St. Cezaire, in the Alpes-Maritime. Were staying with friends in an old stone farmhouse, high on a hillside, looking down on terraced olive trees. Its green here, and fresh. Its still cool, almost chilly: everything is just on the brink of spring. Birdsong abounds, spilling through the air. This morning, having coffee and croissants beneath the chestnut, we hear a liquid, complicated, delicious song. Over and over he calls, confident, clear, enchanting. We stop talking to listen. When the cook comes out with more croissants we ask her who it was. Cetait comme ca? she asks, and gives a lovely meandering whistling melody. A small black bird with brown stripes? A blackbird, she says, Un merle. No, we say, not like that. Comme ci? she asks, and gives a series of low, strange calls: Houp, houp. Le hoopoe? No, we say, not the hoopoe. But now we are disagreeing about the song, and we can no longer exactly remember our enchanter, and how he sounded. The song has vanished into our minds. We fix instead on the cook, who is stout, auburn-haired and friendly. You have a repertoire, we say, how do you know so many songs? She smiles and shrugs. Je suis une fille de campagne, she says. Im a daughter of the country. And she is from this village, which is very old, and perched high up in these steep hills, with a hazy blue view of mountains rippling off into the distance in every direction.
Posted on: Sun, 18 May 2014 10:12:53 +0000
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