The joys of ownership

        

                                                                             

May 2022 be a happy new year to you all, my friends, wherever you are. May you stay safe, healthy and adventurous. May you all savour the wonders and surprises of life. May every day bring and give laughter and love. May you smile and give thanks even in the grey and cold of winter, if there is ever a winter where you live. 

In the light of what's happening in the world, what follows just feels so mundane to me right now. But here goes. 

After more than a year of silence, I now emerge from the hole where I was burrowing.  I like to think it means the sanitary situation will peter out into nothingness. Or is it simply the fact that home improvements sagas are not the stuff of thrilling reads? There are not so many exciting stories to tell in a year that was so stable I could cry.  This being said, if ever there was a time for growing roots and renovating, this is it...

I don't do introversion very well. Without the certainty I could be be roaming far and wide whenever I felt the urge (how spoilt we had become in the west), I pace within the confines of my mind and finding peace is not so easy even in the characterful stone house I purchased at the end of 2020. 

My new home met the need for a landing place in lockdown times, big enough to digest the cumbersome -but beautiful- carved Breton furniture inherited from my parents and to become a new family home in the sticks, where friends can visit, where my brother and sister, Thierry and Catherine, my nephews and cousins can gather and where I would long to welcome my daughter Gwendoline and her husband Jason if only the quarantine regulations were not so damn strict in Hongkong. They are planning to move to Australia, hooray! That will be me on a plane, ASAP. My house needed to be cheap - and it was - in a village with nice neighbours, not too far from shops, doctor, etc... - and it is - and in beautiful nature. And so it is, with garden and orchard, at the top of the plateau with views on the volcanoes of the Auvergne when the sky is clear - and it often is. 

Video : 'Don't go to the Lot!'

This 'department' (county), the Lot, where I have chosen to grow some roots is the 10th least populated out of a total of 95. It is beautiful, scenic, wild and veeeeeery quiet in winter. Friends who have known me a long time are only too aware I enjoy remote locations.

Enchanted by the lure of old stones, the Indiana Jones thrill of living just across from a 13th century church and Knight templar 'commanderie' and more sensitive to atmosphere than details, I got more than I bargained for. Thankfully, Phil's eagle eye spotted all that was crumbling and rotten and he spent the cold winter months (and some of the spring) sawing, painting, fixing, sanding, priming and grumbling about what was I thinking of when I bought this place? He has a point. 

When he couldn't ignore anymore the call of the sea and set off for his boat in Brittany, he had conjured with his magic wand a blue-shuttered little corner of paradise. He did manage to come back in September to fully enjoy the balmy heat and swim in the Celé river.

Aaaargh...

Harbingers of doom told me it was impossible to find available builders, all run off their feet in this area of castles, dovecotes and farmhouses teetering on the edge of dereliction. But, thankfully, I can read Tarot cards. Yes, it so happened that, at an esoteric workshop in a community café in Figeac, I met Stephane, a 'bio-electricien' very much into Feng Shui who was only too happy to take care at once of dodgy wiring and fittings of lamps and to share arcane conversation around lunchtime salads. A mason friend of his, Julien, was free to attend to an alarming fissure the size of a canyon scarring the basement wall, to fix the many leaks, to install missing gutters and replace the roof to the bread oven. He turned out to be a jovial and creative young man with a good sense for ancient buildings and traditional methods. When we discovered we shared the same birthday, we decided we were pals.

A young couple moved into the village at the same time as I did. Geoffrey is an enthusiastic mechanic so a minor god in my personal pantheon, all the more precious in an area without any public transport whatsoever. In exchange for the use of my barn for tinkering with ancient Peugeots, he repairs my 24 year old Clio. 

I didn't stay idle and trawled through second hand furniture online, all carried in (and on) my little Renault. I sanded and painted enough wood to lose the will to live, though it is, in actual fact, a drop in the DIY ocean. I made (very runny) dandelion flower jelly that tastes of honey and tried my hand at elderflower champagne. A bottle of the latter mixture, delicious but explosive, shattered in tiny shards with a loud bang inside the Breton furniture. I sowed, I planted, I weeded, I mowed, I carried stones to make borders and, for a few much needed pennies and until June when I called it quits, took care of an old lady with an Alzheimer advanced enough to require constant attention but not so advanced that she'd lost her sense of humour, thank God. A sweetie... still, half the year went by in time-consuming care.

