Days and nights are getting warmer. Snowdrops are out. The fields turn bright green. When the sky is so gray that it's almost dark blue, there is a stunning contrast of brown from the leave-less trees, bright green from the pastures, and dark gray from the sky. Days are partly somewhat sunny, partly somewhat rainy, and it seems almost impossible to predict what the weather in the next hour is going to be. This afternoon, a double full rainbow lay over the hills.
It is the first time in my life that I live in such a rural area, where one cannot see a neighboring house, and where the only outside people that I might see, if I do not go out for a walk (and actually, I never meet anyone on my walks), is the neighbor uphill, who shares the front road with us, and passes by in his typical french farm white van, or the postman, in the same van, but yellow.
I can see how my mind, totally unused to such stillness, and addicted to the movements and noises and business of the city, needs a time to adjust to not needing to rush anywhere or to do something, to having nothing else of importance to do in the evening than staying around the table, chat and laugh. During the day, while working, I can see how my mind sometimes tells me "there has got to be something to worry about!". Then I listen to the silence, the birds chirping, the sheep bleating, or look at the cats hanging around, and I think, hm, no, really, there is nothing that needs to be worried about. This sensation of peace and of time slowing down is most striking when around goats. They are so strangely quiet, peaceful, yet playful. When you come nearby, they come to look at you, neither too curious nor demanding nor scared, simply inquisitive, simply silent, simply there...
Lindsey arrived earlier this week. She comes from Seattle. She studied architecture and has been working for the past three years. She marvels at almost everything with genuine enthusiasm - the dogs, the flowers, the things that Peter and Julie do - yet she remains critical and independent in her thinking. She is beautiful (eyes of a deep blue on the verge of turquoise, skin of silk, perfect white teeth) but she doesn't seem to be aware of it or perhaps rather, to care. When I compliment her on the things that she has done or that she plans to do, she giggles happily, like an innocent child. She eats and holds her glass of wine with great poise and grace.
Lindsey's grandmother was German, her great grandfather Irish. She loves dogs. She studied architecture because, as a child, she met a great man who was an architect, and she then decided that she would become an architect, and the idea always stayed. She loves architecture. She showed me a drawing of a house around here that she has made - it is beautiful, like everything she does.
Lindsey never sits still. Either she knits - a blue shawl -, or she reads - Moby Dick -, or she carves a spoon (one of the things Peter and Julie want to show us - I managed to pierce a hole in mine). She always seems to be at peace and within herself.
She is now wwoofing in France for three months. Why? Because one year ago she started raising chickens in her backyard, for eggs, and then she thought that she actually might enjoy having a whole farm - a small farm, for herself and her family, while doing her own architecture work at home. So far she thinks that indeed she would - I think so too.
In Seattle, on the standard 5000 square feet lot, one is allowed to raise three chickens -but no rooster-, one goat, two or three beehives, and perhaps one pig too (more, for a larger surface). In practice, people oftentimes surpass the limit. Lindsey built a little shed with the help of her boyfriend and got five chicks. She simply loved going out to get them in the backyard.
Lindsey's boyfriend grew up on a dairy farm. His grandfather started with fifty cows. The business grew larger, and now, the family deals with... 1500 cows. Lindsey today told me "and you know, the most ironic thing is: they buy milk! Because they cannot get bothered anymore going to get it in the milk station, twenty meters away from their house". So, when she goes there, she observes, as is it interesting to see the farmer's point of view, she says, but she keeps her thoughts for herself.
She is now waiting for the answer for a Fulbright fellowship which she applied to for a 9-month project that she designed, in Fez, Marocco. From what I gathered, it sounds quite interesting, and deals with the question of how to restore old architecture in a most meaningful way for the present, from the social and practical point of view, and not only for the purpose of looking pretty. She said that her mother was worried, when she told her that she was doing this trip on farms, that she would want to leave architecture all together afterward. "But no! This is entirely related to how I want to do architecture later on!". I am very impressed that she gets all these personal ideas and initiatives on her own, without seeming to need guidance nor much encouragement, and that she carries them on with so little apparent struggle.
Lindsey loves to travel. She started at age 15, when she came to France for a one-year exchange. She found it hard to be away from home for so long, but she so much enjoyed the experience that afterward she traveled whenever she could. She studied a few months in Morocco, traveled in Italy, in Spain, and I don't know where else. She seems to have fear for nothing, and to be simply enjoying her life a great deal. She says, "being shy, oh no, would that be awful, to be scared of everything!". She says that life becomes so much more exciting and inspiring, when on a travel.
***
Two days ago we found a dead deer nearby the house. Julie saw it, underneath the fence door, as we all passed by with the car. It lay on its side, so mind-blowing pretty, with its tiny legs, black hoofs, little tail, sweet face... It had been shot with a shotgun, which blows lots of bullets in a large diameter, which, said Peter, is totally unethical for deers - but the hunters in this region aren't quite bothered with ethics, apparently. Peter said the beast must have been shot on Sunday and have been running until the next day when it finally died from its wounds. So we took it, Peter butchered it, and Lindsey and I, one morning, cut it in pieces for freezing; lungs and other delicacies for the dogs, the rest for people.
We have been eating a little from the deer already - fillets, liver, soup from roasted bones. And tonight, the Scottish dish "Stovies": potatoes, onions, and the meat from the bones used for making the broth. All was delicious. This meat is as gorgeous as the living beast.
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
Sunday, 21 February 2010
A House
Yesterday I went for a walk to Nouziers, north-west.
On the way, just before Bordessoule, right on the border of the road, I met a very strange house. Obviously it was abandoned. Through the broken window of the front door, one could see a kitchen table and chairs. I entered.
The first room was the kitchen. It was full of what apparently used to be the last owners' entire furniture. There was a brown sofa, an armchair, an opened and empty fridge, a gas stove, a sink. All furniture had the 80's style.
The people obviously had taken most, but not every of their things, and here and there lay bits and pieces of their past. On the floor was a cardboard box with crockery. In a a shelf with a glass door was a Contrex mineral bottle, a sugar box, a mustard pot, and other kitchen staples. On the table lay a plastic tablecloth. On the fridge stood a small glass pot with pens. Underneath the sink were lined plastic bottles of cleaning products. Playing cards were scattered everywhere. An untouched crossword book, priced in Francs, lay on the armchair.
The room had been somehow apparently damaged by time and by somebody. The fireplace was filled with debris and plastic cables. Where previously stood a door to the garage was now a huge whole in the stone wall, which debris had been piled in the garage behind.
The kitchen led to two bedrooms. In one of them were piled a bunch of foam mattresses. A nice wooden wardrobe stood in a corner. Its two doors were wide opened, and revealed a rich content of decomposing wool sweaters, winter jackets, bottles of body products such as shampoo and disinfectant, an unused packet of birth control pills, other kinds of pills, and Picsou comic books. A bag was tagged with a plane sticker to Montpellier. Vine crept inside the room through the opened window.
In the other room there was no furniture but piles of various little things, candles, matches, a detective novel, an empty Renaud tape box, a broken tape player, a woman's shoe.
I went up the second floor on the wobbly staircase. Parts of the house were falling apart and I wasn't totally assured of the solidity of the staircase.
I tried to find answers to the questions bombarding my mind. Who had been these people? Obviously, a young family. What happened to them? Who would leave like this, without bothering to clean up his personal things, nor to find a taker for the fridge and the gas stove? Simply abandon the house, and not bother to try to sell it?
I don't remember exactly what I saw upstairs. I think, two other rooms, other foam mattresses and other pieces and things here and there. I started to feel a bit troubled, and my uneasiness had started to overcome my curiosity. So I left.
Thursday, 18 February 2010
Knuckle Head
This morning we trimmed the goats' hoofs. Well, Julie trimmed them, and I just sometimes watched her do it, and other times just held the animal in place.
You have to trim their hoofs because, goats being mountainous animals, normally their hoofs would wear down on the rocks. Since here there are no rocks and lots of mud, without being trimmed the hoofs would form pockets, and collect mud, creating a lovable place for some bacteria and fungi to live, and the goats would get sore feet - the goat's athlete foot. One goat has a sore foot now, and the poor thing yesterday could not bear weight on it. Julie treated it - cut out the problematic part, and soak the foot for ten minutes in a disinfecting solution -, obviously not a pleasant moment for the beast.
As of hoof trimming. I thought they would have a thick hoof, like that of a horse. But no, only the front part is thick, and the rest is rather soft. So you actually cut through something that looks like a thick callus, with, underneath it, a pink soft tissue, which would bleed if you cut too much, just like your foot would.
It was amazing to see the reaction of the goats to the treatment. They do not resist wildly, but mostly give it a gentle try, and after a moment get fed up, and more or less try to escape, each in its individual way - sometimes sitting on the floor, sometimes not giving you their feet, sometimes trying to get out. And all the while they remain silent, even though they might pull so hard on the collar holding them, that their eyes come out bulging. That's the goat - he would hang himself down trying to escape, before saying even one word. One or two however, said something. It was then the sweetest and softest sound one can think of - beh he he, so soft that you wonder where the sound comes from.
As of holding goats. I found that if you lean on them, without putting even too much weight on their belly, the mere contact of your chest against them seems to relax them. It's so odd, because you would think that if something is trying to hold them tight, they would get more angry - but no, they actually seem to find it pleasant.
They are so lean that you can feel all their muscle strings under their coat. And true, as Peter and Julie said, they smell nice - well, they don't smell much.
