|To Be in France Now That the Wild Boar are Growling . . .|
|Written by Sherry|
|Wednesday, 06 May 2009 06:57|
An Edwardian cottage garden in Melbourne, Austalia in a southern hemisphere spring (October).
Spring seems to transcend actual place.
I'm an Anglo-phile (Mark Shea has often called me a butter-cup twirling English Romantic and the gardens of England are magnificent at this time of year) but I've found a new love through the internet: France.
Even though I've never been there.
A lyrical article in the Telegraph's online newspaper for British expat's describes the annual spring hunt dinner of boar and wine. And his resident peacocks, pigeon sqaubs, and rabbits. And goose egg breakfasts.
"The early blossom on the plum, apricot and peach trees is out. Our woods are carpeted with blue periwinkle, white anemones and deep red fritillaries; it's a magical time, with skeins of cranes migrating eastwards, wild orchids appearing and the first nightingale singing.
Our birds and livestock also recognise that spring has finally arrived. Figaro our male peacock is leading his three wifelets around the house, the first two white fantail pigeon squabs of the year are out of the dovecote, our two rabbit does have produced offspring and the pair of white Silkie Bantams (acquired in exchange for a duck and rabbit from our freezer) have begun to lay.
Even with a reduced pension due to the fall in sterling, the pleasures of rural France are infinite."
The pleasures of my spring are much more home-spun. First light on snow-covered Pike's Peak, daffodils, freshly opened tulips. The grass nearly fully green. The joy of planting long-blooming perennials: sweet pea, Shasta daisies, soapwort, Indian blanket flowers. Little work. Years of pleasure.
No boar. But a red fox ran through the back year this morning under the serene gaze of my two new cats safely perched on the window sill: Cosmos & Damien, twin three year old brothers. The spirit and memory of Pippin is still present. In fact, I keep referring to C & D as "she" and calling them "Pippin".
Add a bottle of French wine and on an early May morning, you can squint and just glimpse rural France. Alpine rural France.
Now to find that hunt club.