Okay, I have to confess that I’m not a newbie in France. I made a life here once and it was sweet as the grass that Henri Jambart scythed by hand and fed to his tiny herd of cattle. Henri was my neighbour and my friend and he worked the land with sweaty love. He was the tail end of a tradition that went back further than he could count.
He didn’t go to the Second Great War due to an accident where his hand was caught in a machine. I knew that was a fortunate thing but Henri felt otherwise. The other men had stories to tell around the kitchen table and different scars to compare.
I learned many things from this man; that every season had it’s place, independence was to be valued at the cost of relationships and friendship could be made across generational, language and cultural boundaries.
I visited the cemetery recently and sat with his grave but I am sure that Henri is with his fields. I found a ball of string he used to line up his plots of Summer vegetables. The old oak tree knows. It stands sentinel over it all.
The French know how to walk. Every Sunday, you can see clusters of friends or family making their way between villages after the Midday meal has settled. During the week there are clubs for the more dedicated. Large groups take to the paths that traverse the fields and the forest and work up an appetite for a three course meal with wine in the local hall or restaurant.
I’ve been lucky enough to join a few of these social events, to walk the beautiful countryside, to parley French with the locals and then raise too many glasses with the rest.
I found Maud Rebiere at the bottom of her garden in the south of France, collecting petals in a wicker basket she made when there was more time to play. Plants are her life and this is the busy season. She harvests medicinal herbs from the plants she grows from seed and gathers wild plants from nature in areas untouched by agricultural sprays. The herbal teas and balms she makes are organically certified .
Maud understands the importance of the natural world and the need for biodiversity to pollinate plants and she passes her knowledge on to groups who visit the historical farm, Le Parcot, at Échourgnac in the Dordogne region.
It’s not only black and white. The minor chords of grey that make the symphony complete and harmonious are playing in my mind. I have history here. Stone steps that leave an impression on the soft humous scattered about the earthy floor.
I am travelling light, treading lighter, carrying my creativity wherever I go.
(See https://jenimcmillan.wordpress.com/ for more photography and musings)