A Page in Time - My French Folly

Then (1902)

Now (2019)

Toute chose apparent à  qui sait en jour.

André Gide

Everything belongs to those who can appreciate it

André Gide

One of the greatest joys when in France is sharing a wine on our terrace with local friends while inhaling the ever-changing views. Time becomes insignificant. Often conversations cease as attentions naturally focus on the surrounding beauty.

Being built as the guard house for a medieval chateau, My French Folly is located on the highest point of the old village, overlooking the surrounding countryside and the higgly-piggly houses across a valley. 

Often it's the simplest things in life which touch our soul.

French Faux Pas - an excerpt from a transitory life in rural France

The French language and I have been antagonists since our first introduction. I vandalised the language - according to my Father and teachers, and the language tortured me. Despite the many long hours I spent trying to make friends with The Language of Love, it was not to be , until I hit my mid-life crisis and spontaneously bought a house in France off the internet , in a region where English is infrequently spoken or understood.

With the aid of the Alliance Française, a truce with cette langue was conceded toute de suite and I recommenced French lessons in 2011.

Now I hold the dubious honour of taking the longest time of any Alliance Française student in Melbourne (or perhaps the world) to successfully complete Beginners Level French.  And it's not for lack of trying - it's just that my efforts have been sporadic and the hearing in my left ear has prematurely ceased.

There are words I can understand and spell, but not pronounce. Then there’re words I can pronounce and verbs I can conjugate, but fail to be able to put them into coherent sentences, unless I have preplanned and rehearsed what I want to say.  A killer for spontaneous conversation.  However, the greatest language mistakes I’ve made are with false friends – French words that look and sound like English words, but have a very different meaning.

A further barrier to my communication is the spit-fire speed at which the French speak and the plethora of silent letters that can make a sentence sound like one, very long, indistinguishable word. My comprehension, when it exists, lags at least few paragraphs behind the conversation making me look like a village idiot: my facial expression is blank as the flight or fight mechanism musters the energy needed to decipher what I'm hearing.  Definitely not a time to multitask.

Our first foray into a hardware store (un bricomarche) was met with puzzled looks when I asked the carefully rehearsed question "Est-que vous avez des planchers de chien s'il vous plait?"  Have you (floor) boards (made) of dog please? “Ahhh chêne – oui, oui “ was the relieved response of the shop assistant when I produced the piece of paper on which I had correctly written my question.

Excité(e) is a French word that I can pronounce clearly and confidently. In the past I’ve told quite a few French people (including officials) that I was très excitée to be in France, only to get a reaction which ranged from a smirk to a look of indignation. With such responses, a prudent person would have referred to their dictionary. Not me. 

It was the retort of our close French friend, Guillame, that finally goaded me into checking the translation of excitée. Unfortunately it remained in my oral French vocabulary for years 

One July morning, after a 6 am start in order to make as much possible progress with our renovating before the expected 40⁰ C heat arrived, a trip to the le bricomarché and le supermarché were necessary. As I was leaving My French Folly, clutching a shopping list, Guillame (artisan extraordinaire) appeared - just in time to advise me on what type and brand of wood preservative I should buy.

"Bonjour Guillame " I exclaimed, before kissing him on each cheek, “Je suis 

très excitée parce que tu es arrivé et je vais faire les courses . Quel préservatif, je dois acheter s'il vous plaît ?”

Loosely translated I said "Hello Guillame, I am sexually aroused because you had arrived and I'm going shopping. What type of condom do I need to buy please?"  

Note to self: excité = sexual excitement or arousal (not thrilled or excited); un préservatif = condom; chêne is not pronounced chien.

Adieu Printemps - Weekend Reflections

We've just received photos of our French garden from our dear neighbours who keep a watchful eye over My French Folly. According to their report................

Spring is about to bid us farewell as the sun stretches high into the sky.

The promise of new life has been delivered.

Fledglings dessert their nests.

