so as I drive past ploughed fields and sunflowers on the way to the post office - dropping off a letter to reclaim a large sum of funds from the `chèr` gouvernement..* I realise again the need to lean into the slowness of my life - to accept the meandering wanders. I can get very wound up. Blame it on said chèr gouvernement..*
I don`t live in the city - I live in a rural `commune` in La Charente and know very little noise. This is of course bliss on many sides but the consequence is a lack of zing and energy that thrives in city environments. I don `t mean to say I lack energy; rather that the average pace of life here is out of step with mine a lot of the time. I can be very focussed, goal determined and get infuriated behind a steering wheel. Erm - spoiler alert - that 2cv is not mine..
Sometimes slow-living feels enforced rather than a choice.
So why did we move here 14 years ago? Claude the French plumber who first arrived to fit the heating looked at us in a way only a Frenchman can - twisting his face with a look of incredulity, insinuating we were completely insane and actually from Mars `mais `pourquoi??!!` Honestly?.. Sunflowers and old stone wrecks calling from estate agent windows lured us in. C`est la verité monsieur.. shrug of the shoulders. Call me shallow..
We had the right spec - husband a skilled carpenter, myself an indie textile creative from art school with a degree in French. It was only a matter of time.. We felt called here - just as the Lehming bank crisis hit. It was not the choicest moment but we went anyway… walking on water..
We lived next to the village primary school - an idyllic country school with a meadow where the children still climbed trees and pedalled go-carts in the playground. I still well up with joy when I remember how happy my three year old boy was, careering around his imaginary racetrack - the artless freedom of it all.
Standing at the gate, end of the day would be the parents. I, the enthusiastic newbie - the foreigner who could `parler français` - made every conceivable effort to engage..Strange looks, awkward polite `bonjours`, the insinuating expressions that said `vous êtes anglais` ( an essay for another time). I even had a quiet slow nod as if I hadn`t yet merited the Bonjour status.
Yes those were the days.. eh oui.
I later, much later - like 10 years later - whilst having a casual conversation with one of my suppliers, learned that we had, in fact, moved to the `butt` of the Charente. Le `cul`de la Charente. His words - not mine.
No one said..
Notes:
*chèr gouvernement - the dear ( said with sarcastic affection) government
*chèr gouvernement - the dear ( very expensive) government
