Between the notes
And venturing beyond the border...
Sunday I watched the sunrise out of the horizon and later had a lunch with a lovely English couple and a tour of their big stone house house and grounds, which used to house the famous French actress and singer Juliette Gréco, one time girlfriend of Miles Davis. After a delicious four-courses, getting to know each other a bit, when it was getting too warm on the shady terrace, the chap led us into a quirkier end of the sprawling house and sat us down on a low sofa in front of a hi-end stereo, for us to experience a half an hour blast of his favourite classical music, with a touch of live Dire Straits thrown in for good measure. The sense of space a decent sound system creates is an experience to have, and as the three of us silently sat swimming in audial depths with a chap we’d only just become acquainted with, the emotional power of music washed over and through us, uniting us in a certain humility and gratitude in the face of life itself. Five hours after arriving there, we walked home in a balmy 33 degrees and ducked into the cool stone cottage for a siesta. Later we watched the sun set on a different horizon, yep.
The following morning after a couple of hours work I tried to get out for a cycle before it got too warm. I was too late and got caught in the intensity of 28 degree rays on the return. The narrow road-ride downhill out of the village up to the next was lovely, winding past ancient houses, sunflower fields and occasional shade under the roadside copses, whereas following Google for a different return again I could hear the programmers laughing as I negotiated the rocks down tracks and across fields.
Dusty, a little ruffled and pouring in sweat after the return climb, I turned a cold shower onto my head and prayed I hadn’t overdone it. I’ve experienced heatstroke, once in Saudi Arabia’s fifty degrees, it’s horrible and certainly don’t want to again. An hour later with some after-sun cream on my head and a peppermint tea I was revived, left with no more than a stinging forehead. After I banished an intense hunger with a tray of boiled eggs, avocado and baguette washed down with coffee, I got on with work and returned to life as normal.
I feel this writing project changing. Can you tell? What started out as an output for the adventures of moving, doesn’t feel like an adventure any more because the journey’s over. We’ve been in France over two weeks. I’ve looked on some ‘expat forums’ (I really don’t like that word ‘expat’) and there’s enough people already talking talking talking about their traumatic experiences of moving to France, advising each other. Go and see for yourself if that’s what you’re after. And I can’t just keep a diary-blog-journal here because both you and I will get bored.
No apologies if this article feels a bit like being temporarily stranded on a rock, watching the flow of thoughts and experiences go by, waiting for the water to take me again... perhaps an ancient echo of the millions of years spent out on the rock out beyond the English channel.
I’ve got a podcast called ‘In Dialogue’ related to my work, and that’s not boring because it’s me in conversation with other people. So perhaps the idea that started out about leaving Britain will merge and morph into experiences of communicating with other communicators around the world. Something about travel, borders, races and languages in there?
I like that… I can feel the waters rising once more.