Finally, I was ready to enjoy the sunshine and warmth of summer after one of the coldest winters in a few years and quite a few shivery moments in a house that hadn't been lived in for a while. Then, just when the fruit trees were in bloom, frost descended on the whole of France (and even a bit of Italy, or so I heard on the news). Miraculously, the village was not affected and we all had fruit coming out of our ears. The bounty required inventive processing. Cherry jam for future breakfasts with baguette and café, frozen cherries for future clafoutis and cherries in spirit (with herbs and spices) for future Forêt Noire concoctions. It was all starting to look up, with the house fulfilling its welcoming purpose and some of the visitors ( Thierry, Clément, Quentin, Catherine, Brigitte, Lutfi, Sonia, Jacky, Marie-Ange, Serge, Isabelle, Cécile and François) right on time to give a hand with the picking.

I never cease to marvel at the bounty of nature. Never before have I had an orchard or such a vast garden...

When mirabelles ripened, there were so many the branches broke at the trunk. I considered purchasing another freezer, begged tourists discovering the church across my terrace to come and 'pick some for yourselves, please', ran another jam marathon and gathered the last fallen ones for distillation into wonderfully fragrant rocket-fuel.

Mid October, I was offered free run of the figs in the garden next door (jam marathon n°3) and 'why don't you collect those walnuts on the ground, they'll go to waste'. 

To conclude this very satisfying (to me) domestic chapter, I stuffed the freezer with a mix of coriander, basil and parsley home-made pestos.

This is a village where good will prevails, where newcomers are welcome and people care. Friendly greetings, meals and aperitives are shared. You can't feel grotty without a kindly neighbour noticing your shutters are still closed at 10am. Brigitte did just that and visited with offerings of soup and compote. Her husband, Pierre, a retired shepherd, plays the harmonica and we're planning a few tunes for the fête de la musique in June. Their dog, a border collie who carries with pride the name of a brand of sausages, trots around the village in a daily circuit, begging to be petted by all. I've been invited for birthdays, cups of tea and games of scrabble by Linda and John, my English neighbours, who escaped Brexit by the skin of their teeth. 

In spite of visitors, of swinging in the hammock with a book, of lazy afternoons by the pool or the river in the valley, of laughters shared, of hikes through stunning landscapes and lavender fields, of afternoons throwing pots on the wheel in Figeac, of neighbours stopping by for a coffee, a chat, a beer, I do feel most alive when I am on the move.

Barbara and Ulysse tied the knot in Grenoble and I set off for the Alps through dramatic wet landscapes. They managed to select for the event the only rainy July weekend in living memory, the clouds so low one wondered where the mountains actually were. Nothing dampened our spirit and such shared joy and happiness are to be remembered.

I made my way to Brittany last summer and in December. In retrospect, I can't say I see much difference in the temperatures as Phil and I enjoyed Xmas lunch in the cockpit (though I wouldn't have gone for a swim on that day). We attempted a sail to Ouessant (Ushant) early August but there was a strong residual swell from previous high winds, we couldn't get into the baie de Lampaul and I was agonising below with seasickness there and back. This definitely has to be tried again on a more favourable (quiet) day. 

I settled again with pleasure into boat and harbour life in Camaret, about as far west as one can go in France, the yacht gently bobbing along the pontoons or at anchor. I walked the breathtaking cliff paths, swam to shore, rowed the dinghy and almost got carried off by currents, attended the book club at the library and had numerous cups of coffee with friends Ian and Emma and lunch with Marie-Catherine. 

There can be no comparison between last December and the miserable, drizzly, stormy, all-shades-of-grey winter 2 years ago when Xmas lights were shredded to bits. This time, we were blessed with pink evenings and cloudless skies. The sun was blinding and warm on the skin and it is the only time in my life when I was offered oysters on a hike. I had stopped to munch on some carrots and humous at a picnic spot that should be among the 100 best in the world. A group of local Bretons who had just collected 30 kilos of oysters on the shore, opened a few for me, poured chilled white wine and produced a huge box of pastries to finish off the meal in style. Now, walk that off... Puff whizz pant...

The best picnic spot...

It's now been a little bit over 2 years since I returned to France. Even though I sometimes feel there is so much less to discover and learn in a country, language, culture that are all too familiar, it is outweighed by a sense of great abundance and generosity. It is never so obvious as when one embarks on a camino route. 

