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Gascony Diary
All this last July we have lain about. Great
thugging bodies, brown, swollen, damp. We
languished on settees and beds, moving to one
from the other in the hope that the next room,
having been empty for a while, would offer
cooler fresher air in which to sleep, read,
dream. It never did.
The relentless
weight of those dog days left us lifeless,
incapable. Everything it touched it destroyed;
fruit fell apart in soft bruises, butter;
melting, rancid pools, bread double baked,
crisp, hard. Inedible. Incredible. The swimming
pool limpid. A consomme too warm to give a
release. So one day we drove to the lake. Hot
air stirred up papers and peoples hair in the
car. All windows open. No air con. The startling
blue-green of the tranquil water was below us as
we cruised down the winding lane from the
village. Faint music came from the small
bamboo-topped cafe at the beach.
Park the car and leave the windows open. Find a
space for the towels under the mean shade of the
row of pines. Shoes off. Run across the
barbecued sand into the water. No hesitations,
no stumbling, no catching the breath, just swim
away in the opaque greenness. Out into the
middle with 7 meters of water below our
shoulders. Eyes at duck level looking out over
millions of litres of green warm lake liquid.
Still no cold shock. Still our blood was hot.
Leave the water edge as warm as we arrived. This
can't be right.
It's August now. A damp dew on the grass and
humidity disappeared. The breeze, when it's
there, a little cooler. Thoughts return of
riding the horses in the evening after a month
of physical and mental retreat. Blackberries
already ripe to pick and fresh tomato salad from
the garden. Back on track. Wouldn't change it.
For anything.
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