Apparently, sheep hoofs trimming is a completely different story, which I didn't get to experience today. The sheep are much stronger and much more combative, and for the operation to be successfully completed, Peter and Julie must hold them down lying on their back, four legs up.
So, I spent a couple of hours "hugging goats" today, as Peter rightfully called it. And I must say, I do not feel quite the same now.
The first goat we did is Knuckle Head. Knuckle Head is a male, and being a male, normally he would not be given a name, because males are destined to the saucepan (when having the goats for milk, you should only keep one male for reproduction, as you do not want the progeny to interbreed).
But Knuckle Head is a bit special. He is the friendliest, most curious, sweet and playful creature - and thereby, at times too, a pain in the butt, because he always has to come and check on whatever you are doing, and you must always get rid of him. I gathered today that he is the one who jumps on the wheelbarrow whenever he gets a chance to, in the morning when I bring hay. So, Peter got a little emotional with this male, and gave him a name. And now, Peter wonders whether the goat should be eaten, or be kept as a pet.
Knuckle Head gets his name from the two knuckles that he bears on his head, instead of horns. This all comes from this intriguing property of goats, and of all horned animals for that matter, such as deers, cattle, sheep (i.e. all ruminants); all these species occasionally naturally produce hornless individuals.
This curiosity is explained by ecologists in the following manner: when the winter is long and harsh, horned males, which have greater nutritional needs, will have a hard time, and are likely not to survive. Comes the spring, and remain the hornless males, which can mate with the females, and perpetuate the population. Horns are however not altogether lost, because they have other advantages, such as: the horned male has nutritional requirements similar to that of the milking female, and is more likely to lead the herd to pastures which would fit the requirements of nursing females (Mackenzie 1989).
Farmers have been quite interested in this trait in cattle, because they say that there is less danger that hornless animals to injure each other and their caretakers. They usually dehorn horned cattle. Otherwise, they seek to breed hornless breeds, and several breeds are now entirely or partially hornless.
In goats, all would be great and good, if the trait was not also linked to another one which converts developing embryos into males. Thus, females with the hornless character become partially transformed into males, and sterile. How inconvenient for the farmer!
So, this is Knuckle Head. If he reproduced, half of his female progeny would be sterile. Poor Knuckle Head.
In any case, as I held him tight while Julie trimmed his hoofs, I fell in love with him. It is quite a strange thing, that of falling in love with a being which you shouldn't love, for the reason that it might end up in your plate.
Jenny, when we visited her last week, said that sometimes, there are some individuals in your herd which are born special, and which have come to you to teach you something. I think Knuckle Head is one of these.
---
Ref
Goat Husbandry, David Mackenzie 1980
You have to trim their hoofs because, goats being mountainous animals, normally their hoofs would wear down on the rocks. Since here there are no rocks and lots of mud, without being trimmed the hoofs would form pockets, and collect mud, creating a lovable place for some bacteria and fungi to live, and the goats would get sore feet - the goat's athlete foot. One goat has a sore foot now, and the poor thing yesterday could not bear weight on it. Julie treated it - cut out the problematic part, and soak the foot for ten minutes in a disinfecting solution -, obviously not a pleasant moment for the beast.
As of hoof trimming. I thought they would have a thick hoof, like that of a horse. But no, only the front part is thick, and the rest is rather soft. So you actually cut through something that looks like a thick callus, with, underneath it, a pink soft tissue, which would bleed if you cut too much, just like your foot would.
It was amazing to see the reaction of the goats to the treatment. They do not resist wildly, but mostly give it a gentle try, and after a moment get fed up, and more or less try to escape, each in its individual way - sometimes sitting on the floor, sometimes not giving you their feet, sometimes trying to get out. And all the while they remain silent, even though they might pull so hard on the collar holding them, that their eyes come out bulging. That's the goat - he would hang himself down trying to escape, before saying even one word. One or two however, said something. It was then the sweetest and softest sound one can think of - beh he he, so soft that you wonder where the sound comes from.
As of holding goats. I found that if you lean on them, without putting even too much weight on their belly, the mere contact of your chest against them seems to relax them. It's so odd, because you would think that if something is trying to hold them tight, they would get more angry - but no, they actually seem to find it pleasant.
They are so lean that you can feel all their muscle strings under their coat. And true, as Peter and Julie said, they smell nice - well, they don't smell much.
Apparently, sheep hoofs trimming is a completely different story, which I didn't get to experience today. The sheep are much stronger and much more combative, and for the operation to be successfully completed, Peter and Julie must hold them down lying on their back, four legs up.
So, I spent a couple of hours "hugging goats" today, as Peter rightfully called it. And I must say, I do not feel quite the same now.
The first goat we did is Knuckle Head. Knuckle Head is a male, and being a male, normally he would not be given a name, because males are destined to the saucepan (when having the goats for milk, you should only keep one male for reproduction, as you do not want the progeny to interbreed).
But Knuckle Head is a bit special. He is the friendliest, most curious, sweet and playful creature - and thereby, at times too, a pain in the butt, because he always has to come and check on whatever you are doing, and you must always get rid of him. I gathered today that he is the one who jumps on the wheelbarrow whenever he gets a chance to, in the morning when I bring hay. So, Peter got a little emotional with this male, and gave him a name. And now, Peter wonders whether the goat should be eaten, or be kept as a pet.
Knuckle Head gets his name from the two knuckles that he bears on his head, instead of horns. This all comes from this intriguing property of goats, and of all horned animals for that matter, such as deers, cattle, sheep (i.e. all ruminants); all these species occasionally naturally produce hornless individuals.
This curiosity is explained by ecologists in the following manner: when the winter is long and harsh, horned males, which have greater nutritional needs, will have a hard time, and are likely not to survive. Comes the spring, and remain the hornless males, which can mate with the females, and perpetuate the population. Horns are however not altogether lost, because they have other advantages, such as: the horned male has nutritional requirements similar to that of the milking female, and is more likely to lead the herd to pastures which would fit the requirements of nursing females (Mackenzie 1989).
Farmers have been quite interested in this trait in cattle, because they say that there is less danger that hornless animals to injure each other and their caretakers. They usually dehorn horned cattle. Otherwise, they seek to breed hornless breeds, and several breeds are now entirely or partially hornless.
In goats, all would be great and good, if the trait was not also linked to another one which converts developing embryos into males. Thus, females with the hornless character become partially transformed into males, and sterile. How inconvenient for the farmer!
So, this is Knuckle Head. If he reproduced, half of his female progeny would be sterile. Poor Knuckle Head.
In any case, as I held him tight while Julie trimmed his hoofs, I fell in love with him. It is quite a strange thing, that of falling in love with a being which you shouldn't love, for the reason that it might end up in your plate.
Jenny, when we visited her last week, said that sometimes, there are some individuals in your herd which are born special, and which have come to you to teach you something. I think Knuckle Head is one of these.
---
Ref
Goat Husbandry, David Mackenzie 1980
Wednesday, 17 February 2010
After the Frost
The temperature has gone back above zero. The snow melts. Most of the pasture is green again.
The doors of the chicken and duck houses are opened. But don't stand too close, especially if you are a dog, otherwise they won't get out.
Grains are given to everyone. Water is poured into the troughs. The wheelbarrow is filled up with hay for the goats.
Tabby the cat sits on top of the hay; he loves wheelbarrow travel.
Behind the gate, the goats cannot wait. They eat the hay from the wheelbarrow.
You empty the wheelbarrow into the manger, but some grass seeds remain at the bottom. The goats want to eat them; they jump in to do so.
You leave, and the goats travel with you; front feet in the wheelbarrow, back feet walking on the ground.
The sheep, meanwhile, look at you at a distance. The French breed, all white, looks stupid. The Scottish breed, with a black head, looks more alert. But, standing proud and pretty in the crowd, is Lazslo, the Hungarian one; head up, thin black legs, long, curly, magnificent wool and horns; a model in her fashion dress.
The geese take their morning bath.
They dig their head in the water of their trough. They bring the head upwards. Water droplets drip on their back. Then, they brush their feathers with their beaks.
The procedure seems difficult; the geese seem to wish they had hands.
The male goose is rather aggressive these days. A female has built a nest; when you get near them, he constantly shouts and cries. You want to tell him to shut up. And you must watch out, or else he will bite your leg off.
The female geese hang around the male. They don't seem to get much of what's going on.
The ducks are happy. The grass is uncovered, and they can go marching all over once again. They march on the pasture, all together as one singing troop, on their way nibbling all the interesting things to be found.
They particularly fancy sheep and goats intestinal parasites. That's convenient.
But, one duck remains behind, it stands by the troughs. It cries and cries. That's Maureen. Honk honk honk! Honk honk honk! Oh no! What's going on, Maureen?
Well, Maureen is forgetful. And, she sometimes forget to follow the troop! So, there she stands, all alone now! Can't she go back to the troop herself? Nope, they have to come to her.
For a while the troop, in the distance, answers back to her calls. Eventually, half of them break apart, and they come back towards her. But, nearby the fence, they stop, and only the elder male keeps going. He will go up to the fence, and then tell Maureen on the side, come on, move your ass now!
Maureen goes through the fence. All the ducks are united again.
The ducks could fly. But they won't. Only in the morning, when you let them out, do they briefly stretch out their wings, between their house and the trough.
Life from the ground seems like plenty of fun enough for them.
You go have a look at the bees. Inside the hive, they are all dead. They haven't survived the frost.
The doors of the chicken and duck houses are opened. But don't stand too close, especially if you are a dog, otherwise they won't get out.
Grains are given to everyone. Water is poured into the troughs. The wheelbarrow is filled up with hay for the goats.