The Vezelay camino

I set off at the end of September to shake off the last dregs of Covid-induced apathy and to regain a sense of unfettered freedom. After trudging 300 km from Bergerac to the Pyrenees, I was left with a deep feeling of solidarity and kindness and a heart bursting with joy. That French south west trail is poor in available accommodation all the more so for Covid regulations, keep your distance, etc... with only half the beds available. Hosts played pass the parcel with me, 'stay at my sister's', 'I'll call my friends'. Friendships blossomed, a lovely, talented potter with cats, a creative writing teacher with dog... 

I crossed many a vineyards,  Bergerac, Monbazillac, Saussignac, Entre-deux-mers and Bordeaux, a promise for cheerful evening meals but not great to shelter from blinding sun and pouring rain. 

Those gentle slopes made way for the Landes, once the poorest region of France, a flat, marshy, sandy landscape where shepherds used to wear stilts. It was planted with pines in the 19th century and is now the largest forest in western Europe. This is when other pilgrims started to come out of the woodwork. Literally. Where had they been hiding? Bread, cheese and life stories were shared and, ah, the luxury of midday coffee on the camping stove! Easy kilometres soon passed by among the rustling leaves. Sun followed rain and mushrooms popped in the undergrowth, some of them deliciously edible, though I certainly would not suggest these pretty ones here below... 

Then, one day,  a greyish blue jagged wall suddenly looms beyond modest hills.

The Pyrenees like to creep up on you like this, majestic, awe-inspiring and hard on the calf muscles. Beware of the 'patous', I was told. Those shepherd dogs big and strong enough to attack bears were down from the high pastures and aggressively  protective of their flocks. Hum... Time to make myself scarce and cross the border into Spain where my friend Idoia was waiting for me in San Sebastian. Beach time, many pinxos and potes (tapas and drinks) with friends who  chose to speak Spanish instead of Basque for my sake, bless them, so I can at least understand the gist of what was going on. 'La espuela', a last drink, followed by another espuela, such energetic, single-minded bar-crawl until late hours, joyful singing dissolving in the balmy evening air. 

                                                                                  

The joys of ownership do pale in comparison...

Grounded

 

This title is a sure sign this is not a travel blog anymore. I don't know what it is yet, but stay with it. You tell me.

Today, November 16th, as I am starting to write this, my father would have been a hundred years old. Armand died too young, a result of the combined hardships of war, of decades at sea in the merchant navy and of a lifelong yearning for cigarettes. A secretive man who talked a lot, he fascinated me with his travel stories of gauchos in the Pampa, of crocodiles in African rivers, of decks covered with ice in the Baltic sea, of the sun rising golden over Venice. Once he got married, he couldn't bear to be away from his wife and children, despaired he was ever going to see us again each time a storm hit. He quit sailing and wandering to take root in family life, relieved to watch the sea from the shore. He was gifted with instant memory and had in store theatre monologues, history anecdotes and witty, dry, cynical jokes, very handy during big gatherings, to steer conversations away from politics, all much safer around the table as he was the only socialist and atheist in a catholic and more conservative ocean of relatives. He was a humanist, an idealist, a member of the Ligue des droits de l'homme and, I learned only very recently, a Freemason. We, children, thought he was quite naughty. Upon the maternal interdiction to use swearwords in the house and her not being a linguist at all, he taught us a most rude selection in German, English and Dutch as well as a (very) dirty song in Breton, which we all repeated with gusto. I now get them but I am still in the dark about the Breton one, which, to this day, I don't dare sing in Brittany. He picked up foreign languages effortlessly and was fluent in many, some gathered during his travels and all solidly imprinted in the back drawers of his brain. We had a lot to share and I think he knew that, with me, his tales landed on fertile ground and that distant horizons would be compelling. 

Well, distant horizons will have to be postponed. Hell, I can't even get out of Figeac! I just look at the sunset through the window and dream. 

Grounded has two meanings. One is finding one's centre, growing new roots. It is an underground, lenghty process and its external manifestations are quite mundane. Nothing exciting seems to be happening at the surface. It all has to do with pushing tendrils into the ground, bypassing rocks, embracing other roots, garnering rain and sun, finding nutrients. The other, teenage-y meaning is being stuck home as a consequence of some external diktat. Both are not mutually exclusive and the first one can help tremendously with the second, a forced, reflective introversion. Yes, you got it. Lockdown n°2, necessary as it is and much more difficult to bear than the first one. Is it there to stay, this on/off way of life? Does one needs to get used to spanners in the works, in dreams, plans, livelihood, survival? 

