Imagine a world without traffic noise, without the hum of aircraft passing overhead, without the constant interruption of leaf blowers, passing conversations, or ear bud music.
This is the French countryside, and I found it unsettling.
I would startle awake, the quiet of those first few nights as unfamiliar as a sudden threatening noise. I would lie in bed and listen to the crickets and frogs as my breath and heart rate slowly returned to normal as I became acquainted to the absence of usual sounds. Sometimes I would read to fill the new space, but the silence would quickly overwhelm me once I put the book down. More often than not I would fall asleep to the glow of my bedside light, glasses on, book in hand.
Waking from naps in the afternoon was easier. There would be some sort of puttering outside: water rushing through the hose outside my window, Zia chatting with the plants, the birds bickering over fruit in the trees. These became my signal to rise and re-join the living; and, after checking that my hair was not in too much disarray, I would head outside to help. My job quickly became the desiccated bounty shed from the Japanese Plum near the driveway. After the birds’ morning feast, and lunchtime feast, and afternoon feast plums were everywhere: on the porch, mixed with the gravel of the driveway and (quelle horreur!) on the shiny white Peugout parked in the shade of the branches. I would pluck the sticky fruit from the ground one by one and plunk them in to a green plastic pail; every hundred or so I would add my collection to the compost pile and begin again.
Late morning silence was my favorite. I would rest in the shade of the verandah fully intending to read, only to be distracted by wind teasing leaves, the hum of a vibrating chain link fence, or a stray baaah from the sheep. The silence was as much smell as anything: lavender teased by a warm wind, roses basking in the sun, fresh cut hay, and, of course, the dinner to come. As I sat, I came to appreciate this silence as much or more than the harsh lack of sound I’d experienced in monastery.
As the week progressed, the heat wave strengthened, and the silence began to shift. Wednesday night the surprise was not silence but the purr of tractors in the field next door, punctuated with the shouts of men. I went to the window to check whether someone was hurt; as my eyes and ears adapted to the dark I realized they were baling hay, augmenting the near full moon with extra lamps to avoid the daytime sun. The next night the tractors were joined by hammering sounds from the other direction and further away.
Friday morning brought the marché in Souillac, a town some twenty kilometers to the northeast. Our quest today: cherries at the peak of season, sold by a gentleman from his table set in the shade of the local Abbaye. But what was this, in our small town’s public park? Rows of large white tents, a truck filled with folding tables and another folding chairs, and in the back by the swings, a family assembling a small merry-go-round. That’s right, tonight was the first night of fête! I’d admired the bright fliers all week, and had spent part of my evening walks decoding the ones posted on fence posts during… how could I let this slip my mind?
I was in for a real treat! More on that soon.