Landed . . .

So, after many, many weeks of packing, sorting, discarding, arguing about what should be discarded, huge stress, sadness, and much excitement . . . we arrived in our new abode. Each move time we say never again, and this time, yes, NEVER AGAIN.

It was a very odd feeling to leave our beautiful old maison de maitre and its incredible nature garden. Here is . . . not at all beautiful, (the little garden will be), but very quirky, and on a smaller scale, allowing some rest for older person's joints/ back etc.

Chaos of early unpacking

Settled in dog

Our first eve in the house - I managed to get the open fire going.

I write this sitting on a sort of landing with a floor level window through which one can observe cyclists, walkers and luckily very few cars; and beyond, the Loire, the ancient fertile river bed lands, and onto the dark, long humps of forest. 

There is masses to do: unpacking, decorating, and more serious and essential work such as re-wiring, re-doing the stucco, painting etc, but as our friend Justine said over a coffee this morning at the market. Don't stress, just look at the views and it'll all come together - or something like that. He's a good calming influence!

Good year for the roses - as Elvis sang (Costello)

It is in fact the most incredible year for roses as well as all other blossom - here certainly, and I hope where you are too.

The crumbling garage is blessed with a pale yellow tea rose which ambles slowly up its stonework, usually giving up with an almost audible sigh as May moves towards June. This year it is as showy as a Liberace rhinestone suit - blossom deeper in colour, almost golden with a faint scent of darjeeling. I've tried to capture its beauty on film but it's almost impossible - maybe just something to place in the memory drawer of the mind.

All flowers seem twice as big as usual. We must have had enough rain, no heavy frost and sufficient sunlight over the last couple of months. I'd love it to stay like this but glancing at the garden hoses while trying to locate a paintbrush this morning, I suspect we'll be in for another summer of heat and dryness.

Camper vans have started to emerge like angular, swaying white snails along the main route to Saumur, the Loire already at a late summer level. Business as usual while the climatologists rightly state for perhaps the 40th year or so that we are heading in a more than worrying direction.

 

H20 two

Following on from my last water-themed post.

I've always been totally drawn to getting in water. My childhood is highlighted by memories of visits to Southgate Baths in North London and our annual holidays at the Dorset coast where Mum and I would stand in utter awe at the glittering blue expanse before hurrying down the cliff path and plunging into the waves. But it's not just the obvious waters such as municipal pools and the sea, I only have to pass a reservoir, river or pond in the warmer months and the urge to immerse myself surfaces much to the eye-rolling of Ezra if we happen to be on a explorative road trip. 'Mum . . . really'?

         Local pond surrounded by keep out signs, which I ignored a few nights ago - great swim!

We were lucky enough to have inherited a pool with our previous house, a typical rectangle of turquoise which we and especially I used intensively from early May through to late October, and thus the urge to get into any available water was somewhat quashed for many years, although ocean visits still remained the top experiences. 

I assumed when moving to the Loire and seeing the vast placid expanse of blue water that I would be able to get in it but sadly it is not recommended/forbidden due to the mysterious currents. There is one area where the Vienne meets the Loire where it is possible but it's not near enough to be very useful. Last year I did find a pond in a forest not too far away but it's on a path frequented by marathon trainers which provokes all that embarrassment of peering about while balancing on one foot trying to get knickers on at speed before a team of lycra clad folk storm past.

This year in part due to the early and scary heat, I spent time seeking out other water possibilities and am contented to say I have found the perfect spot within cycling distance and or excuse to take dog slightly further afield. The Changeon river starts near Gizeux and doesn't pass through any industrial areas - it probably has its fair dose of unpleasant stuff sprayed onto the vines of the area but the fact that water lilies and dragonflies are very present makes it an attractive proposition at an air temperature of 38 degrees or so. I just looked it up on the map and the surrounding forest appears to be called: Le pont de paix intérieur - the bridge of internal peace. poetic! I've swum there about six times now and so far and its a marvellous, and indeed, peaceful, close to the day at about nine o'clock.

dog that shuns water... weird.

If we are evolved from fish life then I for one am certainly less evolved, happiest when feeling my limbs free and weightless when moving through water. 