Tabby the cat sits on top of the hay; he loves wheelbarrow travel.
Behind the gate, the goats cannot wait. They eat the hay from the wheelbarrow.
You empty the wheelbarrow into the manger, but some grass seeds remain at the bottom. The goats want to eat them; they jump in to do so.
You leave, and the goats travel with you; front feet in the wheelbarrow, back feet walking on the ground.
The sheep, meanwhile, look at you at a distance. The French breed, all white, looks stupid. The Scottish breed, with a black head, looks more alert. But, standing proud and pretty in the crowd, is Lazslo, the Hungarian one; head up, thin black legs, long, curly, magnificent wool and horns; a model in her fashion dress.
The geese take their morning bath.
They dig their head in the water of their trough. They bring the head upwards. Water droplets drip on their back. Then, they brush their feathers with their beaks.
The procedure seems difficult; the geese seem to wish they had hands.
The male goose is rather aggressive these days. A female has built a nest; when you get near them, he constantly shouts and cries. You want to tell him to shut up. And you must watch out, or else he will bite your leg off.
The female geese hang around the male. They don't seem to get much of what's going on.
The ducks are happy. The grass is uncovered, and they can go marching all over once again. They march on the pasture, all together as one singing troop, on their way nibbling all the interesting things to be found.
They particularly fancy sheep and goats intestinal parasites. That's convenient.
But, one duck remains behind, it stands by the troughs. It cries and cries. That's Maureen. Honk honk honk! Honk honk honk! Oh no! What's going on, Maureen?
Well, Maureen is forgetful. And, she sometimes forget to follow the troop! So, there she stands, all alone now! Can't she go back to the troop herself? Nope, they have to come to her.
For a while the troop, in the distance, answers back to her calls. Eventually, half of them break apart, and they come back towards her. But, nearby the fence, they stop, and only the elder male keeps going. He will go up to the fence, and then tell Maureen on the side, come on, move your ass now!
Maureen goes through the fence. All the ducks are united again.
The ducks could fly. But they won't. Only in the morning, when you let them out, do they briefly stretch out their wings, between their house and the trough.
Life from the ground seems like plenty of fun enough for them.
You go have a look at the bees. Inside the hive, they are all dead. They haven't survived the frost.
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
The Bees and the Barn
Peter picked up his bees from the chimney of Bernard and Carina. There was a nest in their chimney which they wanted to get rid of, and Peter wanted bees. So Peter rid Bernard and Carina of their bees, and at the same time collected the hive for himself. He smoked the bees from the fireplace, and they went out on the roof, and then he went on the roof to collect them. I guess that it could mostly come to a fireman's mind to do such a thing. Bernard told me the story last Saturday when he and Carina came to bring the milk, and he said that his mother, witnessing the operation, said of Peter that he is "un homme fantastique". Homme fantastique or not, he managed to get several dozen bee stings on his ankles, because that's the place the bees managed to get to ("first they go to the face, then the chest and neck, and if they can't get that, they will find any place where the clothing is light"). He did feel a bit ill afterward. Indeed, bees have a venom, like snakes, but unlike ants or other biting insects, did I learn.
Peter is fascinated by bees. He seems to know much about their behavior and about how to handle them. Some things which struck me: 1. If you kill the queen of a colony and destroy the nest, you kill the colony, because the colony can only make a new queen from its eggs (by giving an egg the queen diet). You can however replace the queen of your hive by a foreign one! - So, really, what is the organism, is it the individual bee, or the whole colony?? Another fact in this respect, is that the whole hive can be displaced as 'one'. You can take it in your hands, as a single dense looking but surprisingly light mass, and you can pour it out, like sand. When the colony wants to move house, the bees first all get out and wait somewhere, then all move into the new nest together. 2. The males do not work; you have thousand of males in the colony, and all they do is being fed, and one of them will be chosen to fertilize the queen, (the others are killed? I don't know if that's a desirable life, or not...) 3. If the queen is active, it will patrol the nest and kill any new baby queen that it finds. But if it's not so active, it won't patrol, and this permits a new queen to grow, and I guess overtake the old inactive one? 4. Each colony has its character. Some colonies are more active at producing new colonies, in that case they won't produce much honey. Some colonies are unusually active at producing honey. Peter once had a hive which produced 120 pounds of honey through a season! 5. You can tell if your colony is doing well by the sound that it makes. A happy colony makes a nice buzzing sound. An unhappy colony, hungry or something, makes a furious disharmonious sound, and in that case you better 'fuck off'. 6. The bees dance to each other to communicate information about pollen sources (how do they make the honey??). 7. It is customary to talk to the bees about what's going on on the farm, especially important life events like births, deaths, and perhaps marriages too. It is said that if the bees are not kept informed, they will not be happy.
***
This afternoon I went into the barn for the first time. It was amazing. It felt like the cows were still there last week. The hay and straw still lay on the ground, fresh as if from yesterday, although it must have been there for at least 25 years. We found three pairs of really nice wood and leather sabots and a pair of glasses in a hard leather case (which looks like a toothbrush case), which must be at least a hundred years old. Lots of old wooden equipment is still there - the harness, the gigantic wooden trailer wheels...
The barn itself is magnificent. All oak, stone, and slate for the roof. Inside, looking up at the high ceiling and the beams supporting it, you almost get this feeling of awe that you would get in some nice churches. You can see how much thought and care was given to it. You can feel, as said Peter, how it was the "center" of the farm. It had the animals, the grain, the hay. It was the "supermarket" of the times. You can feel that this was a precious place for them, that they were physically connected to it. It was pleasant not only to the animals, but also to the humans. Today you could convert it to a gorgeous house. Nothing to do with the ugly modern metal and concrete huge things, from which nobody would ever want to make a house...
(How can it occur to us to eat something which has lived in a place in which we would not want to set foot ourselves? I think, really, the problem is that the consumer is not even aware of where the food he eats comes from.)
The barn has been really well maintained, and it was a bit mind-blowing to think that this barn, which had been constructed probably at least 150 years ago (actually, nobody knows exactly when, and I would be really curious to know) with the most simple hand tools, still was being used as such and unchanged, 25 years ago, with just a bit of modernization.
They renovated some parts with concrete, which Peter complained about. But it was nicely done, and you could see that in the mind of these people, they were doing a nice thing. "Yes, agreed Peter, I guess they really were looking for something that did the job, and not for aesthetics". Exactly. But, why do we find concrete so ugly? Yes, there is something repulsive about it. I think it's its feel. It feels dead. It doesn't smell nice. It feels hard in an odd way. Stone is hard too, but in a different way...
One word about cows, by the way. I wondered how come people bothered keeping cows, which seem like such a pain to keep. Why not smaller animals, I asked. Peter said: cows are a great converter of grass into meat. Right... Or course... If grass is the only thing that will grow on your soil, then you haven't got much choice, than to put an animal that can eat grass on it...
Peter is fascinated by bees. He seems to know much about their behavior and about how to handle them. Some things which struck me: 1. If you kill the queen of a colony and destroy the nest, you kill the colony, because the colony can only make a new queen from its eggs (by giving an egg the queen diet). You can however replace the queen of your hive by a foreign one! - So, really, what is the organism, is it the individual bee, or the whole colony?? Another fact in this respect, is that the whole hive can be displaced as 'one'. You can take it in your hands, as a single dense looking but surprisingly light mass, and you can pour it out, like sand. When the colony wants to move house, the bees first all get out and wait somewhere, then all move into the new nest together. 2. The males do not work; you have thousand of males in the colony, and all they do is being fed, and one of them will be chosen to fertilize the queen, (the others are killed? I don't know if that's a desirable life, or not...) 3. If the queen is active, it will patrol the nest and kill any new baby queen that it finds. But if it's not so active, it won't patrol, and this permits a new queen to grow, and I guess overtake the old inactive one? 4. Each colony has its character. Some colonies are more active at producing new colonies, in that case they won't produce much honey. Some colonies are unusually active at producing honey. Peter once had a hive which produced 120 pounds of honey through a season! 5. You can tell if your colony is doing well by the sound that it makes. A happy colony makes a nice buzzing sound. An unhappy colony, hungry or something, makes a furious disharmonious sound, and in that case you better 'fuck off'. 6. The bees dance to each other to communicate information about pollen sources (how do they make the honey??). 7. It is customary to talk to the bees about what's going on on the farm, especially important life events like births, deaths, and perhaps marriages too. It is said that if the bees are not kept informed, they will not be happy.
***
This afternoon I went into the barn for the first time. It was amazing. It felt like the cows were still there last week. The hay and straw still lay on the ground, fresh as if from yesterday, although it must have been there for at least 25 years. We found three pairs of really nice wood and leather sabots and a pair of glasses in a hard leather case (which looks like a toothbrush case), which must be at least a hundred years old. Lots of old wooden equipment is still there - the harness, the gigantic wooden trailer wheels...
The barn itself is magnificent. All oak, stone, and slate for the roof. Inside, looking up at the high ceiling and the beams supporting it, you almost get this feeling of awe that you would get in some nice churches. You can see how much thought and care was given to it. You can feel, as said Peter, how it was the "center" of the farm. It had the animals, the grain, the hay. It was the "supermarket" of the times. You can feel that this was a precious place for them, that they were physically connected to it. It was pleasant not only to the animals, but also to the humans. Today you could convert it to a gorgeous house. Nothing to do with the ugly modern metal and concrete huge things, from which nobody would ever want to make a house...
(How can it occur to us to eat something which has lived in a place in which we would not want to set foot ourselves? I think, really, the problem is that the consumer is not even aware of where the food he eats comes from.)