Inward growing doesn't make for a very interesting blog but I am happy to report that this period is not completely devoid of events, some momentous, some less so. The inward trend culminates at the end of October as Covid cases shoot up in France at an alarming rate. Not so much here, in the Lot 'departement' (county) with its scattered population of hamlets, villages and small towns. We still have to be closeted, though, and it is altogether a rather demotivating time. Never has the future felt so blurred, hazy and unpredictable. There is both the thrill and the drain of a major question mark.

Le Lot

                

                                                                                                                              

Starting a new life, taking the time to create connections, pushing shoots into the ground....Growing new roots it is. My flat becomes less zen, with the addition of a bed, a desk, a table, some kitchen utensils and a hammock that hangs from the beams in the middle of the living room. I find a mattress at the market, a 5 minutes walk away, which the seller carries for me up the 3 flights of stairs. 

                                                            Idoia on my balcony

When Idoia visits at the beginning of August, we spend a couple of hours there, after the lively Saturday market. I plonk the table on the balcony, pour us an aperitive, fish out my guitar from its case and off we sing and laugh and drink. The neighbour from the 4th floor across the street pops her head out of the window like a jack in the box. "I wondered where the music was coming from ! Wonderful! There are many exceptional ladies on our street", she declares, enthused. We chat across the narrow gap. Cool and dark in the heat of summer, it is one cobbled alleyway that requires living on the upper floors if you want to see the sun. 

On the day I wrote this, it's like I called her : she appeared at the window in the evening, the first time since that first encounter. Marieke has lived in Figeac for fifty years and doesn't have one bit of a Dutch accent. 

For my old friend's much needed holiday, I have secured a caravan in a campground by the river in the valley of the Célé.  There is no better place to spend the heatwave. 

In the relative coolness of the morning, we trudge on little paths, the bubbling river at our side, though woods, fields and picture perfect villages. 

Corn has a babbling stream and overflows with flowers, St Sulpice is lined with troglodyte houses, the cliffs looming above, Marcilhac huddles around a ruined abbey and Espagnac-Ste Eulalie around a knight templar commanderie (HQ). 

                                                                St Sulpice

                                                                                   

We hitch-hike on the way back to the caravan. Every time we stand in a good spot with our thumbs up, I bet a cool beer that nobody will give us a lift for the next 15 minutes and every time I lose, to our merriment. The cicadas rattle steadily under the beating sun and there is comfort in knowing that we can paddle and splash in the river that flows just beneath the bank where we camp. We read, chat, eat local goat cheese with figs and honey under the willows. Bottles of the local red vanish like magic in our glasses. 

From our vantage point, we hear the shrieks of kiddies bobbing on their inflatables in the current, the yapping of excited dogs and the leisurely chats and laughter of adults. It is remarkable how quiet this busy campsite is. No loud radios, no shouty people, a good natured crowd, all of us under the spell of this little paradise. 

One other days, we are dragged north into the heat by a pottery market in St Céré and a bucolic walk in chestnut and oak forests. This region in the south west of France used to be called the Quercy, from the latin Quercus which means oak. You understand why when you walk through. (Map below)

St Céré

                                                                                                               

                                                                                                              

Jacky reopens his pilgrim hostel, la Mariotte in Montredon, and I help him clean, a tedious task that involves disinfecting all surfaces and struggling duvets into covers because of the damn virus. I much prefer cooking and sharing meals with the joyful crowds, loaded with the oxygen and the good spirit of the walk, happy to relax and tell tales and jokes around a table laden with delicious fare. 

Le Perdigal

Charlotte has moved with her friends to what will be their future commune, only a 30 minutes drive from Figeac. At le Perdigal, the land is vast with barns aplenty. The plan is for me to go and give a hand at times. So, here goes : I can manage the chickens. I am not a great success at milking the goats and I have as much authority on them as I did on teenage students during my thankfully brief stint in English state education. 

