At our old house in France, called Marreau Haut, my bedroom was upstairs, in the eaves of the house, and had a huge wooden beam running directly through the room, cutting it in two. Other beams covered the ceiling too which gave the impression of being inside a giant treehouse all the time, surely the only way to live these days. But an even better feature than this was one which allowed me to gaze at the stars every night-the balcony built into the roof, which afforded a panoramic, sweeping view across the valley, awash with a patchwork quilt of fields.
One of the best aesethetic qualities of this region, to me at least, is the undulating depth of the landscape, so that as you take in these vistas, you could actually be in a Constable landscape painting, such is the vivid contrast of colours, the picture-perfect nature that awaits every turn in the road of brow of the hill.
Can you guess what took centre stage once that burning ball of orange dipped below the horizon, leaving the parched land to recover before its next assault? How did you know...the Plough, in all its glory, and a night sky to rival the beautiful scenary below it, not with a dazzling array of colours but instead a sense a grandiose and depth that other worlds should, you know? And all that other existential crap, looking beyond mankind, transgressing boundaries.
Every night I would climb up from the balcony onto the roof, take up a position on the sloping tiles so I wouldn't fall off, and, beer in hand, watch the evening unfold before my eyes. Each year during August the sky would light up with shimmering tail after disappearing trail of shooting stars, as if someone up there was sprinkling stardust over the world, coating it with a fine layer of sugar. This was better than any firework display could ever hope to be, illuminating the blackness above, the entirity of the galaxy stretching out above.
It was exhilarating, thinking that up there shards of rocks hurtled towards the Earth, crashing through the atmosphere and becoming so scorched that it burned brightly as it disintegrates, twisting away from, the intense, white heat, causing yet more immolation, paying the ultimate sacrifice for straying too close to us, the alluring pull of the Earth proving too strong for these doomed rocks.
Overdramatic? Maybe; they are only rocks after all, but when you think about it, that was what was going on, and I did a lot of thinking, up on that roof, staring at the Plough, and the stars.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Plough and the Stars part II
The next time the Plough cropped up (sorry) in my life with any striking regularity was in south-west France, deep in the picturesque, rolling countryside where I lived and worked cutting grass and serving behind the bar at a golf course near Villeneuve-sur-Lot in the Aquataine region.
Rows of vines adorn the slopes like a battalion of soldiers all stood to attention. These are interspersed with fields of sunflowers, rene claudes, prunes, green-gages, corn and cattle that account for the majority of the produce here. Between this eclectic scene of nature lie the farms themselves, keepers of this verdant, tranquil corner of France. Life moves slowly; dictated by the weather (and the church bells), the farmers toil from day break, when the mist rising off the land gives the place an ethereal, mystical feel, to midday, when they religiously down their tools and take a well earned break for the hottest part of the day.
Throughout this region the seasonal fruit-pickers carry out the back-breaking work of collecting the ripened fruit. They also pack up their things, and, resting weary limbs, head to the farmhouse where a delicious array of tradtional French food awaits, thick soup, crammed with vegetables, salads laced in homemade dressing, meats, du vin, du pain, beef tomatoes is olive oil, sauted potatoes, the lot, all cooked by the farmer's wife to keep the workers going. Cheese and desert follows, and as eyelids become heavy and drowsiness kicks in, un petite siesta is called for.
It's not just the farm-hands who lead this lifestyle either-the local builders, carpenters, electricians, plumbers, will convene at the village restaurant for lunch, where a simple yet filling meal is served every lunchtime, accompanied with a carafe of wine. After a quick nap, they all resume their work after a strictly obseved two hour break. The 35-hour week is probably no longer de rigeur across France, but out here in the sticks as I said life moves slowly, not simply on a day-to-day basis, but also in terms of embracing social evolution. These sleepy backwaters of France will never change I don't think, and they, and regions such as the Lot-et-Garonne, retain much of their beauty and charm because of it.
But back to the Plough, which stands unwavering day and night, forever unseen by half the world, and not given its dues by the other half. I digressed a little there, but I wanted to convey the circumstance with which I was lucky enough to encounter the Plough ever balmy summer night for five years. But that will have to wait...37 minutes are up.
Rows of vines adorn the slopes like a battalion of soldiers all stood to attention. These are interspersed with fields of sunflowers, rene claudes, prunes, green-gages, corn and cattle that account for the majority of the produce here. Between this eclectic scene of nature lie the farms themselves, keepers of this verdant, tranquil corner of France. Life moves slowly; dictated by the weather (and the church bells), the farmers toil from day break, when the mist rising off the land gives the place an ethereal, mystical feel, to midday, when they religiously down their tools and take a well earned break for the hottest part of the day.
Throughout this region the seasonal fruit-pickers carry out the back-breaking work of collecting the ripened fruit. They also pack up their things, and, resting weary limbs, head to the farmhouse where a delicious array of tradtional French food awaits, thick soup, crammed with vegetables, salads laced in homemade dressing, meats, du vin, du pain, beef tomatoes is olive oil, sauted potatoes, the lot, all cooked by the farmer's wife to keep the workers going. Cheese and desert follows, and as eyelids become heavy and drowsiness kicks in, un petite siesta is called for.
