Oh well, I suppose it was inevitable that Iceland and Mother Nature would seek revenge for past injustices. I was already feeling slightly guilty about hopping on yet another Easyjet flight to Toulouse from Bristol, 'sans famille' this time, so soon after our Easter sojourn, when the news came through. The glacier topped Mount Unpronounceable, aka Eyjafjallajokull, had decided to wreak havoc on the travelling public just as the Easter vacation was ending. Our lust for exotic holidays and city breaks, with no thought of any consequences other than a delayed take-off slot, left many of us stranded in airport lounges whilst volcanic ash, steam and dust blocked our incoming flightpaths more effectively than any potential terrorist outrage.
I count myself as one of the lucky ones. My journey originated just an hour's train ride from my home and it was easy enough to follow updates on Easyjet's website from the comfort of my study. Friends and family are scattered around the globe wondering how they are going to get back to work, school and important exams. My hairdresser's 9.00 am appointment last Friday had to be cancelled because his client's flight into Heathrow from Vancouver had been turned round half way. No late cancellation fee there then! Some friends are stuck in Val d'Isere [tough?], another on the floor of Bangkok Airport [seriously tough!]. The stories are fast becoming apocryphal and many of us will dine out on them for months.
As I unpacked my packets of seed and summer bulbs this morning, which I had set my heart on planting, and the two metres of crisp blue and white linen with which I was going to make a Roman blind for the kitchen, I felt decidedly uneasy. The weekend papers had been full of doom and gloom, especially the more serious analyses focussing on the likelihood of Mount Katia exploding into life and dwarfing anything we have seen from her little sister. Even these articles, though, seemed tame compared with the predictions of the father of Gaia theory, James Lovelock, shown as part of BBC 4's enlightening 'Beautiful Minds' series.
James Lovelock is now a gentle, kindly ninety year old with a mind as razor sharp as ever. He talks softly, like a benevolent great uncle dispensing toffee caramels. He is mesmerising. But what he has to say is more terrifying than anything anyone else has said on the subject of climate change. It is, as far as he is concerned, completely irreversible. Nothing any of us chooses to do will make the blindest bit of difference to the inevitable outcome. We are doomed. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are riding out in full regalia and they are closer to our tails than any one of us is prepared to acknowledge. In short, the great Sir James Lovelock thinks that we have ten years grace, possibly a little longer with a good wind behind us. 'Shock and Awe'? We ain't seen nothin' yet! Famine, water shortages, war, death, there was not a single cheery word in the whole interview. At most, a mere billion of us will survive. How depressing is that?
I looked for some degree of comfort from the fact that he would say that, wouldn't he? After all, he is ninety years old. His life's work is done and he can afford to make a mistake now. But no, he knocked that one on the head by saying that he was a great grandfather who fears dreadfully for the youngest members of his family. Like the rest of us, he fears for his children's children. His life's work has been about the interconnectedness of every aspect of nature. We have been shown the warning signs, the breakdown that has occurred, and now it is too late. We are looking at catastophe beyond our comprehension. Perhaps, methinks, the power and wrath of Eyjafjallajokull is a metaphor for what is to come?
So today, as I took Charlie, our dog, for a walk by the river at Laverstock, I was struck by how beautiful it all was. The ducks and drakes were swimming along with their baby ducklings in tow, with not a care in the world beyond the needs of new parenthood. The sun was shining through the trees, a little too hazily for my liking [was that an ash cloud dispersing above me?] and the birds fluttered overhead, not daring to come any closer because of Charlie's eager presence. Wild daffodil and narcissi were hanging on to their beautiful trumpets for just a little while longer. I wished I'd had a basket for the new nettle shoots, which will make a great spring soup or wild weed pie. Life was beautiful. Everything was beautiful.
And then I thought, 'Bugger Lovelock!' He may well be right. Then again he may not. 'Que sera, sera'. I'm not going to let him spoil my joy in the world. Hope springs eternal and all that. I vowed to live each day as if it were the world's last. We must all strive to do our utmost to preserve what we have, to love, protect and cherish it and to give thanks for the simple joys of life. If each of us changes the way we look at the world, if we stop taking it for granted and try to give back more than we take out, then maybe, just maybe, enough of us will survive to ensure that we will have a future. I must not fly! I must not fly! I must not fly!
