Birthday walk

We nearly didn't as the sky was uniform grey and rain approaching. But we did - quite a long one directly from the house and no car involved. Think I am going to start a series of 'deep topography' walks taking in the landscape surrounding our house and town. There is always so much to discover, appreciate and re-appreciate just in the familiar territory.
Today, I was drawn to look closely at lichen - what weird and wonderful stuff - the wikipedia definition:
A lichen is a composite organism that arises from algae or cyanobacteria living among filaments of multiple fungi species in a mutualistic relationship.




Also on the walk we nearly tripped over a large oblong slab of stone with names and dates engraved within the fissured granite surface. I vaguely recalled someone telling me years ago that there was such a thing on top of the hill crest from Limoux to the next village but I couldn't recall more than. that.
We were enlightened a little later by an elderly man driving on the back road to Limoux who stopped to admire the hounds. Apart from obviously being impressed that we had done the longish circuit he asked whether we had seen the stone slab - dedication to Jean de Brunhoff's great grandmother, (he being the author of Baba the Elephant). Ah . . . that's what it was . . .



We arrived back in Limoux just in time to witness the Arago Carnaval group's very, very strange 'theme' - each group present on the morning of their 'sorti' a mini theatre production of a few minutes - something usually political or something referring to local happenings; occasionally cultural, almost always bawdy with lots of sexual references, fake breasts/backsides, fresh fish, leeks, nuns' habits, men dressed as prostitutes . . . etc.
This particular theme with live Star Wars soundtrack played by the carnaval musicians (mostly brass and percussion) involved the unearthing of some sort of space ship? out of which appeared a very small and curvy woman with nowt on her top half except a few strings of beads, a masked man and the dummy of a baby . . . err. I asked various people if they had a clue to which they said, "beh . . . non."
Anyway, it seemed to go down well and everyone disappeared into cafés to drink pastis. We went home to make lunch and celebrate the rest of Mark's birthday and drink tea.

        

Traditions

It's that time of year again when our small town becomes a drift of confetti every Saturday and Sunday. From January for three months the Carnaval is king - the longest carnaval in the world but nothing like Rio . . . forget the sequinned/ flesh-revealing women and thudding rhythm, this is somewhat different: satin costumes, an actually rather elegant dance (when performed correctly) and live music, featuring brass of all sorts - trumpets, sousaphones, trombones, etc and bass drum/snare.



As 'étrangers (foreigners) we did both managed to infiltrate a group and stayed with them for eight years, practising, painting scenery, working out the theme for the morning 'slot' and eating/drinking way too much on the weekend of our 'Sorti' - performance.
After we left a few years back due to other time commitments, I rather forgot the goings on in the town square, occasionally nipping down to see what new costume might have been decided on, or quaffing a quick blanquette and having confetti stuffed down my neck - as is the tradition.
Yesterday, although it was raining and viley cold, we went down to see what the 'Las Femnas' (women-only group) had come up with costume-wise - not overly exciting, a sort of tulle, grey/pink affair and a lot tamer than their usual cash-splurge outfits but it was a great atmosphere. We got confettied, were invited to squeeze plastic breasts - carnaval features a lot of these, and always the men who wear them - and whapped with fish and leeks. Ah, just like old times.

                         

                                          Le pont Neuf with neon carnaval mask

Carnaval du monde

Limoux is known mainly for it's sparkling wine - Blanquette, and Carnaval: three months of it. People tend to love it or hate it - us, the former. In fact we were in it for quite a few years.
I've now hung up my purple and orange satin costume and only occasionally remember to go into the square to watch the various groups. I still love it, but happy now just to observe.
About five years ago The Marie decided to add in a day showcasing other carnaval troupes from around the world, followed by a day of 'Toutes les bandes' - all the Limoux groups on one day.
Spectacular, except on this particular Sunday it rained keeping most people away, apart from hardened Carnaval enthusiasts. The groups from elsewhere were spared the precipitation, but it was bloody freezing and we all sympathised with the Samba girls dressed in little more than feathers, glitter and fixed smiles.

Preceding the frozen dancers were a troupe of lovely Italian men juggling with flags and dressed in far more sensible clothing for early March. Love the tights.

My favourite troupe were from Catalonia: two men pushing black wheely boxes with flame-like fabric billowing from them; a princess in a giant condom, a man with stuffed bats on stilts (man, not bats) a giant inflatable goat head, and a dragon with someone perched on top, waving like the queen.
Fantastic, especially when the dragon keepers steamed into the crowd with manic expressions - not quite as manic as the fire-wheelers. I must go to some more carnaval events in Catalonia and see what else they might bring out.

Being on the planet

For the first time in eight years I am not part of the Carnaval in Limoux.
I quit my band 'Les Droles' last year as I could see the year was going to be busy. I was there, as Mark was, when the band formed and we always felt honoured to be in it as 'etrangers'. I think we might have been the first English folks or possibly any nationality other than French to be in one of the Carnaval groups of Limoux.
I've just been down to the town to witness a couple of 'tours'. How did I feel? Misplaced? regretful? Not really, more of a witnesser than usual though, but the connection was still there. I was humming the tunes, doing the dance internally; pleased to be covered liberally in confetti and even more pleased to be told that the band missed me.
The Carnaval of Limoux really is for the people of the town. Tourists come and go; people new to the town go religiously every weekend for a year or so, and an occasional TV crew turn up to film the proceedings for an end slot on the national news. But it's the locals who are there, year in year out, whether they are part of a band or not.
On my walk home I started thinking about roots - our connection to the planet. I can imagine living here for the rest of our lives, but possibly elsewhere too. The sea is always a temptation . . .
Where are my roots? I've moved so many times it's difficult to say now. I have great affection for London, where I was born, but to live there now . . . think I'd miss the hills and open space too much, despite the plethora of galleries, theatres, and other wonderful distractions.
I've lived here longer than anywhere else now. The house is too full of stuff, the garden too full of our hours of work to contemplate leaving. So are these now our roots? I wonder when Ezra leaves to go and do whatever he eventually chooses, will he look on this town as his home town, having spent his childhood here, despite being English by parentage.
I can't imagine a life of being in the same place always, but it must be comforting in many ways to feel you utterly belong somewhere; not needing so see new horizons - January = Carnaval. All the traditions and rituals held in place, same as last year and the year before; the same as it was in childhood, same in the parents' childhoods, back in time, generations of Limouxines.
I can remember when Mark and I were sitting in the Grand Café about ten years ago, having recently moved in. I said, "Can you imagine living here forever?" His reply . . . "God no . . . " Ten years on we are happily established here and the thought of moving on seems unlikely. Life seems to go like that: what's the phrase in Dark Side of the Moon . . . ten years have got behind you . . .