Looking over the edge of the nest

It's like watching swallows trying out their wings: launching, bit wobbly, oops, return to the watchful eye of the parent bird, then try again: a little bolder, a little more confidence and then they're off . . .
We've been watching our son trying out his various wings for some time, drumming in a band being the real debut of detachment although he was, and still is happy to return to the comforts - food, familiarity, dogs, etc, and hopefully, us.
Come the autumn, it'll be for real. Him on his own in a flat in a city (luckily not too far away). We've were graced with an extra year of him to-ing and fro-ing as he undertook a foundation art year in our local town, and thus I/we feel a little more prepared for the . . . departure.

                                         


I've talked to several friends about this phase of life with mixed responses from: 'A year on, I still go and sit on his bed and sob, occasionally, to: what a bloody relief . . .
I hope I won't be doing the former and I certainly won't be feeling the latter; hopefully an emotionally healthy point in between with probably the odd pang of worry . . .
Going to look at art colleges with him has brought back many memories of my own forays out from the family nest in Muswell Hill. I think I did all of them on my own as Mother wouldn't have had the luxury of time to accompany me, being on her own and working full time. I do vaguely recall staggering around Exeter with a huge falling-apart portfolio of my stuff and hating the interview. Luckily the one at Farnham was good and I was accepted onto the film and photography course there. Why I mention this is because I never thought at the time, (being young and over-excited about my new life in my halls of residence eight-square meter abode) about what my mother was going though - only child leaving home after a very close relationship of seventeen-odd years.
I have a clear image of waving her off after lugging my wardrobe-sized Wharfedale speakers up to the flat - 'Bye Mum, see you . . . sometime, soonish'. She might have gone and howled in a lay-by, or driven back home and downed a few pints in the local (unlikely) or maybe she managed to control it all, got on with her life and half-listened for the phone, without realising, the flat now so much quieter.
I never asked her how it was for her. Maybe I will on my next visit back although her mind is fairly unlikely to recall much now being mostly on its own planet elsewhere.
Maybe it takes the same thing happening to us to fully appreciate the emotions connected with this detachment. I don't suppose our son will think too much about it, as it should be, but I hope the years we have spent together will leave him with a residual desire to come back and take up his place in the family once in a fairly often while.



Checking out the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Nimes; one of the three colleges applied for.

Soundscape

Our personal one here in The Hothouse at the moment is the emerging summer sounds of nightingales, who also sing throughout the daylight hours, the next door's cockerel - clearly not on the correct timer - who calls throughout the late morning, their goat, various parrots, the donkey-birds (see post last summer, swallows and various chorusing frogs.
This small green one, hidden in the pampas grass was making an electronic beeping noise. It emerged onto the terrace - much to the cat's interest, and I picked it up to have a closer look.
Isn't nature a totally incredible thing? That colour, the eyes, the toes. It just sat there calmly while we stared at it, amazed that such a tropical-looking creature had appeared in our European garden.

Oh not them again

Our friend Jonathan, super-birder, bird watcher, bird specialist - not sure what he would like it termed as - rolls his eyes at the mention of these birds. Every year around this time the Nightingales return to fill our nights with liquid song and a lot of the day too. Every year I am entranced by the sounds. J finds them too invasive: it's true the other songsters are a little drowned out, but it is a magical set of ornithological lyrics.
These early spring days are marked by bird call. After the all night serenade, the blackbirds take over at about 6.00 am, then a general madness until the sun starts peeping over the parasol pine tree. Mostly silence for a while, then the swallows start up, dipping and swooping, their wheezing cries filling the air.
Sitting here writing now, I can hear blue tits, sparrows, possibly a distant thrush and yes, at least one pair of nightingales outdoing everyone else.
Here's a picture courtesy of google images (sorry, not sure who's it is) as I failed to get a good picture of one of these birds. Despite their sparkling song, the plumage is a palette of cream and brown, not wonderful mauves, deep iridescent sea green and vibrant orange as I always like to imagine. They blend into the matted twigs and branches of the hillside behind the house, almost impossible to see, only to hear.

Building number 22

On a favourite walk around a bit of Limoux known as St Antoine we came across this once-loved construction with it's rather jaunty harlequin tiles and ingenious water-recuperating pipe.
I'd like to ask the owners if they have any photos of the garden and shed before it all fell into disuse, but alas I think they may have also fallen into disuse. Sad - so many little abandoned gardens dotted about with their rotting benches and straggly, unpruned roses; places where people would have once spent a summer afternoon weeding, perhaps grilling something on a homemade BBQ while swallows swooped overhead and bees droned in the marigolds.

Sensible time

Summer's end, even though its still hovering around 30 in the shade. Insect bites fading, plants devoid of colour, static, waiting for water. Its been a good one, but now time to think about college, tax foncière and ordering and/or scavenging wood.
The in-tray has stuff lurking in it that should have been looked at and I have nagging feelings that someone is going to mention family arrangements at Christmas.


Swallows, warm evening air, cypress tree perfume, dogs motionless in shade, water — precious, peaches, last apricots (the king of fruit) 'till next year . . .