Monday 19 April 2010
Sunday 4 April 2010
A Dance to the Music of Time
Is it really two months since I scribbled my last blog? I cannot quite believe that the snow has come and gone, leaving battered pantiles and a hole in the roof, and that the daffodils and narcissi are now semi-deceased. To be fair, they have hung on to their short spring flowerings for rather longer than usual because it's still pretty nippy around here at night. Our local ski resort, Guzet Neige, has no snow so there are no excuses for not getting on with the all those horrid jobs that the winter's hibernation and closed shutters has hidden from view these past six months. Out of the cupboard have come mops, buckets, brooms, sundry tins of emulsion and oil paints, and a long handled implement 'pour oter les araignees' [grovelling apologies for not having worked out how to accent my typescript, and on a blog about France, too!]. I'm sweeping out the cobwebs in more ways than one!
I have spoken before about the rhythm of life here, which I guess is much the same in the Welsh mountains, or the Highlands of Scotland, as it is in the Jura, the Massif Central or the Pyrenees. The long dark nights of winter, with only moonlight and the stars to guide one, limited both one's desire to venture too far afield and also one's ability to do so. Provisions were laid down for the lean times that followed Christmas. In my case, much of my pantry's contents has come from Intermarche or are left over from my big Waitrose pre-Christmas, pre-family's arrival, festive shop. I did, however, make a pear and ginger chutney, a beetroot and ginger chutney [I love the fire of ginger in winter!], a Christmas chutney, jars of piccalilli, some figs in vodka [more fire in the belly!] a Christmas cake and some chilli jam [Hot! Hot! Hot!]. We are still chomping our way through this eclectic collection of leftovers and, I have to say, there is nothing quite like a small slab of Christmas cake with one's 'cafe au lait' or even a 'tranche' of post prandial Roquefort.
It's a creative leap to find uses for mixed peel and dried fruit long after the Christmas Tree Fairy has been dispatched back to her 350 odd night's annual beauty sleep. But, surprise, surprise, I finally cottoned on to a use for them, courtesy of my old friend, the master baker and Bath cookery school owner, Richard Bertinet. A fortnight before Easter there appeared in my inbox, like manna from heaven, Richard's scrumptious recipe for hot cross buns. I have never been able to find hot cross buns here in the Ariege, so first thing on Good Friday morning, and for the first time in my life, I actually made them, cross and all! I had to change the recipe a little, because I needed to use up some dried cranberries lurking behind a surplus Christmas pudding but, I have to boast, they were rather good straight out of the oven and dripping with 'beurre d'Isigny'.
Then later, like our predecessors here, long before us, we even had a big bonfire to get rid of the garden rubbish, which had lain lost under a weight of snow through most of the winter. Why is it that it always looks as though one's garden has been stolen at this time of year? Bonfires are as much a part of seasonal ritual as food choices, are they not? Historically, bonfires marked the two significant seasonal events of the calendar. In some areas, the fires were lit at Midsummer and at Christmas. In others, they roared into action during Carnival and Lent. All over the countryside, struggling horsemen could find their bearings by following the light from the fires on the hilltops. The fires were a celebration of new life, sprung into being at the solstice, which took on new meaning as the harbinger of fertility; of people and animals, and especially of the fields [I always think of poor Edward Woodward in 'The Wicker Man' at the rather more extreme end of such celebrations!].
This dance to the music of time existed in the days when the agricultural calendar consisted of twelve months and two seasons. Whilst the two distinct seasons still exist here deep in the Ariege, much of urban France, like the UK, has surrendered its primitive rituals to fears of pyromaniacal outbreaks in contravention of strict EU health and safety legislation. When you can buy mince pies in September and Easter eggs in January all sense of the rhythm of nature and the seasons disappears. When electric light, admittedly now much dimmer with longer lasting lightbulbs, and television maintain a uniformity of time over an individual's twenty four hour day, it's that much harder to 'go with the flow'. In Salisbury I'm as guilty as the next person, allowing my day to begin with the 'Today' programme and to end with 'Newsnight'.
As long dark, bitterly cold nights give way to light mornings and longer evenings, we look forward to the heat of summer as 'nous otons les araignees'. Today, Easter Day, is the great celebration of new life. Christianity, with its emphasis on the Ressurrection of Christ, may have highjacked much older pagan traditions but the sentiment remains. We all celebrate, well the non-vegetarians amongst us, with a leg of new season's lamb, new potatoes and, here in France, asparagus. As I write this, the meat is slowly roasting in the oven whilst my daughter waits for me to make our family speciality celebration cake, a chocolate almond torte, using up almonds left from Christmas ground fine in the food processor. Tomorrow, we shall have that most traditional meal of 'lundi de Paques', wild asparagus omelettes. And, as my darling husband has just found his father's old classical 'LP's' in a box, we shall listen to a 1960's recording of Scottish Opera's 'Der Rosenkavalier' on the newly installed, old turntable as we toast the new season. Sadly, Peter's father left us long ago, before the children, so as we listen we remember the past as well as look forward to the future. The music of time, though, will continue to play on in our hearts.
