'I would not give you false hope, on this strange and mournful day...'

Walking back through the November twilight, waved at my 95 year old friend at his window, it's a little cold these days for him to lean on the gate to chat. I pulled a sprig of bay leaves from his tree to add one to tonight's dinner; we have them in our garden but I wanted them there and then. I feel reluctant to take our late walk these dwindling afternoons, and yet when I do I'm always glad of it, the evening gentle, redolent, somewhat melancholy, full of low light and good smells for a dog, and we always walk further than I think we will.

I remembered a bit in 'Diana of the Crossways', a book I read a couple of chapters of for Librivox, and which I found a trial. I must get back to recording for Librivox, and walking dogs for the SPA, and other socially useful activities. Diana and Redworth return from the Crossways, she unwillingly having had her flight from disgrace forestalled, through a November evening, and she says that now she understands now why he always takes his holidays in November, which pleases him because she has not only remembered but also understood a detail of his life. A nice detail of a tedious book remembered vividly. That sometimes happens.

This has been going through my head lately.

(Worth hanging around on Youtube afterwards to hear other selected Paul Simon stuff: 'Slip sliding away', 'Loves me like a rock', 'Me and Julio' etc, I remembered Az singing that one to me, and other things.)

Yesterday evening

Sloe gin, warm dog, piece of baklava, Joanna Trollope novel, thick socks, HIGNFY and this blanket:

Chunky wool/alpaca blend; started knitting it some time late spring, with a view to taking it to knitting camp instead of a sleeping bag. This event was a fibre arts festival held in central Finistère which I and my Quessquitricote knitting buddies had rather dared each other to go to and camp out in pop-up tents without husbands or dogs. I really would have done it, but the conflagration intervened and minching off on a fibre arts jolly was no longer on the cards. However, three of my pals made it and sent me a post card, and I got the blanket finished in time anyway; before I had even woven the ends in, Tom had grabbed it and started sleeping under it during our first stay at the gite, where despite its wool and camelid weight and cosiness, he found it more breathable and comfortable than the duvet there in the early, nightmares and night sweats days after the fire.

Now, happily, it's getting chilly enough to enjoy snuggling under it on the sofa. The fibre festival takes place somewhere way off down south next year, so I doubt I'll make it to it then, but who knows, I may yet get to camp out with the blanket. I've really had enough adventures for this year though.

Coéfficient 115

As I mentioned before, we have lately become aware of the occurrences of especially high tidal ranges in the Bay of St Brieuc.  This month's, last Wednesday, presumably coinciding with the harvest moon, was one of the highest/lowest of the year, with a coefficient (look, I told you already, I don't have a clue what it means, OK?) of 115, which is not far short of the Bay of Fundy. It was to reach its highest point at about nine in the evening, and as it's still quite light at that time here, we took a blanket and a couple of bananas, left soup in a pan for later, and headed to Morieux to see it.

This is what the beach there usually looks like when we go for our walks on it:

I chose that one, from about eighteen months ago, because it had darling Molly in it, but here's another wider and longer shot:

And this is what it looked like when we arrived the other night:

As you can see, there were fishermen out on the rocks, which are usually part of the landscape rather than the seascape, taking advantage of fish brought in from greater depths. The following day, no doubt, the rocks and sands along the coast would be busy with pêcheurs a pied, searching for the delicate and delicious shrimps known here as bouquets, among other things. My classes of retirees were always much down in numbers the mornings after the grandes marées.

Many people were leaving already as we arrived a little after eight, I don't remember meeting with so many other vehicles on the steep road up from the shore, even so a good number of people were still there. There was a smidgen of sand still at that point, and a group of swimmers in the sunlit water.

'Is that a dog?' asked Tom, of one of the bobbing heads, and indeed, it was, a Newfoundland of course, doing his lifeguard patrol and circling his shoal of humans. 

We reached out to touch his oily, sea-spangled coat as he passed us. 'Watch out for the shower!' said his owner.

We settled ourselves on the top of the concrete wall round the no-longer-existent beach, 

and watched the sea advancing to our feet

(and sometimes felt it too when it got splashy).