The barn has been really well maintained, and it was a bit mind-blowing to think that this barn, which had been constructed probably at least 150 years ago (actually, nobody knows exactly when, and I would be really curious to know) with the most simple hand tools, still was being used as such and unchanged, 25 years ago, with just a bit of modernization.
They renovated some parts with concrete, which Peter complained about. But it was nicely done, and you could see that in the mind of these people, they were doing a nice thing. "Yes, agreed Peter, I guess they really were looking for something that did the job, and not for aesthetics". Exactly. But, why do we find concrete so ugly? Yes, there is something repulsive about it. I think it's its feel. It feels dead. It doesn't smell nice. It feels hard in an odd way. Stone is hard too, but in a different way...
One word about cows, by the way. I wondered how come people bothered keeping cows, which seem like such a pain to keep. Why not smaller animals, I asked. Peter said: cows are a great converter of grass into meat. Right... Or course... If grass is the only thing that will grow on your soil, then you haven't got much choice, than to put an animal that can eat grass on it...
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Horns
One afternoon last week, we took the car to Jenny, about ten minutes away, to help her to plant trees.
Since I arrived at their place, Peter and Julie have mentioned a few times this woman's tragic and amazing story. German, she was married to a French-English man. The two had also traveled through France to look for a place to settle, but in a little caravan trailed by two donkeys, with their sheep following them. Eventually, they settled on this place; about 20 hectares, a gorgeous farm, and a huge pond (which Julie calls a lake). They settled and started their project, which is to raise rare breeds of sheep (I gather). Thus the farm was called 'L'arche de Monterrand'.
But, one year after they settled, Jenny's husband got sick from cancer, and he died in a few months.
So Jenny suddenly not only had to deal with the grieve but also with being left alone with the farm. There are about 60 sheep, many goats, cows, dogs, cats, donkeys, one pig, and of course chickens. She decided to carry on, while she thinks about whether she should carry on or not. How she manages to deal with all this is a total mystery for us.
In Jenny's yard, came to greet us three dogs, goats, and a lovely ginger haired pig. The pig behaved really just like a dog, and delighted being pet under the belly. Jenny calls her Tamtam.
In the sheds, were the most amazing sheep that I could think of. They had soft, curly, shiny wool in all tones, from white to black and beige and brown, and long, twisted, gorgeous horns of all shapes. They were curious and sweet, and had nothing of the uninterested, stupid and nervous attitude of the regular sheep. Actually, they were, in their attitude and looks, much more goat than sheep like. One of them came to the door to greet us. An aura of peace and intelligence surrounded him. He smelled me, and I marveled at his shiny, bright, curly, white wool. For a moment I felt like I was standing in front of the fairy tale's Prince, transformed into a sheep by the mean witch.
Then Jenny arrived to greet us. She was young, pretty, lively, and had the most shiny and good eyes that one can think of, albeit certainly with a strike of great sadness in them. She showed us the animals, and one could see how much love and thought she gives and has for them. She talked about the pig's tail. Tam tam's tail is not cut as normally is the case for farm pigs, and it is about 20 centimeters long. Jenny explained how the state of the tail (relaxed or curled up) shows the pig's state of mind (relaxed or stressed or excited), very much like for most animals actually, said she. "Always watch for the tail", she said, if you want to know if your farm animal is happy.
Then we took off to the fields to plant the trees, Jenny pushing all sorts of small trees (noisetiers, pruniers, sapin, and others) in her wheelbarrow, sheep following us at a distance, dogs and pig running all around. Tamtam was curious of everything, and coming when called her name, just like a dog would.
Four of us at the job, it did not take long, and soon we were done. Jenny told us about the pond in the field, in which one can fish carp (which is very good if one soaks it in lemon, she said) and in which Austrian but not the French swim in the summer ("l'eau n'est pas assez claire pour se baigner", say the French).
On the way back to the farm, Jenny told us about her plans for the crop fields. She wants to split the field back into smaller lots again, with hedges, and grow oats, buckwheat, spelt, and I do not remember what next. The field is hilly, so she will have to figure out what grows better on which part of it.
We went to the house, and sat down on the German-style table benches in the kitchen (I love this design: have the kitchen table stand in a corner of the room, and the two walls in front of it be lined by wood benches topped with cushions, with chairs for the other table edges). Jenny prepared tea, and treated us with the apple crumble which she had promised (and which she for me made gluten-free, with buckwheat flour and hazelnut powder - the outcome is to die for). Her kitchen was full of nice practical and decorative objects, and had an incredibly warm and cozy feeling.
A catalog of bio vegetable and crops seeds lay on the table, and Jenny started to speak about them. She said that they are great but too expansive to buy in large enough amounts to cultivate. (as Peter said, "well then you just have to bulk your own."). She added that they are now becoming illegal to cultivate, because the government, talked into it by the big companies, is rendering illegal to sell seeds which are not patented (or something evil like that).
Patenting is just one of the many actions of big companies towards the monopole of seeds, such as selling hybrids which produce infertile seeds. Therefore little farmers cannot sell and propagate their seeds and new breeds. This is a disaster for diversity and ecology, and the future of human's ability to grow food. Because diversity is one of the best natural answers for diseases and environmental difficulties, whereas technology (that is, for me, a punctual, rapid and extreme change inflicted to an organism -such as extreme selection, or a transgenic-, or to its environment -such as extreme cultivation, or high levels of chemical products) is bound to be an eternal unfulfilled quest. Because organisms are not machines which parts can be changed. Rather they can only change meaningfully as wholes, and slowly. Nature simply doesn't like extremes. If you pull on the blanket too hard, it will pull back hard in the other direction. Just like a spouse, on a cold winter night.
Jenny then spoke about how the diet of an animal will affect the way it looks over just a few generations. "Yes, she said, I read an article about it recently, they find now that what you experience can change your DNA". I said that I think that it's probably more that what you experience can change your epigenetic markings - and the point is that these markings probably matter more than the DNA itself. Jenny continued by explaining that most farmed animals today, especially cows I guess, because they are given too rich diets (with grains, fermented hay, and over-enriched pastures, which are too sweet and too poor in fibers), have constant diarrhea, so they can't get to actually ruminate their food, because the food goes through the digestive system faster than necessary for the re-digestion of rumination. This permanent upsetting of their digestive system induces nutrient deficiencies. This in turn renders them unable to grow nice horns. "Feed your animals with their natural diet, and over just a few generations, you will see these long and beautiful horns emerge again." (Curiously, an animal which can grow horns being, Jenny taught me, also a ruminant.)
Jenny, Peter and Julie then discussed at length various questions concerning growing vegetables. Jenny impressed us all by the breadth of her knowledge, and the passion that she puts into it. Thinking back about it, she really had the passion of a scientist. Her farm being her laboratory.
Then the tea was drunk, and Jenny had to go take care of the animals, and we left.
Since I arrived at their place, Peter and Julie have mentioned a few times this woman's tragic and amazing story. German, she was married to a French-English man. The two had also traveled through France to look for a place to settle, but in a little caravan trailed by two donkeys, with their sheep following them. Eventually, they settled on this place; about 20 hectares, a gorgeous farm, and a huge pond (which Julie calls a lake). They settled and started their project, which is to raise rare breeds of sheep (I gather). Thus the farm was called 'L'arche de Monterrand'.
But, one year after they settled, Jenny's husband got sick from cancer, and he died in a few months.
So Jenny suddenly not only had to deal with the grieve but also with being left alone with the farm. There are about 60 sheep, many goats, cows, dogs, cats, donkeys, one pig, and of course chickens. She decided to carry on, while she thinks about whether she should carry on or not. How she manages to deal with all this is a total mystery for us.
In Jenny's yard, came to greet us three dogs, goats, and a lovely ginger haired pig. The pig behaved really just like a dog, and delighted being pet under the belly. Jenny calls her Tamtam.
In the sheds, were the most amazing sheep that I could think of. They had soft, curly, shiny wool in all tones, from white to black and beige and brown, and long, twisted, gorgeous horns of all shapes. They were curious and sweet, and had nothing of the uninterested, stupid and nervous attitude of the regular sheep. Actually, they were, in their attitude and looks, much more goat than sheep like. One of them came to the door to greet us. An aura of peace and intelligence surrounded him. He smelled me, and I marveled at his shiny, bright, curly, white wool. For a moment I felt like I was standing in front of the fairy tale's Prince, transformed into a sheep by the mean witch.
Then Jenny arrived to greet us. She was young, pretty, lively, and had the most shiny and good eyes that one can think of, albeit certainly with a strike of great sadness in them. She showed us the animals, and one could see how much love and thought she gives and has for them. She talked about the pig's tail. Tam tam's tail is not cut as normally is the case for farm pigs, and it is about 20 centimeters long. Jenny explained how the state of the tail (relaxed or curled up) shows the pig's state of mind (relaxed or stressed or excited), very much like for most animals actually, said she. "Always watch for the tail", she said, if you want to know if your farm animal is happy.
Then we took off to the fields to plant the trees, Jenny pushing all sorts of small trees (noisetiers, pruniers, sapin, and others) in her wheelbarrow, sheep following us at a distance, dogs and pig running all around. Tamtam was curious of everything, and coming when called her name, just like a dog would.
Four of us at the job, it did not take long, and soon we were done. Jenny told us about the pond in the field, in which one can fish carp (which is very good if one soaks it in lemon, she said) and in which Austrian but not the French swim in the summer ("l'eau n'est pas assez claire pour se baigner", say the French).
