends and strangers, and shared their lives with food and drink.
Ive seen much that was new, and a lot I thought familiar in a new light.
...
Perhaps not a bold beginning worthy of the new deal, but I am still on the road. 

A series of sunset.

With the 'invasion weather' currently continuing with a duration nearly as long as the invasion itself, there is a household full of people sinking slowly and surely into a winter-like funk (communally comforting to know that its not just us fair-weather babies that get the sads with days of straight grey rain and wind)
As reliable a consolation as it is, theres only so much cheese one can consume.
So in the interests of maintaining a suitably positive perspective (without incurring explosive, cholesterol-related heart failure), Im self-catering some much needed sunshine.
A late evening wander a week or so ago (10pm), down into the waterfront at Grandcamp redered up the opportunity to witness quite a dramatic little sunset over the channel.
And so, as the rain washes down the windows, and the wind lashing through the rich, wet trees outside is the soundtrack to our current drab grey evenings... a moment to bask in a remembered golden sunset.
Wheres that Pont leveque gone?

An invasion wind.

Having spent the last week buffeted by a perpetual gale, grey skies and intermittent rain... finding my smile harder and harder to put on in the morning as I trudge the sodden grass and nettles to feed birds, weed gardens and prune trees... I am darkly amused by the fact that this is often referred to as 'invasion weather'. Unsurprisingly called so because of the prevailing conditions on D-day.
More surprising, perhaps, is the fact that before and since, this time of year is known for its inclemence. chalk that one up as a minus in the wartime planners column.
Taking a look out across the long sweep of rocky, slushy sand into the distant white-chopped grey of the channel yesterday evening, I had pause to glance down at the 3 ducks huddling against the leeward side of a treek-trunk (yes, contrary to the assumption in the expression, ducks do NOT like the rain either), and be thankfull, on all our behalf, that we were in the tree-lined grassy field of 'le chateau', and not a wave-tossed tin-can being pelted with high explosive ammuntion and supersonic hot lead.
Small mercies.

A week of indoor plenty.
Provisions of Onion soup, red wine and Pont Leveque.
As the windows rattle and whistle, time to seek refuge with Nicholas Bouvier, an empty page and a pen... and old cowboy movies.
'Number of people who can tell you what to do. None'
Thanks Yul.

The village.

It is no great observation to say that there exists a different rythym to village life.
But beyond a day-to-day that moves slower, according to the requirements of seasons, gardens, tides, animals... there is an atmosphere and an attitude that is all of their own.

Like the local colour provided by the simple lad who is often found singing and dancing in the middle of the street, for hours on end. Confused tourists and camper-vanners may shake their heads sit frustrated in convoys, but the locals just shrug and say that its just his life, and recount stories from his vivid past.

Like the village soap opera of Dominiques family.
...The fisherman husband who after 34 years of marriage, decided his retirement would be more enjoyable if his wife looked after the house, farm, bed and breakfast, kids and cooking, and his mistress provided the consoling entertainment... and who had to be kicked out 5 times, because he could not see why the rest of the family didnt find his arrangement as agreeable as he did.
... Or the estranged son who is now forced to live in another town, because he elected to remain with the woman who, for 6 years pretended to have breast cancer to cover for the fact that she was living with another man.

... Or like today.
In a village built around a harbour and a long tradition of fishing, In family where the father and 3 sons are fishermen, the dramatic death of 2 fishermen is an occasion of communal sadness and support. For Every day since a boat too old to be on the water, was sunk in fair weather as its modern nets and cables caught on the bottom and tore the boat in half, the bells in the village have rung. And now the whole family goes to join the communal village family at the funeral.
All together, in the large and the small of life.

moving out ... getting older.

Part of the family.
An evening down-town in Grandcamp to help daughter josephine, and xavier (the Breton) to pack their things into a fleet of family donated moving vans.
A flurry of activity, van tetris, sign-language and broken french... and a post removal retirement to the overgrown backyard with a bottle of whiskey to talk about the values and travails of moving and renovations.

Then back to 'le chateau', to join the best part of the family (25) for youngest son Hugos 20th.
laughing, joking, pastis, martini, whiskey... all in high contrast amber everning light.
The night finished, packed into the salon around the table... surrounding 5 kg of perfectly roasted beef, 2 potato gratins, and a buffet of assorted cakes.
Wine flows like water. Children eat, laugh, play.
Arguments about rugby and wine amidst smiles and hugs.