The atmosphere was quite magical; we have been having days and days of glorious, hazy, September sunshine, Morieux faces west, toward St Brieuc then headland after headland up the peninsula all the way the the island of Bréhat; even without the tidal phenomenon the sunset would have been worth the trip. A long time ago when I was green in blogging and photography, a blogger I admire expressed the view that sunset photos were boring (which wasn't to say they thought sunsets themselves were, of course), and I rather took this on board and desisted from taking many. It's true that they can be a bit samey, of course, and orange light on waves looks pretty much the same anywhere, but I do think that watching a damn good sunset over the water takes some beating. As I said at the time, this is better than watching another repeat of Midsomer Murders. 

And I wasn't loathe to snap away at it either, and have enjoyed looking at the pictures too, if only to remind myself of the specialness of the moment.

Gulls and terns wheeled over the water calling, as did a flock of waders, who, unlike the gulls, aren't able to swim and bob like ducks on the surface of the water and seemed disconsolate at at having no sand to rest on, (the birds of the air, they sorrow and weep/ oh where shall we shelter, where shall we sleep?)

In the end, there was just us and a German family left at the edge of the waves, exchanging looks and laughing when we were splashed.  Sand hopping creatures, finding themselves homeless, tried to jumped up onto the steps and the grass to escape the encroaching waters, and the young girls of the family, with tender amusement, tried to catch and rescue them.

At about 8.45, it seemed to us that it would rise little higher. We turned to find the others had already gone, and we were the last remaining. We took up our blanket, walked to the top of the cliff took a final look and point of the camera, and went home to our soup. I feel so lucky to live somewhere where such experiences and such beauty can be enjoyed for the cost of a short car ride and the will to go and find them.

~

And indeed I took a few videos of it too, and these two are by way of an experiment, because I have found we have a video editor on the big computer, I never knew! So I can crop sections out of them and also shrink them so they don't take hours to upload.  The first one - which if I had the know-how I would make into one of those non-stop gif things - is shrunk to about the size of a postcard but is still uploaded via Youtube, the second is reduced to very small 'suitable for e-mail' dimensions, so that if you try to view it full-screen it pixellates, but I was able to put it straight onto the blog. The visual quality doesn't actually matter, because it's only a grainy view of the seagulls roosting on the water, but one can hear Tom, who didn't know I was taking it, giving his verdict on the state of the tide, which I rather like. Indeed, the visual quality of any of these little videos is hardly great, as Bob Marley didn't quite say, my knees is my only tripod, but I'm rather enjoying taking them as little moving and audio snapshots of moments.

~

Off to the End-of-the-Earth again for a few days shortly, so probably no more posting for a little while. Bye for now. 

Low light and camera shake

Left it late to get out on a glorious ormolu autumn day.  Thought I'd take the camera anyway and see what inadvertent effects might be achieved.  Not much editing involved beyond wilful ineptitude and a bit of cropping.  

 

St Brieuc sunset

Time was I'd leave you feeling somewhat frayed,
unequal to the task of you, but now
I step out from your door, almost sure
of the streets and alleyways, the little veins
stitched with stone, late windowsill geraniums,
wrought iron gates that curtain courtyards
of winter-facing fig-trees and mimosa, 
tall windows piercing through the foreign dark
of houses onto walled gardens, valleys, slopes,
and hope that friendship might grow bright as well as fade.

Now at the church whose rank decay, 
lifeless liturgies and cracked glazed Lazarus, 
once told of horror more than resurrection,
(It is well known, none can be held responsible for her despair...)
the lycée students sit ranged on the stone steps 
like flowering auriculars, wrapped round 
with coats and scarves and one another,
looking down towards the evening town 
washed kindly rose and gold, and holding out
against the winter and the shortening day.
   

Reflections on the season, and all that.

A perfect All Hallows Eve, we drove up to the coast and walked, watched a surprisingly surfy sea for the Bay, little spray-topped curling waves and a collection of kite surfers enjoying them, their kites bowed over like herons' wings.  

On the way, raggedly effusive reds and pinks of lingering geraniums, petunias and roses embroidered the backdrop of gold-brown-yellow-orange leaves.  Where have the field maples been until now, how is it they only become visible in autumn?  The shimmery, sandalled verticals of the poplars are best of all though.  I know Tolkien divides people fiercely, but I hold to the middle ground, or sit on the fence if you like; I remember someone saying about Wagner that, all his sins notwithstanding, he sometimes entertained angels unawares, and that's rather how I feel about Tolkien*.  I can't look up into autumn-turning poplar woods without the word Lothlorien speaking itself to me.