On the way back to the farm, Jenny told us about her plans for the crop fields. She wants to split the field back into smaller lots again, with hedges, and grow oats, buckwheat, spelt, and I do not remember what next. The field is hilly, so she will have to figure out what grows better on which part of it.
We went to the house, and sat down on the German-style table benches in the kitchen (I love this design: have the kitchen table stand in a corner of the room, and the two walls in front of it be lined by wood benches topped with cushions, with chairs for the other table edges). Jenny prepared tea, and treated us with the apple crumble which she had promised (and which she for me made gluten-free, with buckwheat flour and hazelnut powder - the outcome is to die for). Her kitchen was full of nice practical and decorative objects, and had an incredibly warm and cozy feeling.
A catalog of bio vegetable and crops seeds lay on the table, and Jenny started to speak about them. She said that they are great but too expansive to buy in large enough amounts to cultivate. (as Peter said, "well then you just have to bulk your own."). She added that they are now becoming illegal to cultivate, because the government, talked into it by the big companies, is rendering illegal to sell seeds which are not patented (or something evil like that).
Patenting is just one of the many actions of big companies towards the monopole of seeds, such as selling hybrids which produce infertile seeds. Therefore little farmers cannot sell and propagate their seeds and new breeds. This is a disaster for diversity and ecology, and the future of human's ability to grow food. Because diversity is one of the best natural answers for diseases and environmental difficulties, whereas technology (that is, for me, a punctual, rapid and extreme change inflicted to an organism -such as extreme selection, or a transgenic-, or to its environment -such as extreme cultivation, or high levels of chemical products) is bound to be an eternal unfulfilled quest. Because organisms are not machines which parts can be changed. Rather they can only change meaningfully as wholes, and slowly. Nature simply doesn't like extremes. If you pull on the blanket too hard, it will pull back hard in the other direction. Just like a spouse, on a cold winter night.
Jenny then spoke about how the diet of an animal will affect the way it looks over just a few generations. "Yes, she said, I read an article about it recently, they find now that what you experience can change your DNA". I said that I think that it's probably more that what you experience can change your epigenetic markings - and the point is that these markings probably matter more than the DNA itself. Jenny continued by explaining that most farmed animals today, especially cows I guess, because they are given too rich diets (with grains, fermented hay, and over-enriched pastures, which are too sweet and too poor in fibers), have constant diarrhea, so they can't get to actually ruminate their food, because the food goes through the digestive system faster than necessary for the re-digestion of rumination. This permanent upsetting of their digestive system induces nutrient deficiencies. This in turn renders them unable to grow nice horns. "Feed your animals with their natural diet, and over just a few generations, you will see these long and beautiful horns emerge again." (Curiously, an animal which can grow horns being, Jenny taught me, also a ruminant.)
Jenny, Peter and Julie then discussed at length various questions concerning growing vegetables. Jenny impressed us all by the breadth of her knowledge, and the passion that she puts into it. Thinking back about it, she really had the passion of a scientist. Her farm being her laboratory.
Then the tea was drunk, and Jenny had to go take care of the animals, and we left.
Cats
The cats here are numerous and fascinating for someone interested in heredity. About two years ago, Peter and Julie found two abandoned kittens. They were smaller than the palm of their hand and, they were identical ginger twin sisters. They adopted them and fed them. The two cats grew and a few months later they unexpectedly became pregnant, and they both gave birth, one month apart from each other. The surprise, when the second litter came out, was it was the same as the first one! The two twin mothers therefore must have mated with the same male...
Each litter had two ginger, one tabby, and one tortoiseshell. One of them also had a fifth kitten, a pink one. Thus the kittens of the second litter were named according to the name that had been already their corresponding cousins; there is Pretty Boy and Little Pretty Boy (who was given away), Thomas and Little Thomas, Monkey and Little Monkey, Tabby and Emily (Emily breaks the rule and is not named Little Tabby, because she squints, thus was named according to a wwooferin who was here at the time, and who said that she also squinted as a child), and the pink cat is Pinky or Mister Pink.
The corresponding cousins are very but not exactly similar physically (less so than would be identical twins). Peter claims that also they are not only more similar physically but also in their character, such as in their propensity to lick or bite or wanting to be pet. What a wonderful case study for the heredity of character!
I am told that when outside, the cats chase and eat mice. I know them however mostly as either begging to come inside, or sleeping on the couch in a tight bunch of up to five (I don't know why, but a greater number than five doesn't seem to work; when a sixth comes in, one of the already present five is kicked out - or leaves) or jumping on tables and counters to scavenge for some bit of food, at the risk of being thrown out - which risk is actually quite low with Peter, who is a total softy with the cats, and with all the animals in general I guess). The two mothers, which probably had a period of starvation as kittens, are the worse scavengers. But the kids did inherit the habit at least partially. These cats wish that they could eat just about constantly.
When the goats are milked, the cats are given the first few draws of milk which are taken separately as they are more likely to contain bacteria. The cats know this very well, and for some reason are totally crazy about this milk (much more so than the cat food they otherwise get), and as soon as they see someone leave the house with the milking buckets, they start standing by the house door as one whole crying and begging pack. When the person later comes back and leaves the house with the milk for the cats (watered down, and distributed in the 'cats house', where is the old bread oven), the cats go totally wild. Seeing them in such a state, you could imagine, as Julie says, that they would just eat you, if they would find you dead.
Warmth
Yesterday afternoon Bernard and Carina, the Austrian neighbors, came over to bring some of their cows' milk, and they sat down for a cup of tea. Obligatory discussion about the weather and keeping warm ensued. The discussion was reflective of one of Peter and Julie's most important and yet unsolved concern: how to get warm water from burning wood?
Already on my first night here, while in the car with Peter, waiting for Chris to pick us up with their bus, a large part of the conversation revolved around that topic. In UK, he told me (and also in Austria, according to Bernard and Carina), it is pretty normal for people with wood stoves to also have that stove connected to a water boiler and tank (or something - the mechanics of it are still a bit mysterious to me). In this way one can provide heated water to use, but also to heat the rest of the house.
But in France, even though people have always kept warm with wood, such water heating devices are just impossible to find, and everyone warms their water with electricity! (I know a woman in Normandy who has such a system in her house. I asked her where she got it from, and she told me that she designed it herself, and had forced her plumber, or charmed him into, building it for her.)
Peter and Julie tried to get one shipped from the UK, but they could not find a provider who would do it. So the issue is still unsolved.
It seems that at all times people have made (or not made, perhaps rather) silly decisions concerning how to best keep warm. In the old house here, the floor is made of huge stones directly in contact with the ground. It is beautiful, but incredibly damp and cold. Perhaps this is not so much of a problem in the summer, which I was told is very hot here, but definitely the situation is unbearable for the winter (and I cannot see how people in the past could have made it, else than by having the floor covered with many layers of furred skins, which it seems would not have been the most hygienic way, either). But modern times do not necessarily do better: in the new ("modern") house (actually made of part of the old barn converted into a kitchen and a bedroom), the walls are made of cement. And it turns out that cement does not breath, keeping the moisture trapped inside, and a feast for molds.
As I write, I look at the cats sleeping and purring on the couch next to me. They spend most of their days sleeping, either all curled up on top of each other, or next to the stove. These ones certainly know how to keep warm.
La Creuse
It's been snowing for three days. A few inches of wet snow lay on the ground, everything is white. It's very pretty, and it feels pretty normal to me, but apparently it doesn't for the people here. Jenny says she has enough of it.
They say that it will start to get warm (about 15 degrees during the day!) in about two weeks. That sounds incredible to me. So, that's it with the Winter? Where has it been?
With this weather we haven't been going to the wood. Rather, last week for two days we cleared the incredible mess in one room of the house to renovate. Peter has hundreds of talents, but certainly not that of keeping everything tidy. But, thank god, they do not have so much stuff, and the large stone-floored room and its huge chimney is now completely empty. Ready to see new life come in.
There are so many things that I wish to tell, that I would need to spend most of my days writing. Everything is so fascinating.
I should first mention that Chris and Claire are now gone, their two-week stay was over. They are now heading south and their next farm stop will be around Toulouse, I think.
The other day a neighbor came to buy some eggs. I laughed very much, because she wanted "four eggs", and it reminded me of this joke from Coluche, where the tiny old lady in her tiny car asks for "Two fingers of oil and a thimble of gas, please", to which the big, fat, hairy pump attendant answers, puzzled, "And in the tires, I fart?" (Peter thought that of course this had to be a French joke). Anyway, she is a retired French woman, and she and Julie plan to go take walks together and to exchange their French and English skills. Julie was all excited that she has "a friend". She offered her tea and we sat down at the table and chatted for a bit.
I asked her about her relationship to the region. She grew up in the suburbs of Paris, and was introduced to La Creuse through her husband, whose family was here. So they bought a country house in a village, and they spent their summers in it for twenty years. All was fine, until they retired and came to live here permanently. Then, the neighbors started to make their life miserable, apparently mostly because they were jealous of their having the nicest house of the village and of not working anymore, even though they had not reached retirement age. Then, when this woman's husband died, nobody in the village talked to her, for the two years that she stayed there until she moved to another house - where she now is, not far from here.
She talked about the region, and explained something which I found quite interesting. She said that the Creuse 40 years ago indeed was quite an inhospitable place, and that she hated it then. Everything was gray, dead and depressive looking. The people were very close-minded and fearful of strangers - strangers being all people not coming from the same village. But since then, it has changed very much, this being, according to this woman, thanks to all the foreigners who have come to live here, who planted flowers and organized all sorts of cultural activities. Indeed, the cultural life seems to be vibrant in the region. The local newspaper is a collection of all the environmental, business and cultural initiatives of all sorts being born and developed by all sorts of individuals. To my amazement, there is even a local English newspaper! In the classified section of the last issue, there were four entries. One of them was a man asking if someone was willing to teach him how to play the guitar.