                                  Not in the local river... idea of what we may have evolved from

New swimming place

For me, both swimming and walking almost always inspire writing ideas. Walking in our new region, no problem - loads of paths, quiet roads and woods. The swimming aspect is more problematic. I never anticipated buying a house with a pool but our last abode had one and over the years it provided masses of exercise, great pleasure, and general inspiration for my plot lines, characters etc. 

In our new house there is no pool, a small river, but not big enough to get into. The loire is reachable by bike but not advised swimming, the currents being very strong. So I've been on the look out for other wild bathing options. Of ponds noted on recent cold winter walks the one featured below has distinct possibilities.

Pond swimming is probably my favourite form. Possibly because of all the trips my mother and I made to the Hampstead ladies' pond in the 70s - a great green-brown pool of soft water to be shared with ducks and other women as they quietly breast-stroked their way around, hair covered by rubber, flower-decorated swimming caps. 

Places in the mind

The brain, as I have written many times on this blog, is the most extraordinary thing. As I sit here writing, I have a track by Unknown Mortal Orchestra playing in my head complete with the detailed bass line, his distinctive voice, crispy drum rolls and various guitar riffs that make up that song. It's not even one of my favourites but it turned up on my Spotify play list while driving yesterday and it's now well embedded, pushing out slightly the Detectorists theme tune which had taken up residence for several days. Actually the latter can stay; it's a beautiful song and I don't seem to tire of it, unlike Money Money Money which became a seriously unwanted lodger some years back due to Ezra having to learn it in his crap music lessons. 

Anyway, all that to underline how amazing the brain is, and my blog post was to talk/ramble on about the more visual aspects of memory, with regard to places on this maligned planet. I was on a dog walk yesterday with new friend, author Adrian Mathews and we were discussing our respective nostalgias for London, realising that we both held the fondest memories from the 70s version of London with all the stuff that went along with it - Routemaster buses, formica cafés, few chain shops, and many wonderful old landmarks now sadly crushed under a new sedimentary layer of London's history. Mind, if the current novel I'm writing has any truth in its wayward madness, London is still there both in our collective minds, in time, and in all its phases.

During this morning's walk, I considered the places that have meant much to me, or not even much but have just stayed prominent in colour, shape, sound and smell within my memories over the years. An assortment: 

Too many in London to state, but perhaps the ponds of Hampstead Heath, the small parks of Bloomsbury and the roads around St Leonard's church in Hackney where I have done so much wandering during Londonia research.

                                       Gower St at 5:am on one of my 'deep topography' wanderings

A particular rounded hill in Dorest called Wingreen. It has featured in many of my books, and it was just visible from the end of our road when we lived in Wimborne, its wedge of beech trees strangely comforting to me; a memory of many happy walks with Mum listening to the larks and scanning the distant landscape for a glimpse of our road back home.

Win Green - Dorset pictures.com

An elegant alley of oak trees also near Wimborne in an area called Pamphill, a short walk through which brings one to a perfect little brick pub named the Vine inn/ Probably my favourite pub ever, despite its restricted menu of cheese or ham sandwiches - or that's what was on offer last time. But actually, what could be better than a hearty cheese and pickle sandwich on white spongy bread and half a pint of something with a name like Rector's Leg, or similar. 

Canford Cliffs near Bournemouth: ah, the views of Old Harry rocks and the rolling grasslands of the Purbeck area; the sand, the sea and all the memories of arriving there late on a summer day when everyone else was going to their guest houses or homes; wading into a placid sea, lying back and staring up the the clouds.

More recently, many personal postcard views of Cerbère close to the Spanish border. Two in particular - on walking into the hinterland and looking back at the sea and the train lines while a mass of bees explored the almond blossom, and swimming late at night in the town's small harbour. 

And of Limoux, where we have just moved from. So many memories and mainly of places reached on favourite dog walks. Probably the one would be the point we always stopped on the 'runny fields' walk (where our greyhounds could run easily) and gazed over the vine-striped hillsides and steep hillsides above Alet les Bains.

                               The hills above our old house, an everyday and much loved, dog walk.

So, what poignant memories will be formed in this new-to-us area of France? Certainly the Loire itself - I must have stood for twenty minutes the other day just watching the water in the late afternoon sun. I can feel affection already for many sights and sounds here: the pale stone and slate buildings with their elegant details, the slightly fen-like distant views of tree-clumps and hedges, meadows and regimented striped fields, the late-summer swallows that still swoop and dip and the graceful herons traversing the skies as silent as gliders.