Just over five years ago something happened that changed my life and turned me inside out. At the time I realised that the greatest risk is not taking one. So I took the risk and I stepped over the edge of the cliff -- and on the way down I learned to fly.
It is good to fly.
It is good to soar.
And now I fly solo.
.........And The Day I Made Cherry Jam!
And yesterday was one of those days when I realised that one cannot live in France without a watch -- or at least with the ability to read the time by the position of the sun in the sky, or by the direction the sunflowers are looking (as they are not in bloom yet, that would have been difficult anyway) or by knowing which church clocks are still ticking and which stopped way back in the 13th century.
The reason I was reminded of the importance of this essential accessory was that I ("..Agaihun....", to quote Forest Gump)left home on the spur of the moment, having been pulling weeds and overcome suddenly with the generous urge to finally do something about the poor lavender bushes that have been trying to tell me for a couple of months now that their habitat is far too small for their sturdy root system. I grabbed my basket, my purse and my car keys, checked that I had shoes on my feet and no mud on my face, and set off for the Desmartis near Bergerac.
I know Desmartis is expensive -- normally I would drive to Perigeux - but weighing up the petrol money with the money for new pots got the better of me before I even completed the roundabout circle at the airport -- Desmartis has a good selection of every kind of pot -- and after all, the lavendar bushes had been waiting long enough.
Where was I? Yes -- the advantages of wearing a watch: Everything was closed. Of course it was. Everything closes between midday and 3pm in rural France. I looked on my car clock what the time was : 12:16.
I could either go home - but did I have the courage to face the lavendar bushes empty handed? - or I could go for a drive and get lost - one of my favourite pastimes. No contest. I set off for the hills and did the latter. And what a pleasurable few hours I had!
I discovered little hamlets I never knew existed. I discovered at least three perfect picnic spots for that idyllic dejeuner sur l'herbe that make summer afternoons the stuff that win film directors the Palme d'Or
-- speaking of which -- everywhere the farmers were making hay and for the first time I saw where the Brothers Grimm got their idea from for the wicked little mannikin, Rumpelstiltskin blackmailing - or should I say goldspinning his way into the life of the poor miller's daughter. Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm must have traveled through the Dordogne countryside during haymaking time and seen the glistening shimmering gold cut hay in the June afternoon sun!I also discovered what looked like the most promising little trout stream - and stopped at the nearest farm house to enquire about its potential. There, scattered around like the aftermath of a serious lunch party, were half a dozen semi-clad bodies turning a healthy shade of lobster pink in the afternoon sun, and I immediately knew English would be the courteous language to speak in this particular domain. It was. And although I was helped in a friendly manner, albeit to find out that they had no clue who the stream belonged to, I got back in my car asking the question I had been asking for the last ten years that I lived in the UK --- "Why do British never give their names when you introduce yourself to them?" I was brought up to shake hands, smile, look the other person straight in the eye and introduce myself by name. The result should be that the other person shakes your hand and introduces him/herself - by name. Nope! Not in Britain. And so neither does it seem amongst the British in France...
Donc voila!
Ah! The Lavendar bushes - are they happy? Judge for yourself!And the cherry jam? Nothing like hard work to help take you mind off the fear of flying!
The jam is made and looks beautiful -- look out for the next instalment of the Red Letter Day!
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