Julie started reading a book that Chris left for them, 'The Discovery of France: A Historical Geography from the Revolution to the First World War', by Graham Robb. The guy cycled through the country and then spent four years researching the history. Julie has been delighting her reading, reading passages to us out loud. We have been struck by the descriptions of daily life in the countryside, which was apparently incredibly miserable even in the late 19th century (I don't know which region he talked about), so much so that people didn't complain that life was too short but rather that it was too long (with a life expectancy of about 40 years). Also, peasants were not allowed to hunt, as hunting was reserved to the gentry. So after the Revolution and the dismantlement of this ban, the countryside became one big huge firework, peasants having a blast at killing everything they suddenly could...
They say that it will start to get warm (about 15 degrees during the day!) in about two weeks. That sounds incredible to me. So, that's it with the Winter? Where has it been?
With this weather we haven't been going to the wood. Rather, last week for two days we cleared the incredible mess in one room of the house to renovate. Peter has hundreds of talents, but certainly not that of keeping everything tidy. But, thank god, they do not have so much stuff, and the large stone-floored room and its huge chimney is now completely empty. Ready to see new life come in.
There are so many things that I wish to tell, that I would need to spend most of my days writing. Everything is so fascinating.
I should first mention that Chris and Claire are now gone, their two-week stay was over. They are now heading south and their next farm stop will be around Toulouse, I think.
The other day a neighbor came to buy some eggs. I laughed very much, because she wanted "four eggs", and it reminded me of this joke from Coluche, where the tiny old lady in her tiny car asks for "Two fingers of oil and a thimble of gas, please", to which the big, fat, hairy pump attendant answers, puzzled, "And in the tires, I fart?" (Peter thought that of course this had to be a French joke). Anyway, she is a retired French woman, and she and Julie plan to go take walks together and to exchange their French and English skills. Julie was all excited that she has "a friend". She offered her tea and we sat down at the table and chatted for a bit.
I asked her about her relationship to the region. She grew up in the suburbs of Paris, and was introduced to La Creuse through her husband, whose family was here. So they bought a country house in a village, and they spent their summers in it for twenty years. All was fine, until they retired and came to live here permanently. Then, the neighbors started to make their life miserable, apparently mostly because they were jealous of their having the nicest house of the village and of not working anymore, even though they had not reached retirement age. Then, when this woman's husband died, nobody in the village talked to her, for the two years that she stayed there until she moved to another house - where she now is, not far from here.
She talked about the region, and explained something which I found quite interesting. She said that the Creuse 40 years ago indeed was quite an inhospitable place, and that she hated it then. Everything was gray, dead and depressive looking. The people were very close-minded and fearful of strangers - strangers being all people not coming from the same village. But since then, it has changed very much, this being, according to this woman, thanks to all the foreigners who have come to live here, who planted flowers and organized all sorts of cultural activities. Indeed, the cultural life seems to be vibrant in the region. The local newspaper is a collection of all the environmental, business and cultural initiatives of all sorts being born and developed by all sorts of individuals. To my amazement, there is even a local English newspaper! In the classified section of the last issue, there were four entries. One of them was a man asking if someone was willing to teach him how to play the guitar.
Julie started reading a book that Chris left for them, 'The Discovery of France: A Historical Geography from the Revolution to the First World War', by Graham Robb. The guy cycled through the country and then spent four years researching the history. Julie has been delighting her reading, reading passages to us out loud. We have been struck by the descriptions of daily life in the countryside, which was apparently incredibly miserable even in the late 19th century (I don't know which region he talked about), so much so that people didn't complain that life was too short but rather that it was too long (with a life expectancy of about 40 years). Also, peasants were not allowed to hunt, as hunting was reserved to the gentry. So after the Revolution and the dismantlement of this ban, the countryside became one big huge firework, peasants having a blast at killing everything they suddenly could...
Saturday, 13 February 2010
Cooking for Pets
Do you want to make dry food for your pets yourself? Here is Peter's recipe, tried out and tasted by himself this morning:
Mill equal amounts of oat, wheat, barley and maize. Add some eggs and lamb lard for the dogs, and pieces of lamb which you do not eat yourself for the cats (in this case, lots of lung). Add water and knead the mixture into a thick dough. Spread the dough on a cooking pan, and use a flat instrument (in this case, a thin piece of wood) to mark the surface into squares of appropriate size for the pet (about 2 centimeters wide for the cats, about four for the dogs). Bake in the oven until it's about dry. Take it out, let it cool down on a cooling rack, then brake the pieces apart. Store in a cool place in a plastic bag. It will keep for a few days.
How much of it to feed to your animal? Well, think of it in terms of weight, not volume. You should feed about the same weight of it as you would otherwise with the dry food which you buy - be aware that this one of your making will be much denser!
Your pets will love it!
(I think I am not so good at conveying irony. This is actually meant to be funny...)
Mill equal amounts of oat, wheat, barley and maize. Add some eggs and lamb lard for the dogs, and pieces of lamb which you do not eat yourself for the cats (in this case, lots of lung). Add water and knead the mixture into a thick dough. Spread the dough on a cooking pan, and use a flat instrument (in this case, a thin piece of wood) to mark the surface into squares of appropriate size for the pet (about 2 centimeters wide for the cats, about four for the dogs). Bake in the oven until it's about dry. Take it out, let it cool down on a cooling rack, then brake the pieces apart. Store in a cool place in a plastic bag. It will keep for a few days.
How much of it to feed to your animal? Well, think of it in terms of weight, not volume. You should feed about the same weight of it as you would otherwise with the dry food which you buy - be aware that this one of your making will be much denser!
Your pets will love it!
(I think I am not so good at conveying irony. This is actually meant to be funny...)
Thursday, 11 February 2010
Sawdust
Tonight while cooking I made the mistake of leaving the olive oil bottle on the window sill. Mistake, because the cats go there to reach the cat trap on the window behind. Thus, while we were eating one of the cats got up there and made the bottle fall down on the floor. As that happened, the cap fell off from the bottle, and oil spilled on the floor. I asked what I could do to take care of it, but Peter said "Oh just leave it, now we eat, we'll take care of it afterward".
But it turned out that the remaining cats preceded us; they came and licked the olive oil on the floor. These cats will eat just anything. (Julie thinks that if they died, the cats would eat them.) We thought of bringing in all the other eight cats to finish the job.
After supper Peter went to get sawdust outside, and spread it over the oil. Then he told me, "Look, they are eating the sawdust!". The cats thought the olive-oil dipped sawdust was just a delicacy. I ask him if this is really something to recommended for the cats. He tells me that yes of course, there is nothing wrong with eating wood.
So Peter is on his knees, admiring the cats eating the olive-oil tainted sawdust, and he shouts to Julie who is in the other room: "Julie! Look at this, they eat the sawdust!". Julie from the other room answers, "Oh, don't let them do that!" (imagine the Scottish accent here, I don't know how to write it). So Peter says to the cat "Alright, stop it now! Julie says you can't. Come on, stop!" (imagine the British accent here).
(As I write, one of the dogs has happily discovered the stain of olive oil on the carpet, and licks it up frenetically).
But it turned out that the remaining cats preceded us; they came and licked the olive oil on the floor. These cats will eat just anything. (Julie thinks that if they died, the cats would eat them.) We thought of bringing in all the other eight cats to finish the job.
After supper Peter went to get sawdust outside, and spread it over the oil. Then he told me, "Look, they are eating the sawdust!". The cats thought the olive-oil dipped sawdust was just a delicacy. I ask him if this is really something to recommended for the cats. He tells me that yes of course, there is nothing wrong with eating wood.
So Peter is on his knees, admiring the cats eating the olive-oil tainted sawdust, and he shouts to Julie who is in the other room: "Julie! Look at this, they eat the sawdust!". Julie from the other room answers, "Oh, don't let them do that!" (imagine the Scottish accent here, I don't know how to write it). So Peter says to the cat "Alright, stop it now! Julie says you can't. Come on, stop!" (imagine the British accent here).
(As I write, one of the dogs has happily discovered the stain of olive oil on the carpet, and licks it up frenetically).
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Hedges
This morning we walked to Carina and Bernard, friends of Peter and Julie. They are from Austria. They hated so much the oppressive culture and government of their country that they very much wanted to leave. To raise money for the move, they thought of everything, including playing at 'Who wants to be a millionaire'. So they trained for the game very seriously, and ended up being very good at it. They passed the initial interviews, and were tried for the game. But it turned out, that they were not able to press the buttons fast enough. So they didn't get to play the game. In the end, they managed to move by selling their house in Austria.
We got to their farm by passing through the fields and the woods behind the house. There were traces of an old path, lined with oak trees and stone walls. Julie said that anciently the path was used by kids to walk to school.
After not long, we arrived to the hamlet where stands the farm of Carina and Bernard. It is a house with blue shutters, and a new wooden hangar. Another house lies next to it, in which lives an old man - and this is actually the old man I wrote about earlier, who needs help to put his socks on every morning, and Bernard is the guy who helps him.
After a little while of the dog barking, came out a handsome blue-eyed black haired young looking man. This is Bernard. He is in his forties and he looks young, but one can see from his hands how much he has worked.