It's not just the farm-hands who lead this lifestyle either-the local builders, carpenters, electricians, plumbers, will convene at the village restaurant for lunch, where a simple yet filling meal is served every lunchtime, accompanied with a carafe of wine. After a quick nap, they all resume their work after a strictly obseved two hour break. The 35-hour week is probably no longer de rigeur across France, but out here in the sticks as I said life moves slowly, not simply on a day-to-day basis, but also in terms of embracing social evolution. These sleepy backwaters of France will never change I don't think, and they, and regions such as the Lot-et-Garonne, retain much of their beauty and charm because of it.
But back to the Plough, which stands unwavering day and night, forever unseen by half the world, and not given its dues by the other half. I digressed a little there, but I wanted to convey the circumstance with which I was lucky enough to encounter the Plough ever balmy summer night for five years. But that will have to wait...37 minutes are up.
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Plough and the Stars
The Plough has cropped up at many times in my life, to the point where I feel I real affinity to it. It's my favourite constellation the Plough, simple in design, so easy to visualise the sweeping arc of a sickle fitting into its contours.
This set of seven stars first rose to prominence when I stayed in Bantry, on the beautiful coastline of southern Ireland. The trip itself was moving in many ways-feeling a strong sense of belonging because of the people there; the way they treat you, the warmth with which they engage with you, an openess, an honesty, always ready to crack (craic) a joke at their own expense, not taking themselves too seriously but rather living life. This really struck a chord with me, at one point I half considered going to live there, just to see how significant a role these traits in the people around you could play in shaping your life.
Sleeping in an old wood cabin in December, freezing our asses off, trying to stay as close to the heater as possible without burning the whole place down...it was on one of those nights, sat on the wall down by the farm, a few glasses down, that, glancing up at the night sky, the Plough caught my eye, glistening as it was, brighter than the rest. Perhaps it was just me, or the drink, but from that moment on I always searched out the Plough on a clear night and felt contented when I found it, as if I was now looking in the right direction. I don't know whether this familiarity symbolised anything deeper, heading the right way in life, like a guiding light, but I felt a strong connection to it.
Pretentious bullshit Elgar? Maybe, but I don't care, if you believe in something there's nothing that wrong with it.
A ploughed 37. To be harvested tomorrow.
This set of seven stars first rose to prominence when I stayed in Bantry, on the beautiful coastline of southern Ireland. The trip itself was moving in many ways-feeling a strong sense of belonging because of the people there; the way they treat you, the warmth with which they engage with you, an openess, an honesty, always ready to crack (craic) a joke at their own expense, not taking themselves too seriously but rather living life. This really struck a chord with me, at one point I half considered going to live there, just to see how significant a role these traits in the people around you could play in shaping your life.
Sleeping in an old wood cabin in December, freezing our asses off, trying to stay as close to the heater as possible without burning the whole place down...it was on one of those nights, sat on the wall down by the farm, a few glasses down, that, glancing up at the night sky, the Plough caught my eye, glistening as it was, brighter than the rest. Perhaps it was just me, or the drink, but from that moment on I always searched out the Plough on a clear night and felt contented when I found it, as if I was now looking in the right direction. I don't know whether this familiarity symbolised anything deeper, heading the right way in life, like a guiding light, but I felt a strong connection to it.
Pretentious bullshit Elgar? Maybe, but I don't care, if you believe in something there's nothing that wrong with it.
A ploughed 37. To be harvested tomorrow.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Laaaadon town
Break the bank. Go mad. Splash out. Lose control. These are the things we encourage in this country, this ‘Great’ Britain of ours. Go drinking on the King’s Road so we can pretend we’re posh bastards with cash to burn. Why? To put on an act, to make believe a life. Slouching round Chelsea with an exaggerated swagger like you’ve just done a shoot for Calvin Klein. Don’t-care-when-I-get-there attitude, won’t get out of bed for less that 5k-cut the bullshit! Reality check.
If only people knew how much I was really worth; I am either a millionaire who inherited a fortune, unbeknownst to anyone, or I’m skint with barely a tenner to my name. Which is more interesting, more exciting? Trying to survive in London when you’ve got nothing makes for a lot of fun. Jumping the tube morning and evening, running the risk the pigs will be camped at the top of the escalator’s to your stop one day, hitting you with a fine that you can’t afford to pay else you wouldn’t be doing it in the first place. Scraping enough together to be able to eat for the week-Sainsbury’s Basics has got a lot going for it make no mistake, feeding the poor of the nation.
There’s a surprising amount you can get away with in this majestic, filthy capital of ours. Everywhere you look down-and-outs exist, ones who have fallen off the wagon, the allure of the city proving their downfall. Their transgression? The hope of a better life that gives way all too easily to the harsh reality of getting smashed. Whatever your vice is: gangs, parties, drugs, alcohol, knives, guns, it’s easy to be sucked into the wrong crowd.
