So 22 years ago, one of the children in an Easter workshop we were running came up with this painted egg. It came to light this morning as I was sorting through thousands more photos which, by reason of my disorganised non-filing system, had been marooned on a selection of removable drives and lurking in dusty corners of my study. For me, cataloguing and filing photos is up there with doing a tax return and so photos of Severnside were spread over a number of drives and my meagre initial haul in Google Photos is rapidly being dwarfed by newcomers. Wee hee I say, except so many of them are of rusty old hulks and grey days by the river – and my journey into the past released all too many glum memories from the muddy sediment of my recall – you may remember I wrote a couple of posts ago that one of the reasons I went walking on the banks was to put some mental distance between me and a difficult pastoral situation.
On the other hand I also found loads of photos from our european jaunts which reminded us of Corsica and France, Spain, and Italy and some mammoth car journeys back and forth across the Pyrenees. Presently we’re a bit confined by minor infirmities and hospital appointments and worse still, it’s autumn; the sunlight’s going out and this time of the year really gets to me. There was a time when I thought (hopefully) that this was some dark night of the soul which I’d be able to brag about; but when I presented it to my then spiritual director she dismissed it and said all I needed was some sunshine. She was right of course.
So, what with photographic memories, decreasing day length and an allotment that looks almost abandoned – I’m feeling a bit fragile. I wake up at night and have horrible nightmares . My roots in primitive Methodism assure me that a bit of suffering is really good for me but I think, no I’m certain, that’s bad advice. However I’m holding on to the childrens’ painted egg because it’s the best portrait of me I’ve come across. Thin skin, gritted teeth and fragile, with tissue thin hair and soft inside – what can I say? Prophetic comes to mind.
Anyway, here’s a happy memory from Collure where we discovered a local delicacy. They expose the local wine to the hot sunshine in giant carbouys where it oxidizes and thickens; turning into a kind of Madeira or perhaps balsamic and rather expensive –
and then a view from a villa we rented in the north of Corsica away from the crowds. we were on a steep sided mountain range on a road which simply petered out and gave way to a footpath. There was an overwhelming perfume of wild herbs and scrub as we walked up. There were olives, figs and myrtle and some beautiful butterflies which I think were Queen of Spain fritillaries. At night, down in the valley the Scops owls would call noisily for hours. The roads in the north on Cap Corse were so narrow Madame would adopt brace position for miles and much preferred the return journey where the precipitous drop to the sea was on my side. Our second trip there was rather marred by the scirocco wind which was hot, dusty and constant.
Tonight I’m cooking monkfish wrapped in parma ham with a brushing of basil/sundried tomato paste, balsamic vinegar and good olive oil – with a side dish of ratatouille from our own allotment. Some people turn to drink, but I turn to cooking. I know from long experience that this mood will lift and normal levity will be resumed.
