T. S. Eliot must have been visiting Correze when he wrote that April is the cruellest month. Visitors arrived, having left England in sunshine, only to find themselves under a heavy Manchester-type cloud blanket. At Easter, people in London were allegedly sitting in pavement cafes, swigging Chardonnay, while here the rain came down in whatever the French is for stair rods. We were told that there's a local tradition - a bit like
Ne'er cast a cloot till May is oot -that says if you can sit outside at Christmas, Easter will be rubbish (loosely translated). Which is only fair, let's face it. And as we were sitting out in full sun on Christmas Eve . . . need I say more?
On the other hand, the trees have transformed this blessing of rain into leaves of the richest greens, the hedgerows and meadows are filled with flowers . . .
. . . the grass is as high as an elephant's eye and somebody's got to mow it. . .
That'll be me then, he said, doffing his baseball cap and out he went, no hesitation. (A tip for any of you seeking a life partner: if you want to avoid too much effort, always try to team up with a workaholic - it makes for a much easier life.)But now it's May and the sun is hot.
Next post - how we weeded the Boule court and confused a cochon with swine flu. Don't miss it.
Posts
1 comment:
Yes, i was there and it was cold , the rain missled down,the wind blew and we stayed indoors and surveyed the view through the barn window with the log fire burning in the background and Cleo the cat curled up in front of it and refusing to budge.We had flown from Liverpool to find some sun in farthest France and what did we find? Rain, but somehow softer and gentler and more ready to give way to the warmth of the sun when the clouds parted. Oh well, we had travelled far and found beauty and space and tranquility but no sun, what else to do but join Cleo and refuse to budge from the warmth of the log fire! Sibling S.
Post a Comment