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French Heritage Property: FOR SALE. |
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It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.
It was minus seven, in the valley today, as I drove the kids to school. Nothing moved in the grip of the frozen foggy morning; but the vaporized breath rising from the horses at the stud farm, standing still under their winter blankets, and the shadow of the Renault Espace and its roof box along the verge of the narrow road. Climbing out of the valley, the frosted vines, nothing now but a frame for December's ice, stood rigid as we passed, parallel lines of white upon white. We keep a daily watch for the wild boar, the black beast we only see in the open fields on the shortest of days, but today he cannot be seen. We see a young family of farm pigs, a broad dark stripe on their back, rummaging beneath the frosted stubble in the corn and sun-flower fields. They are the stock of a neighboring farmer who allows his animals free-range further than most. We see a young deer, momentarily delaying, before leaping from the road as we near. The buzzards perched along the power cables and telephone-lines, hungry for prey, disregard the motorcar. Yesterday I watched a peregrine falcon, who allowed me within a body’s length, before leaping in to the air. I have waited a lifetime to get so close. Overhead the long angular lines of migrating cranes have come and gone to the south-west, but in the low fields of the valley the herons have settled in for the winter.
The chatter from behind pitches higher, day on day. Hopes and wishes abound to the possibilities of play-station, wii, mp3 players, nintendo, spider-man, ben-ten, transformers, and... In Cocumont I disembark my compliment of four bobbin-topped, mitten-wearing, wrapped for an Antarctic expedition, back-pack carrying munchkins. In the school yard they join a noisy chorus of other children. The excitement is noticeably raised. Today there is a trip to the cinema at La Reole, and tomorrow they break for the holidays. Adam's friends run to us, and they tip-toe and stretch that little higher to kiss me their morning bonjour. I leave Kyle and Clara to their class among the painted Pere-Noels and hand made decorations. I turn to close the school yard gate behind me as the larger children are called into their class lines. I wave to Anna. She is in a huddle with her friends. They talk excitedly and finish each utterance with a jump and a bounce.
I check my watch, and decide to take a quick trip to the hyper-marche at Marmande. I spend an hour in E.Leclerc, looking at the displays of chocolates, seasonal goodies, foie-gras, and wine gift sets. Afterwards I take a coffee in the small bar-cafe, and watch the car-park fill. I take my time and drive home by the long road, via the farms and vineyards at Saint Sauveur. I slow and open the windows fully to the cold air, as I drop back into the valley on the empty road. I reach the house, where I am faced with the ten cubic meters of wood I have had delivered from a farmer in the next village of Cauvignac. It needs to be moved into the barn. Perhaps I'll do it tomorrow. I take some of the one meter lengths of chestnut and oak, and I set a large fire in the living room that I will light in the afternoon before the children return. A decorated tree is in the wide nook of the tall double window, and underneath, with every day, and with every post, a colourful and scattered gathering grows. To the side of the house the large pond is frozen, and the dozen resident moorhens struggle to try to find some foothold around the icy periphery. I replace yesterday's bread with today's in the kitchen cupboard. I break and scatter the stale bread on the side garden for the hens.
The sun has lifted the early freezing fog from the valley, and it is now a beautiful cold and sunny day. I take a short walk across the frosted grass of the side field, and I spend a few minutes in the absolute quiet of the oak woods. On the way back I see our neighbour Jacques in the distance. We wave at each other with both arms raised.
A car horn sounds in the front drive. It is the post-woman with a parcel. It must be from the Hippy and Una. It is. I sign and take the large box from the boot of her car. She sells me a calendar as she does every year. I offer her ten euro. The firemen will make a similar visit, and sale, before the week is out.
I make a coffee and sit at my desk in the little office. I finish an advert I am working on for the American market. I should have finished it weeks ago. It must be running before the holidays. Beside the monitor, a small pile of incomplete cards lie, some ready, some not; some short of addresses I can no longer remember. I check the calendar. I take my pen and tackle the cards one by one. I am already late.
I gaze out the window, I drink my coffee, I think of old friends.
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!
Mark.
20-December-2007.
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© beautifulmanoir.com 2007/2008 all rights reserved. Photographs / Text: Mark Mulholland; and Comité Departmental du Tourism de la Gironde. Comité Régional du Tourism d’Aquitaine.
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