I have spoken before about the rhythm of life here, which I guess is much the same in the Welsh mountains, or the Highlands of Scotland, as it is in the Jura, the Massif Central or the Pyrenees. The long dark nights of winter, with only moonlight and the stars to guide one, limited both one's desire to venture too far afield and also one's ability to do so. Provisions were laid down for the lean times that followed Christmas. In my case, much of my pantry's contents has come from Intermarche or are left over from my big Waitrose pre-Christmas, pre-family's arrival, festive shop. I did, however, make a pear and ginger chutney, a beetroot and ginger chutney [I love the fire of ginger in winter!], a Christmas chutney, jars of piccalilli, some figs in vodka [more fire in the belly!] a Christmas cake and some chilli jam [Hot! Hot! Hot!]. We are still chomping our way through this eclectic collection of leftovers and, I have to say, there is nothing quite like a small slab of Christmas cake with one's 'cafe au lait' or even a 'tranche' of post prandial Roquefort.
It's a creative leap to find uses for mixed peel and dried fruit long after the Christmas Tree Fairy has been dispatched back to her 350 odd night's annual beauty sleep. But, surprise, surprise, I finally cottoned on to a use for them, courtesy of my old friend, the master baker and Bath cookery school owner, Richard Bertinet. A fortnight before Easter there appeared in my inbox, like manna from heaven, Richard's scrumptious recipe for hot cross buns. I have never been able to find hot cross buns here in the Ariege, so first thing on Good Friday morning, and for the first time in my life, I actually made them, cross and all! I had to change the recipe a little, because I needed to use up some dried cranberries lurking behind a surplus Christmas pudding but, I have to boast, they were rather good straight out of the oven and dripping with 'beurre d'Isigny'.
Then later, like our predecessors here, long before us, we even had a big bonfire to get rid of the garden rubbish, which had lain lost under a weight of snow through most of the winter. Why is it that it always looks as though one's garden has been stolen at this time of year? Bonfires are as much a part of seasonal ritual as food choices, are they not? Historically, bonfires marked the two significant seasonal events of the calendar. In some areas, the fires were lit at Midsummer and at Christmas. In others, they roared into action during Carnival and Lent. All over the countryside, struggling horsemen could find their bearings by following the light from the fires on the hilltops. The fires were a celebration of new life, sprung into being at the solstice, which took on new meaning as the harbinger of fertility; of people and animals, and especially of the fields [I always think of poor Edward Woodward in 'The Wicker Man' at the rather more extreme end of such celebrations!].
This dance to the music of time existed in the days when the agricultural calendar consisted of twelve months and two seasons. Whilst the two distinct seasons still exist here deep in the Ariege, much of urban France, like the UK, has surrendered its primitive rituals to fears of pyromaniacal outbreaks in contravention of strict EU health and safety legislation. When you can buy mince pies in September and Easter eggs in January all sense of the rhythm of nature and the seasons disappears. When electric light, admittedly now much dimmer with longer lasting lightbulbs, and television maintain a uniformity of time over an individual's twenty four hour day, it's that much harder to 'go with the flow'. In Salisbury I'm as guilty as the next person, allowing my day to begin with the 'Today' programme and to end with 'Newsnight'.
As long dark, bitterly cold nights give way to light mornings and longer evenings, we look forward to the heat of summer as 'nous otons les araignees'. Today, Easter Day, is the great celebration of new life. Christianity, with its emphasis on the Ressurrection of Christ, may have highjacked much older pagan traditions but the sentiment remains. We all celebrate, well the non-vegetarians amongst us, with a leg of new season's lamb, new potatoes and, here in France, asparagus. As I write this, the meat is slowly roasting in the oven whilst my daughter waits for me to make our family speciality celebration cake, a chocolate almond torte, using up almonds left from Christmas ground fine in the food processor. Tomorrow, we shall have that most traditional meal of 'lundi de Paques', wild asparagus omelettes. And, as my darling husband has just found his father's old classical 'LP's' in a box, we shall listen to a 1960's recording of Scottish Opera's 'Der Rosenkavalier' on the newly installed, old turntable as we toast the new season. Sadly, Peter's father left us long ago, before the children, so as we listen we remember the past as well as look forward to the future. The music of time, though, will continue to play on in our hearts.
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