I can make goat cheese and it is magical how quickly it works. This year is a good one for plums. Apples and pears are ripe a month early. There is an old dear of a dog who plays with the ginger cat. The doors of the chicken-coop are salvaged from a 2CV. Hills and mountains stretch far under the thundery skies. The bread oven is still in use. This here is the land of plenty. 

And I find a home when I least expect it, which I manage to secure just before lockdown. It is located more or less plumb in the centre of this map, the heart of the Quercy, in a small village called Soulomes, 100 inhabitants and a village hall where people gather to dance and sing songs in Occitan, a language that survives by the skin of its teeth, not dissimilar to Catalan or Spanish. Soulomes is perched at the top of the high plateau and, on a clear day, you can see the volcanoes of the Auvergne in the distance. In Occitan, Soulomes means 'seul homme', 'only one man', because during the plague, that's who was left alive in the village. It does put things into perspective in these pandemic times. 

My future home is a sturdy stone house and barn, with central heating, two bathrooms, attic rooms, a garden and an orchard of manageable size, in front of a twelfth century church with bells ringing every hour (I might live to regret this) and a twelfth century knight templar HQ. I joke this is very Indiana Jones and maybe I will find a treasure when I dig my vegetable patch. I still have no idea how old the house is. It has been well converted but I hear one of the walls in the cellar belonged to the Knight Templar commanderie. When I see the solicitor for the final signature a week before Xmas, he will reveal the history of the house, owner after owner after owner after owner.... A cherry tree is planted in front of the south facing terrasse and the huge, high ceilinged main room, with walls of clear stone, has a fireplace large enough to sit inside the hearth, like people used to. It has been a happy family home, the owner told me. There will be ghosts.

Phil, who has his finger on the pulse of the times, urges me to move our belongings from his studio in the UK, before the lockdown he foresees will last well into the spring and before Brexit turns moving across borders into a headache. Queues of trucks needing to produce custom papers, overworked border staff and an altogether Monty Python situation, which this rigmarole has been since the beginning, since that ill-fated and ill-informed vote. Let's not go there.

So, spurred by a sense of urgency and by the possibility of storing boxes, art, tools and furniture in the garage of my future home, I rent a small truck and bravely does Phil drive north. It is heart-breaking for him to close his studio, the Covid situation making it impossible for him to travel there on a regular basis. While he jams things tight in every nook and cranny, lockdown starts in France and, the truck loaded up to the gills, he lumbers his way back from the wilds of Essex to the high plateau of the Quercy. Fortunately, removals are still allowed. It is one exhausting feat and it will take him a week to recover. 

Figeac is not just charming, it is a small town with a buzz, where solidarity is not just a word. It is rife with associations and a dynamic 'back to the roots' alternative crowd. 'La petite graine' is a convivial restaurant, almost completely run by volunteers. It is Samia's baby, nurtured with generosity. Once a week, on the vegetarian day (hurrah!), I go and peel mountains of vegetable. The kitchen is full of laughter and enticing smells, a place where all are welcome, whether they are migrants, youngsters with issues or retired ladies with big smiles. It's a big family where all lend a hand. In August, Samia invites us volunteers to a thank you meal out in the yard and produces a  delicious kind of pizza with fresh trouts from the river.    

The other day, I contributed to the preparation of 180 take-away paellas to help warding off the hideous  head of bankruptcy. Not only is the restaurant surviving lockdown closures but it still manages to donate meals to the homeless. There are unsung heroes worth singing about.

                                                    When it opened! (Image la dépêche.fr)

Just as I was writing this, the phone rang. Samia. She needs my help. Thoughts cross walls and distance. Like with Marieke, lockdown it might be but it is not devoid of synchronicity.

In August, while I am driving around to fetch internet bargains for my flat, I give a ride to a hitch-hiker. Arthur is waiting in the rain with his guitar. Sometimes, he plays at the 'Arrosoir' (the watering can), an associative café in the centre of Figeac, which he urges me to attend. I discover a social hub. On weekend evenings, musicians and a cheerful aperitif drinking crowd congregate in its stunning fifteenth century courtyard. Flamenco and jazz bands pass around the hat for coins and banknotes, couples dance on the street as a balmy night, soft as silk, descends on the old stones. Volunteers organise free theatre, choir, language groups. I attend a monthly tarot session. It gathers, as I thought it would, a bunch of quirky, creative and intuitive nutcases, their minds reaching into mysterious realms. This does feel like home. 

