Monday, November 25, 2013
The five of us stood there scratching our heads. It wasn’t so much the permit to build attached to a fence post in the middle of nowhere that had us confused, it was the words that had us flummoxed. “Permit to build building in ruins.”
We had been walking for about an hour after parking the car in a tiny village of five or six houses, one church and two farms. A half hour ago we had gone through a hidden hamlet of three or four homes and one farm. The farmer had nodded as we walked past. A dog barked until we were out of sight. The path turned, skirting the side of the farmer’s field and into the woods. This was not a very populated nor accessible part of the countryside.
The path through the woods was obviously an old road. It was wide enough for us to walk two by two, maybe wide enough for a small farm tractor, but it was clearly a road that had not been used for a long long time. And then we had come upon this sign.
While muttering about who the heck was going to be building something way out here in the middle of nowhere we had all been scanning the land for clues as to what this sign was all about. Someone spied another wide path leading down the hill that was neatly lined with ancient trees that had clearly been pruned in the severe French fashion. Here had once been an elegant double file of trees leading to what would have been something important. But still no sign of what that something important could have been.
Bitten by curiosity there was only one thing to do and that was to veer from our trail and see where the trees led us. Quickly the forest thinned on the left side and there was a large, bump and stumble field. It was there that we saw the saddest sight, something as broken as the field itself. There were broken walls rising out of the brambles and tall grasses, skeletons of shutters dangling at odd angles, emptiness where windows and doors should be and one beautifully carved fireplace mantle standing proudly in the midst of all this ruin.
This was it? This was the building site? The words “building in ruins” became heart-breakingly clear. We were flabbergasted that someone would take this reconstruction project on. There was obviously lots of love, possibly some sort of family pride, deep wells of money, and a mountain of madness.
Wandering inside the ruin the five of us ooh-ed and ah-ed at the few remaining handcrafted details, wondered about how the rooms had been arranged and how they might be arranged in the property’s new life.
Continuing on our way it became clear to us that the biggest obstacle to the rehabilitation of a this ruin was access. Walking another hour on a deeply rutted, muddy logging road made it obvious that no delivery truck could reach into the hidden valley. Even in a dry summer it would be miles and miles of bumpy roads.
We had to come up with some solution that would make us feel hopeful about the future of this folly. Perhaps anyone crazy enough to “build buildings in ruins” also owned a helicopter.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
I piled into the car with friends One and Two. One gave directions. Two drove. We headed over the back road out of town, turned left onto the Perigueux road, and a twist and a turn later we pulled onto the shoulder of the road in the middle of the forest. This was going to be my first mushroom hunt.
One, Two, and I grabbed up our baskets from the trunk and turned into the forest of chestnut and oak trees.
At first I called One over to look at every mushroom I found, but after about two minutes of this it became obvious that today we were looking for only one particular mushroom, le trompette de la mort, the death trumpet! Well, in a land where the numbers of mysterious deaths spike each year during mushroom season, all I could think of was Uh Oh.
At first I couldn’t spot them. Two had headed off on her own leaving me to my own devices and with no advice. But One knew better and would call me over whenever she found a secret fairy circle of the black trumpets. “Look here, around the base of this tree, in the moss.” She (my only clue I’ll give concerning my companion) would pull the black trumpet up by the root, pinching off the tail where a little sprinkle of dirt clung, and toss it into my basket. Voila. That lasted for a little while and then she was off to fill her own basket. My training was over.
My basket filled slowly at first. I’d be distracted by bright, happy looking mushrooms that were so much easier to spy than the dead-leaf colored object of today’s hunt. From childhood I have had the fear of God put into me about picking and eating mushrooms and I wasn’t about to put anything into my basket that wasn’t a trumpet of the dead - an ironic name for someone as afraid of mushrooms as I am.It wasn’t long before my childhood spent in the woods kicked in and I began to notice a pattern to where I was finding my prey. Under a dead rotting branch, close to the base of larger oak trees, tucked up against a chestnut burr. Now that I was more clued in, after I had harvested all in one area I could quickly find a new patch. Then One called me over to another section of the forest. Here there were patches in strangely cleared spaces. Still full of lovely leaf debris, but no tree stumps or dead branches. It was hard to move without stepping on the trumpets. At one point Two said, “It seems like they are growing right in front of me as I pick them. Where are they all coming from?” I had thought the exact same thing a few minutes earlier. But there was little conversation as we each fell into our own tranquility. Just One, Two and me, and the deep woodsy smell of wet oak leaves, the pitter patter of water droplets and the chhh chhh chhh of a tiny squirrel.
The light slinked out of the way as evening began its slow autumnal fall, and so with baskets pretty dang full we headed up through the forest to the car. Stooping along the way to pick that one last beautiful trumpet. With our baskets tucked into the trunk Two asked, “Straight on down the road?” and One said, “Yes, no retracing our steps, we have to confuse anyone that might see us.” So over hill and dale we returned to Bourdeilles. I returned home with a basket full of mushrooms and a mouth zipped shut.
p.s. Dear Mom, I promise not to try this on my own! xoxo s