The breeze plants a warm kiss in the shadows

 Now, the sweetness of the air barely lingers.

Leaves discard their verdant, juvenile greens for more mature hues.

Nature's rhythms continue to invoke feelings of wonder and security.

Printemps  by Victor Hugo

Voici donc les longs jours, lumière, amour, délire!  


Voici le printemps ! mars, avril au doux sourire,  

Mai fleuri, juin brûlant, tous les beaux mois amis!  

Les peupliers, au bord des fleuves endormis,  


Se courbent mollement comme de grandes palmes;  

L’oiseau palpite au fond des bois tièdes et calmes;  

Il semble que tout rit, et que les arbres verts  

Sont joyeux d’être ensemble et se disent des vers.  


Le jour naît couronné d’une aube fraîche et tendre;  


Le soir est plein d’amour ; la nuit, on croit entendre,  

À travers l’ombre immense et sous le ciel béni,  

Quelque chose d’heureux chanter dans l’infini.

Springtime by Victor Hugo

Here are the long days, light, love, delirium!


This is the Spring! March, April with a sweet smile,


May flowery, June blazing, all the beautiful friendly months! 


The poplars, asleep by the riverside,


Bow gently like great palms
.

The bird quivers at the far end of the calm, tepid woods
.

It seems that everything laughs, and that the green trees


Are joyful to be together and say verses to each other.


The day comes crowned with a fresh and tender dawn.

The evening is full of love, the night, one can almost hear


Through the immense shadow and under the sacred sky,


Something happy singing in the infinity.

Recording: Monique Palomares  

English Translation: Lisa Yannucci 

Linking to Outdoor Wednesday

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Words fail me.

The recent events in Manchester are numbing.
Words fail. 

Efforts of comfort appear incredibly hollow.

Change, like sunshine, can be a friend or a foe, a blessing or a curse, a dawn or a dusk. William Arthur Ward

There are 2 early birds in flight across this dawn sky. France 2016

Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark. Rabindranath Tagore

Wild poppies growing amongst the remains of Roman built baths in north eastern France. France 2016

A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times. Alfred Lord Tennyson

Participating in Black and White Weekend

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Just around the corner - there's a fork in the road.

"…..sometimes, when you take a great risk, life rewards you ten-fold" Heather Robinson

Champagne-Ardenne, France

Have you ever been at a fork in the road on life's journey and not known which path to take? One seems comfortable or familiar, the other foreign - perhaps challenging or fraught with difficulties; real or perceived. Which path do you tend to take? Which path is the better option? Dale Carnegie would emphatically state that "it's the road less travelled". But maybe the answer is "it depends": it depends on your "age or stage" in life, especially when  health issues are involved. 

Despite the path chosen, there should be no regrets. Continue to dream big, ask the seemingly unanswerable questions, add to your bucket list, and review the course you've taken. There is no escaping the fact that life is risky and will present us all with challenges. It is the degree of these challenges and risks and how we respond to them that sets us apart. 

As for me, I'm standing at the fork in my road..................procrastinating!

Linking with Black and White Weekends.

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Joyeuses Pâques

The  familiar, rich tones of church bells,blanketing our village and scattering into the surrounding fields and forests, are absent today. It's disorientating as their recurring presence signposts every quarter hour of my life in France. However, come Easter Sunday, their comforting chimes will be restored once more.  

People respond when you tell them there is a great future in front of you, you can leave your past behind. Joel Osteen

The significance and traditions of this time of year very greatly around the world, but what cobbles them together, is an atmosphere of gratitude and renewal.

For me personally, it is a time to give thanks as well as a time of love, hope, and rebirth. The traditions that I observe at this time of year, both religious and non religious, help to anchor my life. 

Passover affirms the great truth that liberty is the inalienable right of every human being. Morris Joseph

Joyeuses Pâques

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Autumn in France - a new experience

1 September. North-east France

From my bed, the morning sky is noticeably different – nature has removed the familiar, saturated hues from the sky. Dull, white and grey clouds fuse together to obliterate the insipid blue backdrop.  There’s a "nip in the air": a different coldness to that of a cool summer’s day. It appears that while I was sleeping, a deity has flicked the weather-switch from “l'été”  to “l'automne”. 