We'd cried off a dinner date for this evening and have relished the relief of doing so all day.  I lit the first fire of the season - having cleared out the grate including a poor dead sparrow and the soot it had brought down with it - and soon was pulling off fleece and thick socks and experiencing delightful levels of warmth - we've turned our radiators on but are resolutely leaving the thermostat at 18˚, and so far they've barely come on, but it's started feeling slightly damp and chilly at times.  I made a stewy-soup with chicken and butter-nut pumpkin and chestnuts and dumplings in it, among other things, and we were warmer still.  And just before that there was some unaccustomed noise and commotion in the road, and peering out we saw some eerie small personages outside.  

Now trick-or-treat may be commonplace for better or worse to most of you in the Anglo world, but here it's still not widespread. Some years I make pumpkin lanterns, and soup or pie from their insides, and our elderly neighbours used to look with bafflement on them in the window and remark that it was a bit early for Christmas, and they were equally nonplussed about the pie.  Since the family next door (not Charmless, the other side) nearly broke our hearts a couple of years ago by moving away to live down the road in a big smart new house the bourg without saying goodbye, I haven't bothered putting the Jack O'Lanterns in the window, though I might put one on the hearth.  They didn't slip off  without saying goodbye ( filer à l'anglaise, as the expression goes) because they didn't like us, I'm sure, but out of a kind of shyness, a dislike of departure, not wanting to fuss, or upset the children, or something.  But we were fond of them; Sarah used to come to the downstairs window sill when she was barely high enough to look over it and repeat 'Il est où, Tom?' so that sometimes Tom used to duck out of sight to be able to get on with whatever he was doing.  We've seen them around since of course, and before they let it to the elderly lady who's there now, I asked Gwen, the mother, what they might do about the little old house which was still empty. She said that they weren't allowed to think of selling it as Sebastian, who's eleven, insists that as soon as he's old enough he's going to come back and live there, as he was so happy here.

But there on our doorstep were three wee horrors, Sebastian, Sarah and their cousin Laure, with a paper bag, big grins, wigs, hats and face paint.  We made a show of astonishment and non-recognition and Sebastian, being in charge, hastily  informed us that he was Sebastian, and this was Sarah.  No, I said, that is a small witch.  No, really, he said, it was Sarah, who opened her mouth to reveal vampire fangs, at which we squealed dutifully.  I wished I'd made the butter-nut into a lantern.

Thankful for our boiled sweet habit, I dug into the jar and dropped a handful into the paper bag.  They trooped off and Gwen, who was taxi-driving in the background, gave us a cheery wave and said that they knew they could come to us as we'd know all about it.  We waved them off and told them what a pleasure it was to see them and how beautiful they were, and really meant it.  We kept grinning about it for the rest of the evening.

* and all his angels notwithstanding, his poetry was truly awful.

~

Well, the first fire, Halloween, golden groves unleaving, and its the time of year for daily blogging again.  I know a lot of people are sniffy about Nablopomo as a slavish following of what others begin, an affront to their freedom of spirit, last year's model, a grotesque acronym etc, but no one has to do it, and I enjoy the push to daily practice and the opportunity to use up odds and ends, so I'm giving it a go as usual. See you tomorrow. 

~

(Window carving, Saffron Walden church.  Apropos of nothing much.)

Wednesday 10th August

~ Last night, going outside at about 11, strains and snatches of the Tuesday night concert, a mile or two away in Moncontour, float up to where we live.  Electronic and ethereal, it mingles prettily with the chiming harmonics of the garden toads.

~ Doing yoga for the first time at S's house, where her silky, pewter-coloured old lurcher watches me with bronze eyes and a long smile from the sofa, then jumps down and tries to settle next to me on my yoga mat.

~ Sweet peas from A's garden, which scented the whole room.  They're finished now, but I'm still enjoying the photos.

Witchy trees

A stand of twisted oaks, as much ivy as oak, looking out to sea just above the cliff path, on the first evening we were there.  The tide was high and the early evening light off the sea was good.