Bernard shows us the farm - the gorgeous big hangar which roof he has redone with thick beams; the cows, the calf which was born two days ago, the garden. The calves will be sold for their meat. Bernard complains that in France butchers will not buy them if their meat is not absolutely white - which one achieves by keeping the calves in the dark and preventing them from eating hay. So Bernard lets the calves get out from the cowshed in the evening, and then they can spring all around.
Then Claire and Chris bought cheese from them, and Bernard talked with them about the trip that they are starting. He and Carina also did this before settling on this place. He told Chris and Claire, "Oh, it will be interesting, you will see". Chris asked him why they chose the Creuse in the end. Bernard answered, "because this region is the most beautiful", and when Chris asked why, Bernard replied without thinking, "Oh, because of the hedges. You will see."
Hedges are a topic which comes back often. This region is special in that industrial farming did not reach it, I guess because the soil is not very rich, and because of the hills. So the hedges which traditionally separated small pieces of land, less than one hectare each, have been kept. Peter explained to me how they were traditionally made, by splitting the tree trunks and waving the split trunk parts horizontally and digging them into the ground, so that the crossing and intertwined branches would become completely impenetrable by the animals. In the winter, the hedges are trimmed down, but in the summer they become wildly growing bushes, where all sorts of plants and animals can live. The hedges bring a flavor of wild into the farming landscape, visual and environmental richness to the ecosystem. I guess, they are also good to prevent erosion (especially in this hilly region?).
Some people still know how to make them and go about the world offering their services, said Peter. But today very few people know this skill and few are willing to pay for it, and I would guess that few are even aware of the worth of hedges.
Since no modern fence can beat the hedges in impenetrability, one must instead use electric wires. But electric wired fences break down easily, and are not naturally self-maintained, nor do they provide the richness of habitat that hedges do.
Then we said goodbye and left.
Sunday, 7 February 2010
Sunday
Today I went for a walk. A six hour-long walk, through La Cellette, down to Genouillac (yes, Genouillac is the name!), then east above the Petite Creuse river to the Abbaye de Prebenoit, and then back up.
Through the six hours, I met a few cars, a bunch of deers, some birds, and a man leaning on his window sill, old rock French music pouring out onto the deserted-Sunday Genouillac. I saw some abandoned farms, some farms converted into summer houses, and farms and barns repaired with pieces of cardboard and plastic, plastic tarps and tires and crap scattered all over outside.
It was a bit sad. I don't think I have walked through the most lively part of the Creuse. True, as Peter says, the fields are very well-kept, and no trash is to be found on the sides of the roads, contrary to what I have seen in Brittany, and unlike what one sees in UK says Peter (UK versus France according to Peter is another topic which I should eventually get into). But all in all, this was not a very uplifting atmosphere, and the overcast sky probably did not help. So at the end I was quite happy to come back home to my cheerful hosts and their (somewhat) warm kitchen.
But the walk was interesting nevertheless. At some point I thought that it felt as if I had traveled back in time. For a moment I thought that I could get an idea of what it must have felt like, before the last century, to walk in the countryside, with nothing around you but silence, fields, some cows and animals sometimes, and a small farm once in a while. None of the noise and stink of the machinery of today.
But it seemed that I also got the feeling of what it would have been like to live in such a place without any real possibility of getting out of it - neither physically, nor mentally. With no trains, no car, no movies, no internet, no telephone. So I thought about my mother and of how she had wanted to escape the agricultural life of her parents as hell. I had been thinking that it's perhaps more the unhappiness of her household that she had wanted to escape, rather than the actual farm work and life. Walking in this deserted and unhappy part of the Creuse, suddenly I felt like I could perhaps better understand her and the millions of people who like her had escaped rural life for the supposedly better life and jobs of the city. I wondered, is it really the hardness of the life and work, rather than this impossibility of meeting new people and ideas, that people had run away from?
Thursday, 4 February 2010
Lumberjack
This morning Peter told me, "Ok so the plan for today is, we get a good breakfast, and go in the wood for the day. We are going to be lumberjacks. But you are one already, aren't you, all Canadians are." I looked at him quizzically. "Of course, he said, haven't you seen the Monty Python scene, where a Canadian sings 'I am lumberjack'?" And then Peter started dancing and singing 'I am lumberjack and I am ok, I sleep all night and I work all day". It was quite a laugh.
So we got the good breakfast and then Peter got ready gathering his tools and stuff and Julie prepared food to bring, and then four of us left in the car and Peter on his tractor.
The wood is actually about 15 km away from here. They wished they could have found a farm with a wood attached, but that was nowhere to be found. And that wood is the only one they could find. Peter says that it is quite a nice wood, which has been nicely coppiced for a few hundred years.
On the way, Julie stopped in a tool shop to get a chainsaw back from sharpening (the chainsaw must be resharpened after two days of work, and Peter still has to learn how to do it as well as the tool shop does). I got in with her out of curiosity.
What a place. A man with a big twisted mustache which I had only seen in movies before. The whole place tidily covered with old tools and things and full of history. In the back, another man. Standing straight, wearing a blue jumper, incredibly handsome (and, a nice butt, says Julie), with sharp blue eyes and charcoal black hair. He was sweet to help Julie with her French. She told him that they have a bio farm, but "only a small one". "Of course, he said, it's much harder to do large scale with bio". (That thought struck me. I am not sure why. Of course, it's obvious. But it just seemed so obvious for him, in a way which struck me.)
We then passed by a few very cute villages. In front of a gendarmerie (police station), Julie pointed out how sweet and funny it is, that all the gendarmeries around here have lace curtains at their windows. I tried to imagine who put the lace curtains up, and who actually decided to put them up. Julie said that perhaps they had a cook, who also took care of the curtains.
So then we got to the wood. It has many different kinds of hard wood trees. Chestnut, willow, a few big oak ones, and others which name I can't remember, because the English names tell me nothing. We filled up the trailer with some fire wood that had already been cut (taken from medium sized trees which you cut at the base, generating shoots which you can cut for fire a dozen(?) years later).
Then we took apart a big one which Peter had cut to make beams for the house to renovate. I discovered the usage of the billhook, which I just love. The shape and lightness gives you so much freedom, it is an exhilarating feeling. But the clean cut of the axe is something to enjoy as well. As of the chainsaw. Well. If I didn't fear cutting up all my toes and my neighbor's arm all at once, perhaps I would enjoy the efficiency gained with the stink and noise. But perhaps after a few days of taking trees down with a handsaw, I would change my mind.
There are some things in life where technology (and modern energy sources) is really worth. I think that taking trees down is one of them (but oh please, blowing leaves isn't!). There is still plenty of man power needed to clean, split, carry and stack the logs. I admire Peter and Julie for being so balanced in the way they seek to build a way of life that's meaningful to them. They wish this life to be in main part ecological, not for the idea of it, but simply because they enjoy it. That really requires thinking and doing things with your heart, I think, rather than with your head. I think that this is probably the main thing I will learn from them; how to enjoy life, as much as possible in agreement with my values.
(Alright, as I write Peter gives me a full wine glass of gin macerated with black prunes, it's totally wonderful and I fear that on my empty stomach I will not reach the end of this blog before the end of the glass).
Then we had lunch (gazpacho soup), warmed up on Julie's fire. Then we brought big pieces back down to the trailer, using a rope and wood-stick device, so that you can drag the big piece behind you (I find this device so clever). Then Peter trailed the 50 cm thick pieces with the tractor. He was bouncing recklessly like a child between the logs and the tractor. Looking at him I thought, god, this man his really having a blast. Really like a child. How great.
And then we got back home. Peter really loaded the trailer. I feared the tires wouldn't keep up with it and I thought what a pain it would be, to get a flat tire on the road, and then needing to unload the trailer to change the tire, and then to load it up again. Nevertheless he went through thick sticky mud like butter, to Claire and my amazement.
But, guess what. Did my anxiety bring down a bad spell on him? Peter came back without the trailer. It got a flat tire on the way.
So, as of the numbers: in one day (i.e. not much more than four not so intense hours of work, interspersed with tea, and lunch time), the five of us, with two chainsaws and billhooks and axes and saws, made almost one 2mx1.6x1.6 pile of firewood. Peter said you need five of those to heat the house for one year. Wow, that's really not so bad!! In a few days of work, you can keep yourself warm for a full year. But, ok, that's also here a quite clement weather. Today again, beginning of February, I worked wearing mostly only a thin sweater. And often I thought of how Canada is fully covered with snow now. It really makes life very different.
***
On the way back, in the car with Julie, we stopped at a shop in a village to get rice and wine. In the shop, there were two men and a woman. One of these men had a tennis-ball sized ball in his neck, and that was quite horrible. Anyway, the woman, Julie later told us, is called here 'Evelyne de la Poste', because she lives in the house above what used to be a post office (before they closed down the post office and replaced it with a mailbox). And, Evelyn de la Poste is known for usually having one of many different men sleeping at her place. Whether she does it for money is unknown (but personally I think that if that is so, then she must have some really unusual abilities). Anyhow, Peter and Julie bought their car from her. And when they bought it, they thought they would try to see how many men turn their head, when they see the car pass by.
***
This morning before taking off I was introduced to goat milking. How sweet they are these goats. They always want to chew off pieces of your clothes. They always want to see what the hell you are doing. To jump on any piece of thing they can. They are just so sweet. With their strange horizontal pupils. Their high heels on which they stand so gracefully. And these ones have beige irises. I need to take pictures of these eyes. If I can get them to stop moving (which, for milking you get by giving them food, so they stay quiet while they eat). (Ok, the plum-gin glass is finished, the room is spinning a bit).
