It’s hard not to feel full of joy, when blue sky and unremitting sunshine warm hearts and joints (although that could mean the St Albans we left behind), and when the tranquility of a tiny French village takes over from the hustle and bustle of English life.
And yet … there are downsides. We will know the fate of the old boiler next week. And still no WiFi, unless we subscribe to a service bounced from one church tower a few kms away to Marquein’s clocher mur, and that would be a cost of several hundred euros a year. Internet and mobile connection is still unreliable; I find one particular tomb in the village cemetery is a handy, if bizarre, “sweet spot”! The bar in Salles-sur-l’Hers, 7km away, has a friendly and free WiFi connection and the temptation of just another demi.
Our little garden was a green wall of weeds, after an unusually wet spring continued into June, and trying to hack it all back enough to be able to sit on the terrace (in temperatures of 35+) is exhausting enough without the risks of insect bites. And the temptation of just another beer.
Our struggles with digital communication and with the small garden of a small second home are (as a friend of ours used to say) rich folks’ problems. The continuing threat of climate change is a universal problem, and the sharp end is obvious here. The abnormal rainfall has almost ruined this year’s wheat harvest and delayed – perhaps even ruined – the sunflower crop. It’s not only poets’ and tourists’ hearts which leap up at the totemic golden fields of summer. Sunflower seeds and oil are a staple for local farmers and for the local economy. And there are no golden fields yet.
An old friend of ours, visiting us in Marquein many summers ago, commented that whole fields of sunflowers seen at close quarters felt threatening … over head-high, heads often bigger than dinner plates, all turned in the same direction, whispering and rattling in the evening wind. And when they’re ready for harvesting, the stalks and leaves are hard and dry, the flower-heads black and shrivelled, as though fire had swept through the battalions of bronze troops.
A couple of years ago, they seemed an image of my own bi-polarity; I read William Blake’s poem, and this emerged almost fully-formed.
Ah, Sunflower! Weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun,
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller’s journey is done.
(Blake)
Sunflowers
Burning through France, autoroute starting to shimmer
with heat, I wait for the first
oasis of gold, sunburst
semaphore, signalling south, reminder
of light. Drawn by the sun
away from the deadening nightmares of time,
pressure, work … to that “sweet golden clime
where the traveller’s journey is done”,
I long for the sunflowers.
There! Over there!
Closer and closer, searching each face for response.
Each stares back blindly, in rank after rank of implacable bronze.
Each stands erect, on its armoured green trunk; each yellow stare
is a warning. Nothing in me can reflect.
Nothing in me can attract.
Nothing. They serve only the court of the sun.
Late August, earth seared of its gold, I run
north again, turning my face from survivors:
black skeletons, burnt grotesque faces,
fire-withered lines where the sun’s army stood.
Bleak winter waits. Returning fills me with dread
If “Sunflowers” is too bleak, do what I do, and look up Phoebe Hesketh’s poem, “Nothing grows old” at https://allpoetry.com: it’s a wonderful uplift, from the first line (“This is the hour the gods set to music”) to the last.
P.S. Prevented from posting this by first of all Bastille Day (14th July), then the World Cup Final (vivent les bleus!), both of which involved total shut down of all services, I had high hopes for Monday … but a violent storm on Sunday night and Monday morning cut off all power and phone lines (even the water supply failed: burst pipe), blocked roads, caused local floods, and totally destroyed several fields where the sunflowers were struggling to ripen after the late planting. Mudslides, fallen trees, minor leakage in our loft – all horrible. So today, Tuesday 17th, I’m hoping to get this blog posted, and preparing another which, quite logically in my view, blames Trump for everything!
Enjoy summer while you can.
Derek
