Farm

R and his class spent five days on the farm, a corner of paradise knows as Domaine de St Laurant, near Cluny. The farm is organic, (biodynamic), and self sufficient, for example, they grow the wheat, grind the wheat into flour and bake it into bread, milk the cows & make the cheese, chop the wood for heating and ovens.

Milking the cows 6am

Pulling the plough, Donkey time

Mucking out the pigs, making cheese, chopping wood

Churning the butter, which wouldn't melt in his mouth







Making & baking the bread

Planting

And here is how it seemed to me when R came back, in French, and then in English:

R est de retour
Pieds plantés sur terre, enracinés
Tète au soleil, cheveux éclaircis, joues couleur terre légèrement cuites
Un œil très clair
Il me raconte pendant deux heures
Tout ce qui lui est arrivé à la ferme
Il n'attend pas ma réponse
Car il est toujours là-bas
Il me dit avec une grande simplicité
Qu'il est en meilleur santé à la ferme
Où l'air est pur et la nourriture
Vient directement de la terre, du soleil, et de beaucoup de travail

Il m'amène de la terre sous chacun de ses ongles et ses doigts de pieds
Il me réserve quelques larmes qui ne tombaient pas là-bas
Il est dur de prendre un bain quand on n'est pas du tout fatigué

Je plonge mon nez parmi ses cheveux
J'inhale l'odeur de l'air ensoleillé et
Du calme, et d'une grande harmonie des âmes
Il a gagné en une semaine 3 millimètres d'une dent qui en partant
N'avait pas encore brisé la gencive
J'ai perdu un petit peut de mon fils
Il a gagné un petit peu plus
De la personne qu'il est en train de devenir

R is back

Fleet planted deep in the earth, and rooted

Head in the sun,

Hair bleached, cheeks with a touch of terracotta

Eyes very bright.

He tells me all about the farm

for two hours,

not waiting for my response,

as he is still there.

He says quite simply

That he is more healthy there,

Where the air is pure

and the food comes from the soil, the sun, and much hard work.

He brings me soil, under each fingernail and each toenail

And saves me some tears, which he did not let fall over there

It is very hard to have a bath before bedtime

When you are NOT AT ALL TIRED.

I bury my nose in his hair and breathe in deeply,

the smell of sunny air, and calm, and a great harmony of souls

His front tooth, which had not pierced the gum when he left

has grown three millimetres in one week

I have lost a little bit of my son

He has gained a little bit more

of the person he is becoming

Fete Fete Fete

Yes pop pickers the party season continues:

The end of term show. Somewhat nerve-racking as B claimed after the dress rehearsal that his class show is truly terrible, nothing more than total humiliation on front of the whole school. Once he was safely out of earshot I asked the girls in the car what they think - perhaps B was feeling overly sensitive.

'PPWAAAH, ppsss - the worst sketch we have ever seen' they replied, unamimous (although L was kind enough to say the decorations were nice).

However, on the day, the influence of parental prayers or some other miracle caused the event to go well, the teacher's faith was restored and B begrudgingly admitted it was ok.

The municipal picnic in the park - the Marie (local council) provides the tables, we come with our food and friends, and at 11pm, FIREWORKS. B's friend D is staying the night. We find a spot on the banks of the Seine and lie down on a blanket, musing about stars, shooting stars and constellations. A tug boat has pulled a platform out onto the far side of the Seine, at 11.19 pm the tug boat chugs off, and the show begins. The rockets dive deep into the water, some disappear, some reappear and charge to the surface, and dandelion clocks of undreamed of colours and lights widen and widen above our heads. Home after midnight yet again.

Shared lunch at the chapel, then home for the last three days of term:

St John at school, bring a small log

Visit to the local fire station

Visit to museum of music

Visit to museum of plants

School picnic

B does magic show for his class

My neighbours are, as I write, charring food in the garden and shouting loudly, it is nearly midnight.

And then, and then, watch out, July is coming, and once the school holidays begin...

NOTHING HAPPENS!

crash

St John

We gathered in the grounds of our chapel at 10pm for the ceremony of St John.


I'm not a theological expert but the main point is, you light a whacking great bonfire and you jump over it. Apparently St John is known for pointing the moral finger, and once you have identified your annual tally of errors, you jump over the fire to purify yourself and you jump right into summer hooray!


The last housemartins winged their way home, the darkness deepened. A pair of bats darted in, flip-flapped in spirals above the fire, and darted off.

This snap of the fire looks like a dragon - one millisecond later, it has transformed itself into a tall thin flare.



















B thinks he can do it.






















R knows he can do it.





























I decide not to do it, I'm not sure I can still jump, I'll probably stumble, nobody will notice if I don't, I would prefer to take photos, what does it matter? I'll leave it to the others...and here JC catches me on camera at the very moment I decide to stop wittering and just do it. (I should point out that a peculiar fluke of perspective has made me look broad of beam which I am not, of course).


Our pasteur reminds the children that they can only jump ONCE, as they criss-cross past each other and leap and leap again. He makes cutting comments about it being strange that the YOUNGEST amongs us who have had so few years in which to err seem to be the ones who need the most purifying - remarks which go right over their heads...as they jump over the fire, again and again.


'My lawn, my lawn' says the Pasteur, as the children toss extra logs onto the fire with limited accuracy.


Finally we realise that the reason he wants everyone to stop jumping is to let those who have not yet plucked up the courage have a go. The person who wanted to do this was in fact him:

Yes, the prize goes to our Pasteur Marc!

In a picture is entitled 'Marc D'Arc' , the little smile on his lips shows us that martyrdom can be fun.

Home after midnight yet again, school tomorrow.