Pathways: The French Journey Continues

Attention! Long post!

The adventure of the typewriter and calculator

Regine Deforge

I spent yesterday with friends in a town called Montmorillion, Cite d’Ecrit. How coincidental to be in France to write (and speak French) and I am introduced to a town that is all about writing. Searching for “famous” people who might have come from there or even just written there, I found Régine Deforges, author of The Blue Bicycle among other novels/stories. She was born here, lived a very controversial life, and was the first woman publisher in France. Wow. What an achievement! All over town are signs and book shops and paper boutiques; anything at all to do with writing, it’s here. It’s nice to come to places like Montmorillion in the off season because there are no crowds. On the other hand, most shops are closed till the spring when the weather turns more pleasant. In a small museum, an exhibit of the history of the type-written word and calculation machines displayed the inventiveness of humans, how hungry we are for expressing ourselves either by what we write or by the things we invent to make life more interesting or “easier.” I took, of course, too many photos, but the imagination that was needed to arrive where we are today, and for where we go from here, was/is impressive, so I wanted to share.

Cracked me up!

a pleasant street...

One of the bookstores

It writes MUSIC!

We walked up and down small, pretty, and very clean streets, bought vegetables at a stall in the market as it was closing, and drank a coffee at a small café before heading off to do the rest of the shopping we’d come to town to do. Which turned out to be a bit of a shock for me as we were catapulted back into the “modern” world of E. Leclerc, a “Hypermarche”, like Walmart, which can be found all over France, along with SuperU or CarreFour. Talk about no culture, no history and no real feel of being anywhere special. Shopping at big super markets on the outskirts of these sweet towns jerks you completely out of any earthy/ancient feeling that sweet town might have given. You could be anywhere. There is no identity in stores like that.

Another store...

A big sign...

 

See the white on the road, it's a plume!

Books for Everyone! "To read is the only way to live more than one life at a time...

Curious and wary sheep

Gorse in bloom

So, today I took a walk in the country.  Alone. I’d gone walking two days ago with my friends and knew the healing properties of the venture would be revitalizing. I woke up, got dressed and, knowing it was forecast to rain, took a “Brolly,” as UK friends like to say, and made my way out of the sleepy little town of Azat-le-Ris into the even more sleepy countryside. I met only sheep along the way. Sheep, rain, and mud. The sheep stared at me and bleated as I walked by, giving me more attention than I deserved. The birds sang me along until the rain begin, and then there was the squishy sound of my footsteps on “les Chemins,” the muddy tractor paths used between the fields. With the brolly over my head, I cared little about the mud. Silence, and bright specks of yellow flowers and red berries here and there among the green fields and dark trees, ah, the “earthy/realness” of countryside. Perfection. I’m trying to find my writing spirit, my muse, my reason for being here. Yet I realize I also need to reconnect with my self, my surroundings, and my body, as well as my writing. I need to become whole again. I believe once these parts of me are satisfied, I will make my way to the people in my head and their stories. Until then I will write here and flex my literary muscles. I’m looking forward to tomorrow and the new paths I will follow, both with my fingers and my feet…

Not as muddy as some of the other paths...!

A Morning in France

I took a walk this morning through the countryside where we are staying with friends. After almost 2 weeks in France without working out in my usual fashion I was in dire need of some real movement, real exercise. Have you ever started doing something for one reason and then half way through found yourself doing it for another?

I couldn’t take my eyes off the first ruined farmhouse I passed. I wished I had access to it just to see the inside and imagine the lives of the people who had lived there when it was new and lived in and perhaps even loved.

The Little Bridge

I passed over a railroad on a little old bridge only big enough for one car to pass over at a time. I looked closely at the railroad ties because the rails looked different. Sure enough, here they use rectangle blocks of cement that create a “zipper” look. They don’t use full tarred ties like we do in the states (saves majorly on trees).  Zipper tracks. On my right three sheep in the field stopped grazing and stared at me as I passed down the other side. I felt as if they were the neighborhood gossips and wondered what this strange woman was doing in their part of the world.
On my left was a garden, obviously well-loved at one point and now only barely maintained. The big trees that had once lined the cement path cutting down the middle of the garden were gone, only their stumps left to show they had existed.  It was a sad garden. It seemed to miss its original caretaker.

I walked down a little paved road which turned into a limestone track with a line of verdure down the middle. I followed it through a forest colored brown and black with winter and dead leaves. Only a touch of evergreen ivy climbing over ground and trees alike alleviates the gray. Though quiet and bare I still heard birds twittering away. The forest may be on hold but the life in it is still strong and happy. As soon as I saw buildings I turned around and saw a touch of leftover autumn color before I retraced my steps back to the “main” road. This time I remembered I was exercising and pushed my feet faster. By now I was hot and peeled off layers tying them around my waist. The sky was gray with clouds, but refreshing, energizing, and maybe it wasn’t just because I am in France. I guess life is the same everywhere; the comings and goings of people and their work.  Gardens still need tending, roofs still need mending and the mysteries of the ones who live behind the shutters of that really beautiful house over there are still mysterious no matter what country I come from. So I walked fast, took in the gentle country around me and breathed deep, happy to be alive and exploring. Obviously I needed to touch the earth.  What I hadn’t counted on was the chance to remember that there are those who have walked here before me, and not just for the exercise.