to esplanade

In Nimes, it’s feria – a great big party based around the bulls . . . bull fighting . . . bull running . . . and other bull events. These are not for me but I do like a festive occasion.  On the way up the esplanade through the stalls of food and of clothing, I came across young girls perfectly turned out but hanging around in informal queues  . . .

flamenco 1

flamenco 2

. . . waiting to take the stage and perform with their instructor, or was she a judge? Whatever she was big personality . . .

flamenco 3

. . . we were all transfixed by her charisma.

flamenco 4

esplanade fountain

Around the fountain, horse men and woman, from Uzès perfomed with impressive skill . . .

horse skills 3

horse skills

horse skills 2

. . . and another formidable horse woman was also centre stage.

in charge 2

Crowds overflowed into the street around the bodegas . . .

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bodegas 2

. . . full of bonhomie. Beer and sangria flowing but no one seemed to show after effects . . .

concerts 1

. . . and musicians started impromptu concerts . . .

concerts 2

concerts 3

concerts 5

. . . full of fun and some performers showing superb skills.

bodegas 4

arene

It opens, the gate to the garden

with the docility of a page

that frequent devotion questions

and inside, my gaze

has no need to fix on objects

that already exist, exact, in memory.

I know the customs and souls

and that dialect of allusions

that every human gathering goes weaving.

I’ve no need to speak

nor claim false privilege;

they know me well who surround me here,

know well my afflictions and weakness.

This is to reach the highest thing,

that Heaven perhaps will grant us:

not admiration or victory

but simply to be accepted

as part of an undeniable Reality,

like stones and trees. Jorge Luis Borges

 

above the Gardon

March 12, 2016

A jaunt out above the gorges to see if the new seedling growth of the ferula is showing and, yes, frothy and fresh in tone, carpeting the ground around the forebears which are still strong but wonderfully light to hold as the stems are hollow now . . .

ferula old

ferula + euphorb

. . . young ferula growth here mixed in with low, lime green euphorbia, but the taller Euphorbia wulfenii also claims attention. A black-eyed form and perhaps crossed with others to form  E. x martini . . .

euphorbia 1

iris pumila purple

. . . Iris pumila – in papal cloth and in soft yellow – stop me in my tracks, not only to admire visually but, also to avoid squashing them where they sprout through the stony path.

iris pumila cream

iris pumila in stones

By le Castellas and at Table de Lecture de Paysage, the view forces the eyes to lift up away from studying up from studying the minutiae on the ground to this tableau  – the river Gard flowing in a cup shaped curve; a quite splendid panorama . . .

gardons to east

. . .  as it enters from the west  beyond Russan and beyond Anduze . . .

gardons to east detail

 

gardons to west

. . . and as it moves to the east flow under Pont Saint – Nicolas and then under Pont du Gard before entering the Rhone. Some folks do other physical and challenging pursuits here but I just gaze.

climbers

narcissus + globularia

How the tiny narcissus occupy this terrain and how enjoyable they are . . . so it’s eyes down again and especially when the path becomes a solid sponge like form of limestone. Perhaps it’s more like walking on a giant food grater.

narcissus in path

limestone path

Then again the view demands attention. Pont Saint-Nicolas and surroundings can only be enjoyed from this high aspect – there is nowhere to park nearby – hurrah.

pont st nicolas

church

Back in Vic, Commune de Ste Anastasie, grave stones neatly placed on the church wall face a flowering Rosa banksiae – my first this year on March 4th- and a wall hosting Umbilicus rapestris – great texture contrasts.

The poem reads like an old song or fairy tale to me – but no claim is made on this landscape but just simple grateful appreciation.

rosa banksiae

umbilicus rupestris 1

walking by the waters

down where an honest river

shakes hands with the sea,

a woman passed round me

in a slow, watchful circle,

as if I were a superstition;

 

or the worst dregs of her imagination,

so when she finally spoke

her words spliced into bars

of an old wheel. A segment of air.