Let me paint a scene for you: At a party you’re pissed, offered a line, you need some fresh air and a cigarette, you stumble outside lost in the haze as the fix rushes through your veins. Suddenly you’re going under, not from the drug, but under a hail of blows that you didn’t see coming from the gang that materialises around you, as if from the thin air you try to gulp down, hoping it’ll sober you up, and quickly. But that’s a mistake, and it’s going to cost you dearly. Because now you’re seeing clearly and feeling more confident as you drunkenly weigh up your chances of taking these youngsters, stand up for yourself and teach them a lesson. Not in London.
You wade into them, arms flailing, failing to see the glint of the flashing knife until it’s too late, helpless to react as it rushes up to meet your forearm, slicing into the flesh with surprising ease. Blood spurts forcefully out of the narrow, agonising wound, warm, comforting if only for the briefest of seconds before realisation sinks in that this is just the start. You look into the eyes of those deranged kids, high on something, just kids you want to shout, and you see vicious hatred imprinted on their minds.
This botched mugging is about to get worse simply because you fought back; you have enraged the disaffected youth, and they are going to make you pay. Adrenaline disperses the pain in your arm; the brain depresses the distress signal that flickers the body into action. The will to live heightens your senses, manipulating your arms and legs into instinctive action. Although severely impaired, your left hand acts as a shield whilst the right lashes out, hoping to deter the vultures in Adidas that encircle you, fixing you with their twisted grins of amusement, the thrill of the chase. Like a wounded animal you fight on in desperation, all the while being backed into a dark alley by the gang, away from civilisation, if you can call it that.
Quietly pleading now, realising the futility of reasoning with these debased human beings, their final act happens so fast; they were simply toying with you before. A pincer movement, a blur of hands and feet and metal whirling as one towards you, and, impossible to withstand, you collapse under the flurry of blows to your head and chest. In those last few agonising seconds you are acutely aware of the contrast between your own sheer horror, and the calm, remorseless nature of the boy that stands over you, whose name you will never know, as he plunges the knife deep into your chest.
There is no escape from this madness of the capital, this disease that afflicts the big smoke, which on this night has chosen you as its latest victim.
If only people knew how much I was really worth; I am either a millionaire who inherited a fortune, unbeknownst to anyone, or I’m skint with barely a tenner to my name. Which is more interesting, more exciting? Trying to survive in London when you’ve got nothing makes for a lot of fun. Jumping the tube morning and evening, running the risk the pigs will be camped at the top of the escalator’s to your stop one day, hitting you with a fine that you can’t afford to pay else you wouldn’t be doing it in the first place. Scraping enough together to be able to eat for the week-Sainsbury’s Basics has got a lot going for it make no mistake, feeding the poor of the nation.
There’s a surprising amount you can get away with in this majestic, filthy capital of ours. Everywhere you look down-and-outs exist, ones who have fallen off the wagon, the allure of the city proving their downfall. Their transgression? The hope of a better life that gives way all too easily to the harsh reality of getting smashed. Whatever your vice is: gangs, parties, drugs, alcohol, knives, guns, it’s easy to be sucked into the wrong crowd.
Let me paint a scene for you: At a party you’re pissed, offered a line, you need some fresh air and a cigarette, you stumble outside lost in the haze as the fix rushes through your veins. Suddenly you’re going under, not from the drug, but under a hail of blows that you didn’t see coming from the gang that materialises around you, as if from the thin air you try to gulp down, hoping it’ll sober you up, and quickly. But that’s a mistake, and it’s going to cost you dearly. Because now you’re seeing clearly and feeling more confident as you drunkenly weigh up your chances of taking these youngsters, stand up for yourself and teach them a lesson. Not in London.
You wade into them, arms flailing, failing to see the glint of the flashing knife until it’s too late, helpless to react as it rushes up to meet your forearm, slicing into the flesh with surprising ease. Blood spurts forcefully out of the narrow, agonising wound, warm, comforting if only for the briefest of seconds before realisation sinks in that this is just the start. You look into the eyes of those deranged kids, high on something, just kids you want to shout, and you see vicious hatred imprinted on their minds.
This botched mugging is about to get worse simply because you fought back; you have enraged the disaffected youth, and they are going to make you pay. Adrenaline disperses the pain in your arm; the brain depresses the distress signal that flickers the body into action. The will to live heightens your senses, manipulating your arms and legs into instinctive action. Although severely impaired, your left hand acts as a shield whilst the right lashes out, hoping to deter the vultures in Adidas that encircle you, fixing you with their twisted grins of amusement, the thrill of the chase. Like a wounded animal you fight on in desperation, all the while being backed into a dark alley by the gang, away from civilisation, if you can call it that.
Quietly pleading now, realising the futility of reasoning with these debased human beings, their final act happens so fast; they were simply toying with you before. A pincer movement, a blur of hands and feet and metal whirling as one towards you, and, impossible to withstand, you collapse under the flurry of blows to your head and chest. In those last few agonising seconds you are acutely aware of the contrast between your own sheer horror, and the calm, remorseless nature of the boy that stands over you, whose name you will never know, as he plunges the knife deep into your chest.
There is no escape from this madness of the capital, this disease that afflicts the big smoke, which on this night has chosen you as its latest victim.
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