Sunday morning. Besieged by storms ,the solar lights uncharged , we are like pioneers swathed in the gloom of an ancient winter, rain lashing the house outside and casting a sombre pall over everything inside . This house was built long ago, its back turned against the wind, hunkering down into the cleft between the roundness of the hills like an old man crouching in a ditch, trees planted for protection over the centuries dwarfing it.. Outside the light cast through the autumn colours of beech and birch is golden the sky a sickly yellow like a fading bruise from the nights beating.It is 10.30 and so dark I am writing by candle light.
We are not prepared for this sudden jolt back through the centuries to a time before electricity. We have not yet ordered the wood for winter a cold wind whips beneath eh door and no one can remember how to light the oil lamp nor whether it will work on petrol , The torches batteries are either dead or running low and we can not find the matches. We have bottled gas though and candles and jumpers to keep us warm so we play at being cast aways whilst the pressure cooker hisses unkind threats at the chicken ensnared in its belly and the boys play joyfully with their toys in the dark. The last time the power died it took 36 hours to revive it but we have not learnt our lesson believing the EDF ( French electricity) that with the new lines installed it would never happen again. Meanwhile we wait and watch.
Our young neighbour arrives do we have electricity? Nope him neither we lament being at the end of the line. Can he use our mobile to call the EDF his needs charging. We sit and admire his optimism at getting anyone to answer on a Sunday. He calls, we put on the kettle for coffee the gas splutters . EDF play soothing music but sat nothing. We decide they are all good catholics and in church where there are plenty of candles or are bad communist and too lazy to work at weekends. The wind roars, the sky darkens the rain comes again. The gas dies, so much for coffee then. Still EDF plays soothing songs. Young neighbour goes home and my husband goes off in search of a new Gaz bottle in the next town to check if they have any power.The wind continues to howl.
I grew up by the sea and, with each rising crescendo of the gale, instinctively half listen for the crash of the waves as the wind rises but there is no abating and it roars on like a ceaseless argument between sky and land.
We are not prepared for this sudden jolt back through the centuries to a time before electricity. We have not yet ordered the wood for winter a cold wind whips beneath eh door and no one can remember how to light the oil lamp nor whether it will work on petrol , The torches batteries are either dead or running low and we can not find the matches. We have bottled gas though and candles and jumpers to keep us warm so we play at being cast aways whilst the pressure cooker hisses unkind threats at the chicken ensnared in its belly and the boys play joyfully with their toys in the dark. The last time the power died it took 36 hours to revive it but we have not learnt our lesson believing the EDF ( French electricity) that with the new lines installed it would never happen again. Meanwhile we wait and watch.
Our young neighbour arrives do we have electricity? Nope him neither we lament being at the end of the line. Can he use our mobile to call the EDF his needs charging. We sit and admire his optimism at getting anyone to answer on a Sunday. He calls, we put on the kettle for coffee the gas splutters . EDF play soothing music but sat nothing. We decide they are all good catholics and in church where there are plenty of candles or are bad communist and too lazy to work at weekends. The wind roars, the sky darkens the rain comes again. The gas dies, so much for coffee then. Still EDF plays soothing songs. Young neighbour goes home and my husband goes off in search of a new Gaz bottle in the next town to check if they have any power.The wind continues to howl.
I grew up by the sea and, with each rising crescendo of the gale, instinctively half listen for the crash of the waves as the wind rises but there is no abating and it roars on like a ceaseless argument between sky and land.
What was it like then, before ,to live in the depths of Brittany down in the hollows of the Kreizh Breizh between rocks and woods. The old houses have vast inglenooks deep enough to sit inside and in winter the family lived therein, women on one side men another in the heat and smoke of the fire slowly being kippered so that the old photographs show them dark skinned like Indians from the dirt and soot. The beds were built in boxes "Lit Clos" with doors , giant cupboards to keep out the cold and the animals lived often in the same room for added warmth. With mud and rain in winter once the day light faded people stayed in doors or gathered together in each others houses to talk and drink cidre and play music keep the dark spirits at bay. I imagine the dirt the damp and the smell and think perhaps my own kitchen which to my eyes is badly in need of gutting and replacing, and very probably smelling of cats and wet dogs isn't too bad after all.
Forget the glossy magazines which try to tempt us along the fussy path of foppish floral fripperies , this is real country living not the world of Kath kidson matching apron and oven gloves, recessed ceiling lights and the rustic furniture bought at great expense from some emporium selling lifestyles, the comfy floral sofas and artfully shabby chic cupcake stands, the colour co-ordinated Le Cruesset and the matching Aga and store bought flowers. I do not know one real country person, someone born and bred to the life who has anything but mismatched china, hand me down furniture and and odd assortment of glasses and serving dishes .
Forget the glossy magazines which try to tempt us along the fussy path of foppish floral fripperies , this is real country living not the world of Kath kidson matching apron and oven gloves, recessed ceiling lights and the rustic furniture bought at great expense from some emporium selling lifestyles, the comfy floral sofas and artfully shabby chic cupcake stands, the colour co-ordinated Le Cruesset and the matching Aga and store bought flowers. I do not know one real country person, someone born and bred to the life who has anything but mismatched china, hand me down furniture and and odd assortment of glasses and serving dishes .
Sitting in the half light viewing my world through rain splattered windows I realise ,that as Thanksgiving approaches, I have much to be thankful for. I may not have rural dream which looks so enticing on the glossy page, but what I do have is the rural reality and even without electricity here in rain soaked mud splattered wind torn Brittany I wouldn't ask for more.
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Photograph is an old hand tinted image of a typical Breton interior with lit clos earth floors and an inglenook fireplace.
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