Where do you come from?

‘Here,’ I said, ‘Here. These parts.’ Jackie Kay In My Country

 

 

 

Saturday morning

December 21, 2015

cafe

Been quite lazy on the blog front but then it’s good to take time out and breath. These two sitting outside Patisseries Orientales in Boulevards des Allies looked relaxed about life too. Saturday morning in Uzès means MARKET and although having been here a few weeks now, it is my first visit. My trustworthy confidante advised that a trip to Friday’s market in San Quentin is more authentic and cheaper – she’s right as always – but under murky skies, the market stalls along the Boulevard and in Place aux Herbes glistened like jewels and it was sort of fun . . .

fleurs

mimosa

. . . fleurs turned into chou-fleur and magnificent frisées.

choux fleurs

Wandering back down Rue Grande Bourgade where solanum continues to flower, I was grateful to this gentleman as he completed the composition – if only there was some sun and therefore some shadows.

rue petite bourgade 2

rue petite bourgade

A vine over an entrance at 32 is most sculptural and well managed – reminds me of a Pekingese fringe. And yes, the tantalising mimosa came home. Just checked and 4 years ago I was here with important beings.

no 32

no 32 close up

mimosa copy

Le soleil est toujours riant,

Depuis qu’il part de l’orient

Pour venir éclairer le monde.

Jusqu’à ce que son char soit descendu dans l’onde

La vapeur des brouillards ne voile point les cieux ;

Tous les matins un vent officieux

En écarte toutes les nues :

Ainsi nos jours ne sont jamais couverts ;

Et, dans le plus fort des hivers,

Nos campagnes sont revêtues

De fleurs et d’arbres toujours verts.

 

Les ruisseaux respectent leurs rives,

Et leurs naïades fugitives

Sans sortir de leur lit natal,

Errent paisiblement et ne sont point captives

Sous une prison de cristal.

Tous nos oiseaux chantent à l’ordinaire,

Leurs gosiers n’étant point glacés ;

Et n’étant pas forcés

De se cacher ou de se taire,

Ils font l’amour en liberté.

L’hiver comme l’été.

 

Enfin, lorsque la nuit a déployé ses voiles,

La lune, au visage changeant,

Paraît sur un trône d’argent,

Et tient cercle avec les étoiles,

Le ciel est toujours clair tant que dure son cours,

Et nous avons des nuits plus belles que vos jours.  Racine

 

The Sun is always laughing,

since he moved from the East

to come light up the world.

Up to what his chariot is down in the wave

of mist steam sailing point heaven;

Every morning an unofficial wind makes all naked:

so our days are never covered.

And in the height of winter,

our campaigns are coated with

flowers and evergreen trees.

Streams meet their shores,

and their fugitive naiades

without leaving their natal bed,

wander peacefully and are point

captive in a prison of Crystal.

All our birds are singing in the ordinary,

their throats being point iced;

And not being forced to hide or shut,

they make love in freedom.

The winter and the summer.

 

Finally, when night has deployed its sails,

the Moon, in the changing face,

appears on a silver throne,

and holds circle with the stars,

the sky is always clear as long as takes its course,

and we have most beautiful nights that your days.

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Just a few fleeting glimpses of up above . . . ‘a glimpse is much harder to pin down’ Howard Hodgkin.

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And, down on the ground, from a few hours in Uzès. Basalt setts inlaid in the stone to give subtle definition – a pleasing aesthetic.

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Old and new – skills and  craftsmanship  – and atmosphere.

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The moment when, after many years

of hard work and a long voyage

you stand in the centre of your room,

house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,

knowing at last how you got there,

and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose

their soft arms from around you,

the birds take back their language,

the cliffs fissure and collapse,

the air moves back from you like a wave

and you can’t breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.

You were a visitor, time after time

climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.

We never belonged to you.

You never found us.

It was always the other way round. Margaret Atwood

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