I like the way they milk their goats. They don't kill the babies, but rather they share the mother's milk with them. When I was once on a dairy farm, I thought that killing the babies to get all the milk for yourself felt way too much like a Matrix-like exploitation thing. But here they keep the babies. And eventually eat them. Don't ask me why, but somehow that way feels less like exploitation.
As of goat milking... I still have to learn. Although the lady this morning must have been happy with how much food she got today with me.
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
La Forge, Creuse
So. I arrived yesterday evening at La Fermette de La Forge. I took the train from Paris to Châteauroux, then a bus to Ste-Severe-sur-Indres - which needed reservation at least three hours in advance... In the train station in Paris, waiting for the platform number of my train to show up on the announcement board, among the neatly-black-and-grey dressed Parisians busily going here and there, a feeling that the travel had started reached my heart. Feeling of freedom, of so many opportunities ahead, of being on the verge of experiencing all these new things and landscapes and people. My mild to sometimes severe anxiety, whilst preparing for the travel for the past month, had given way to pure excitement.
At Châteauroux, I stepped in the bus and said to the driver "I am going to Ste-Severe". The bus driver replied, "Me as well".
It was night and deserted and complete silence in Ste-Severe, except for the food-and-flower shop lady closing up the shop, while an old lady in a house in front was throwing out some dish-washing water on the street, meanwhile entertaining conversation with the shop-lady. I asked the shop lady if I could buy one cigarette from her. She gave me four, for free, apologizing they being menthol. She inquired about my lift not coming, asking if I needed a phone. I said I should be fine. The old lady worried for me as well and said "well, if it's arranged, it's arranged". And then she and the old lady left in a van, into the silent night.
My lift came. A man came out of the car and quickly shook my hand and said simply 'I am Peter'. He then busily worked on something under the hood of his car, apparently worried and stressed. Something was not working with the battery, so that it was not recharging. He feared that we would not be able to reach home before the battery's death. But we gave it a try, and he brought me to the village center; he wanted to show me this old full-wood market awning, which one can see in the old Tatie's movie 'Jour de Fête', which had been filmed in Ste-Severe, and which Peter had recommended that I watch before I come.
But the battery wasn't keeping up, so Peter took out his cell phone and asked his wife if the other wwoofer couple here could come and pick us up. After a while, the "bus" arrived, with the wwoofer couple and Julie, Peter's wife, inside.
We stepped into the bus. It was really like a little house in there. There was a wood stove, cooking spoons hanging on the ceiling and menacing to fall down on our heads any minute, a bed in the back, thick purple curtains all around, and embroidered cloths on benches. The bus was in his living-mode, not traveling, explained the wwooferin. The wwoofers' dog lying at my feet, off we took, the five of us bouncing on the small country road.
**
I got to see the surroundings of La Forge only this morning, as I woke up in my caravan at cockcrow, with the view on the green plains and the sun shining through the leave less trees. The surroundings are simply absolutely gorgeous.
Here are ten pretty young and constantly purring cats (because the two which they had at first unexpectedly gave birth to eight before they got to neuter them), two huge and sweet black dogs, and -but them, for food- sheep, goats, chickens, ducks, and geese.
The host couple is from Scotland. Three years ago they set out for an eight months travel through France, with the caravan in which I now sleep, on search for a piece of land to buy. They settled on this one here two years ago (for about 60 k euros). The place had been uninhabited since 1983. There is a derelict house, with no water or electricity, which roof however had been replaced a few years ago, saving the house from collapse; a 'modern' two-room cottage in which they live while they renovate the house; one hectare of pasture, and two hectares of forest.
There is a also big huge and nice barn right in front of the house, but it belongs to the sister of the woman who sold the farm and land, and this sister will not let go of her barn, although she doesn't use it. (Peter said that there is quite of a "country" mentality here, in that farmers will never let go of things, even if they don't use them. He gave me the example of this old man nearby who is too old to put his socks on - so that a friend comes to visit twice a day, only to help him put his socks on. This old man has a huge pile of hay in his barn, which he doesn't do anything with - that he can't put socks on I guess explains why. So Peter asked him if he could buy some hay from him. But the old man never agreed, and always replied "No, it might always serve for something".) A few times a year the sister comes by to 'check' on her barn. She walks around, tears in her eyes, reminiscing her childhood in this farm, and the memories of her father doing this and that in the kitchen. She refused to come in and see the inside of the house, so moved she was. But apparently, everyone in the neighborhood says she is crazy. Julie says that the sister who sold is completely different; young Parisian, she came here walking in the mud with high-heels.
The goal of this couple is to live as self-sustainably as possible, with respect to food and energy. When they need some money, Peter said, they can sell wood, with a much more profitable work/revenue ratio than if they sold food.
The two are extremely warm, friendly and cheerful people. They love to explain and discuss all sorts of things. Julie is very peaceful and down to earth. She speaks English with an accent that sounds Russian to me - I love it. When we were in the bus yesterday, Peter worried about his broken-down car which would require so much time to get fixed (which made him say later "There is something to be said about horses", to which Claire replied "but horses get sick too", Peter replying in turn "But you can shoot them and eat them"). And Julie said, "Well, that's just the way it is".
Food: is here a whole topic in itself. These people live and work in order to get very good food for themselves (and, for my enjoyment, the wwoofers). Outside from wheat, rice, spices, coffee and tea, butter and cheese, they produce and preserve everything else (all sorts of vegetables, white beans, potatoes, meat from lamb and the birds I guess, eggs, goat milk, some fruits and nuts, herbs), and have the goal to eventually not buy any food (which would mean, to stop drinking tea! Oh no! I don't know if that's a sacrifice any UK person could go through...). All the meals I had so far (vegetable soups and stews, lamb burgers and potatoes) were terrific.
They have been doing this for two years; making their food and renovating, not working more than four hours a day, and not on week-ends (outside from feeding the animals). Knowing this I wondered how come people with big farms work their ass off long days, if they could survive with their land with much less work. I guess that most people do not even realize that they could, or would not feel able to learn everything one needs to know to do it. And probably that many really do wish to have big farms. I guess there is also the problem that people haven't yet bought the land that they live on. Hm.
The two other wwoofers staying here in their 'bus', Chris and Claire, are from Ireland. Claire is extremely gentle and I generally cannot understand much of what she says - I can't even tell what her accent looks like. Chris I understand better, and is also a sweet man who reminds me of the French actor Bourvil (these accent mysteries will be later explained: Julie has the Scottish accent, Claire Irish, and Peter and Chris British).
They did "commercial archaeology" for a living before, and are probably in their forties now. They got sick of doing archaeology for the sake of building supermarkets, so they quit and now travel through France to see if they would like and be able to live the self-sustained life. They do it in France, Claire told me, because they like the culture and know the language, and because they couldn't afford to buy land in Ireland, and because anyway the weather is too miserable there, says Claire, for any sensible person to wish to live this kind of life there.
Today as we shoveled goat shit and hay for our four hours of work, Chris found a pair of scissors, and the couple dated it to the late nineties of 'plastic age', considering the depth of the shit layer in which it had been found. As we worked, the sun shone, and it was warm enough for wearing just a sweater. Julie put music out for us (Canadian music it turned out, which they were so disappointed that I do not know). It felt just like the beginning of a romantic back-to-land movie - before the difficulties to overcome emerge.
**
This afternoon I went for a walk around. Green pastures, trees, some farms. Warm sun slowly setting over the lovely hills. I met four or five cars. What a treat - to walk and to not hear cars, without needing to hide in deep forest!
On my way back I asked a woman busy doing something on the side of her house, if the path I was looking for was indeed around there. From her and the conflicting contribution of her man, ensued the longest and most complicated and non-understandable way explanation and discussion I had ever heard - but oh, how kind and concerned.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Paris
Here I am in Paris. I am about to go work on bio farms registered in the Wwoof organization (http://www.wwoof.org/). (There is also Helpx http://www.helpx.net/ which might be useful). These farms, in principle, give you room and board and some teaching, in exchange of five days of work per week day. The idea is to encourage teaching and exchange in the world of bio farming.
I wish to keep a blog during the travel, which would serve as notes for myself, and would potentially be interesting to others.
The first stop will be in the Creuse, in the very center of France, with a Scottish couple who tries to live self-sustainably with respect to food and energy. After this, I will see. I do not have a plan.
It was funny to hear the reactions of my family, in Paris, when I told them that I am going in the Creuse. They would either laugh, or ask me where it is. The main city of the Department is Guéret. And yes, who has ever heard of Guéret?
Why I chose to start with this place, I am not sure. I think that I was compelled by the Scottish's description of the Creuse as being one of the wildest region of France, untouched by industrialized farming and tourism.
"Wild"? When I looked at the images of the area on Google Maps, I saw only fields and pastures. That, as a Canadian, does not sound very wild to me...
I wish to keep a blog during the travel, which would serve as notes for myself, and would potentially be interesting to others.
The first stop will be in the Creuse, in the very center of France, with a Scottish couple who tries to live self-sustainably with respect to food and energy. After this, I will see. I do not have a plan.
It was funny to hear the reactions of my family, in Paris, when I told them that I am going in the Creuse. They would either laugh, or ask me where it is. The main city of the Department is Guéret. And yes, who has ever heard of Guéret?
Why I chose to start with this place, I am not sure. I think that I was compelled by the Scottish's description of the Creuse as being one of the wildest region of France, untouched by industrialized farming and tourism.
"Wild"? When I looked at the images of the area on Google Maps, I saw only fields and pastures. That, as a Canadian, does not sound very wild to me...
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