The hollow sounds of my foot steps on the stairs linger a little longer than usual as I descend the wooden 

spiral to commence my daily routine: open shutters; a cup of tea; bathroom rituals; boulangerie; a croissant and coffee on the terrace. 

But today I falter as the tatty, internal shutters of the sitting room are flung aside: familiar village roof tops are revealed, but strikingly with unfamiliar thin wisps of smoke hanging above their chimney stacks. No movement - just perfectly still. 

Something else is awry – the feathered acrobats that keep us entertained each morning and evening are missing. Squinting, I can just make out their motionless silhouettes across the valley – a row of small dots along the spine of the church roof. 

Opening the terrace door I investigate further: no familiar morning kiss from a timid dawn breeze.  The air is paralysed - devoid of any movement or sound; its chill has mingled with the herbaceous scents of damp foliage, proclaiming “summer’s over”.  I stand transfixed by the canvas before me. Such a dramatic change. So sudden. So unfamiliar. The motionless smoke continues to play statues. I stare, “perhaps I’ll catch it out?” I stare further.  No. 

Time stops. I feel at one with the world; utterly content; incredibly grateful.
..................my first autumn in France.

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Melbourne’s Autumn brings Back a French Summer

The start of autumn this week has seen the return of summer heat to Melbourne, with skies and light reminiscent of our summers in north-east France. A recent discussion during dinner had us recalling the first July we spent at our house in France - an unforgettable event.

Late July: our first French Summer

Plaster dust, spider webs – old and new, airborne grime generated by decades of neglect, and reconstituted glue from soggy pieces of wallpaper, manage to amalgamate with perspiration generated by the summer heat, to form a sticky coating on our skin.

Empty glasses and water bottles litter the deep, buckled windowsill. Actions are laboured, but spurred on by the limited time available to renovate this minuscule room – a task that appeared to be straight forward and quick, but is now proving otherwise.

There is no movement in the village. Lunchtime has extended into a siesta as patches of bitumen on the road start to resemble tacky molasses. Charlie and Kenzo, our neighbour’s cats, lie splayed in the cool under the lone conifer that stands like a sentinel to the cluster of houses in our ancient ruelle (lane).

Unexpectedly the faint sounds of plodding hooves pierce the silence, echoing as they rise from the street that sits in the valley below. Inquisitively I poke my head out of the second storey window while straddling its sill – a precarious move.  Nothing new in the landscape to report.

As the sounds grow louder, the shouting of children becomes faintly audible. Peering left through the breaks in the tree-tops, I get a brief glimpse of the scene below just before a parade of tired, hot bodies becomes fully visible.

A young boy, perhaps 10 or 11 years old, leads a pony on a slackened reign. Like his 2 friends trailing him, he’s abandoned his saddle. A fourth pony, head drooping and strapped into a cart harness, slowly edges into the picture.

The poor animal is pulling a tatty canvas covered wagon, reminiscent of those of the Wild West, albeit smaller and in proportion to the creature’s size. 

My pity for this equine slave soon gives way to warm amusement as the rear of the cart and source of the high pitched voices, come into view. Pushing the wooden structure up the road’s steep incline, and almost parallel to the ground themselves, are 2 small lads, shirtless and gasping for breath amidst their encouraging shouts to their hoofed companion up front..........The doors to my childhood memories are prised gently open.

My husband now joins me at the window.  “How stupid to be riding in this heat, but what a great adventure” I mutter. “Oh to be young again.” “ But we are young, and a touch foolish – look what we’re doing!” he chortles as he deposits a sticky kiss on my damp, grime-encrusted face......

Life alters quickly when one’s perspective changes!

One clean and painted room - small, but mighty significant
for us.