Green woodpeckers are common in France. But not so common that I’ve been able to see one in the ten days that I have been here. And I want to see one. Something about woodpeckers I find fascinating, and the names help. When I saw a three toed woodpecker (really, three toes?) in Maine, I was thrilled. When this past Christmas Peter and I saw a black woodpecker in the forest of Fontainbleau outside of Paris it was the highlight of the trip (not, as some might think, visiting Notre Dame…). So a green woodpecker was my goal for the morning as I rose at 6—the world still dark and quiet—and was out before seven. I walked south out of town, a winter wren singing to me from a bush that has taken over the courtyard of the abandoned house that once belonged to Francine. In the freshly cut field to one side I see a fox trotting my way. It’s tail is thick, a dark red, lined with brown. It doesn’t see me, so I stand still, and watch. I can tell what route it intends to take, out of the field, across the road and into the corn. So I pull out my camera and wait until it is mid-road. As I snap the photo, he becomes aware I am there, and picks up his pace as he moves into the corn and vanishes so fast.
The sun pops over the hills on the eastern end of the valley and the world is washed in light. The fields of sunflowers and corn look magical, bright. I hear the cackle of woodpeckers in the far woods. As I make my way there, I hear a gunshot from the same woods. It is not any hunting season so I decide that may not be the place to walk. Still, I loiter about on the bridge that separates the Gers from the Haute Pyrenees, visiting with a great tit, and some red tails.
taken with a point and shoot!The return brings me a sparrowhawk in a tree, its long tail magnificent when it flies. And then I hear it, the cackle of a woodpecker in flight. It lands in a tree and I rush my binoculars to my eyes. I see it, green, with a splotch of red on top of its head: my green woodpecker. I can feel my heart race with excitement.
And here’s the strange thing: by the end of the day I will see five of these green woodpeckers. The question is, were they around all the time and I simply did not see them? Or, have they emerged? I think probably the former, how knowing what to look for triggers something in our minds so that we can see it again. I remember when I first followed the call of the great crested flycatcher to find the bird sallying at the top of a tree. After that moment, I heard and saw flycatchers every day, and a bird I did not know, seemed suddenly a common bird.
I loop up the hill, taking the long way home, and another woodpecker screams overhead, landing in a nearby tree. Also green! I feel as if I have conjured these birds.
I walk the same path I walked last night. It was the full moon, the Sturgeon Moon. At home, I always paddle out into the night on the full moon, and the Sturgeon Moon is my favorite (yes, there’s a chapter in my book devoted to the somewhat hallucinatory experience of paddling the full moon). So a walk through the village would have to substitute for my watery ramblings. The moon shone down, illuminating the rough road, but not bright enough that I could find the owl calling from behind a crumbling house.
Odette and chickenWhen I arrive in Odette’s barn, to say good morning and tell her my woodpecker news (Odette has taken to my birding, giving me tips of birds she has seen), she has a chicken slung under her arm. The chicken has been sitting on its nest, trying to hatch her eggs. Odette is sticking it in a cage—sticking it in solitary confinement as it were—in the barn. The chicken has water and food. She’ll spend two days meditating on her eggs and come out a new bird, Odette tells me. No more trying to hatch them; the chicken will go back to laying.
I wonder when Odette, now 82, will stop tending to her chickens. Last night as we sat outside in the courtyard and ate our dinner of duck confit made by Odette we were all aware that this was the last time we would eat this rich, dense meat. The days of raising ducks, of feeding them corn, then making foie gras and confit are over. It’s just too much work.
One winter I was living in the house and would hover in the barn while Odette fed her ducks. It was an odd, loving process. She would place the duck in a box, its neck sticking out. Then she’d straddle the box and take the duck’s neck in her hands (vegetarians can just skip the rest of this account). She’d talk to the duck, massaging its neck. Then she would insert a long funnel, and grind the corn that would fall directly into the duck’s stomach. In this way, it fattened beyond what is natural. Any stress or abrupt motions might break the duck’s neck. So Odette’s movements were gentle, tender.
That was the case as she stuck the chicken into its cage to relearn its relationship with eggs. She spoke to the bird, reminding it to drink water, to be well.