The courtyard at l'Arrosoir

On the rue Emile Zola, there is an association of potters where Serge, a patient soul with forty years of experience under his belt, revives my dormant and basic skills on the wheel. I am determined to throw my own bowls and plates for my new house. Oh the happiness of letting all thoughts drift away and be the earth that finally centres between my hands, magically. 

                                                                                                                    Studio 36 (La dépêche.fr)

                                                                          

This is all now closed. Friends can't be visited, paths can't be walked. It feels like having barely started to soar and suddenly crashing onto a bleak and solitary landscape.

Of course, neither does the town hall organise anymore the welcome drink and tour for newcomers in Figeac. Just before lockdown, I am lucky enough to be invited to one and I learn a sackload of factoids. In Roman times, a tribune, Figeus, built his villa on top of the hill where the church now stands. Figeus accum (Figeus's place), became Figeac. Where the market used to stand in the Middle Ages is where I still go on Saturday mornings to replenish my store of fruit and vegetable. This building I see every day is from the 12th century. Beams were inserted into the square holes still visible in its facade to support an awning above the wares on display. Those ogival arches led to a shop, as they still do. 

The 'soleilhos', the typical open air attics on top floors of town houses were stores for grain, chestnuts and walnuts. I live in such a converted attic. Walnuts were pressed to make lamp oil. I make vinaigrette with it.

                                                Soleilho at the top of this 13th century building

(Image tourisme-lot.com)

A lot of damage occurred during the 100 years war, mostly in-between fighting years when mercenaries were idle and wreaked havoc out of sheer boredom and lack of funds. Behind these walls were the abbey's gardens. This house is where Champollion was born, the scholar who deciphered the hieroglyph. This square shelters a replica of the Rosetta stone by the American artist Joseph Kosuth, in honour of the bicentennial of Champollion's birth. Egyptian, Demotic and Greek. 

La place des écritures

The other day, on my permitted one hour walk, I chatted with an old man fiddling with his plants in the sun. In the fifties, he said, Figeac was an abandoned shell of crumbling medieval jewels. The push for preserving national heritage in the sixties slowly restored it to its past beauty. 

During autumn half-term, I am proud to walk my brother, Thierry, though its streets, my turn to be a guide. The relaxed pace takes him away from the stress and anxiety of Paris, of teaching chamber music all day with a mask, of the high infection rate in the capital city. Sunny days see us ambling through the countryside and picnicking by the river. We visit the Champollion museum, not only dedicated to hieroglyphs but to the many scriptures and alphabets of the world, a surprising treasure trove in such a small town. He is gobsmacked by the prehistoric cave of Pech Merle. The 29 000 year old paintings leave him speechless with awe.  

                                                                                                                               Musée Champollion

                                           The horses of Pech Merle (archaeology-travel.com)

On the camino again

On the week before Thierry's arrival, seven of us go on an eighty kilometre walk to Rocamadour, a reminder of the camino, of what it feels like to happily collapse in the evening, limbs aching, and to revive as new in the morning, ready to trudge on. The last leg is the most spectacular, along a deep gorge strewn with ruined water mills, crowned at the end by the view on Rocamadour from below, houses and churches scrambling up the steep slope into the evening sky.

Rocamadour

And, on October 31st, Gwendoline, my big girl, and her partner Jason get married in Hongkong. Just before 3am, my alarm rings. I dress quickly into something more elegant than pyjamas and pray for a good signal. It feels so good that, quarantine notwithstanding, they can still be surrounded by their friends, that videos and messages of good wishes converged from all over the world. On Zoom, I share with them the short and efficient Hongkong civil ceremony. They exchange their vows behind masks. She is, they are, growing their own roots far away. Feeling quite tearful, it takes me a while to fall asleep again. I keep in store a huge mother of the bride hug for when the world opens up again.

Here, now, cafés are empty, restaurants shuttered, bars closed and they will remain so until mid-January. All the non-essential shops have reopened as well as the library. I will at last be able to buy warm socks and stock on comics and on novels the size of cobblestones. Now, that sounds essential to me but what do I know. It is now allowed to walk/cycle from home up to 20 km. Christmas will not be solitary. The government would have had a revolution on their hands otherwise. Life, that was grinding into a grounded halt, is starting again with cautious baby steps. Swallows have left south for the winter. There are days when I wish I could fly.