Leaving Estampes
me heading out with scope. photo by Lisa RedburnCousin Lisa has just returned from a ten day safari in Tanzania, where they got up every morning before dawn to see elephants, lions, giraffes and more. So it doesn’t phase her when at 6 the alarm goes off and we head out into the night to look for birds. In fact, she’s not interested particularly in birds, but she’s game for an adventure through the French countryside and she wants to take photographs.
We drive south toward Trie. Our drive in the coming light reminds me of when I drove this route with Stanis back in the mid-eighties. Then, Trie called itself the largest pig market in the world; we were hauling a pig to market. We drove in Stanis’ small white Peugeot without speaking, Stanis tugging on a cigarette, his beret pulled down on his forehead. We made our up the winding hillside above Estampures, then shot down the main road into Trie. Selling the pig lasted less than three minutes—there was some conversation spoken in Patois, a shake of hands, and we walked off. By 7:30 in the morning we were in the local bar, filled with peasant farmers all dressed in black or blue pants, berets over their ruddy faces. Stanis ordered a glass of wine; I had some coffee.
On this morning, I have my scope at the ready, my binoculars poised. We are heading toward the lac Puydarieux. Neighbors told us about the lake—that it is a birding spot—just the night before. So though it’s my second to last day in Estampes, I want to see this spot. We turn toward Castelneau Magnoac and after missing the turn to the lake arrive a little after seven. There’s an information board with an impressive list of birds seen in the past week, included a booted eagle, a hobby, black and royal kites, and purple herons. I practically run to the lake. The first bird I see floating on the dammed lake is a great crested grebe, with a striped black and white baby begging and bobbing beside it. The lake is littered with birds, mostly mallards. But there are plenty of horned grebe, grey herons, coots, and gulls, which I can’t identify. We walk the edge of the lake, then across the dam as two men launch a boat to fish. I spy cormorant and teal, and then, to my delight, a hobby with its sharp elbows flies overhead (hobby in French is Faucon Hobereau, I learn). I find Lisa sitting on the dam, her camera to her eye, photographing flowers and dandelions and contemplating how she can capture the feel of this special spot we have found.
After an hour and a half, I’m ready to move on. We drive around the lake, and as I pass a dirt road between corn and sunflower fields I spot something on the ground. I brake, back up, and there they are, three little birds. I inch down the road, without the birds taking off. Soon, the mother shows up and peeps them into the corn, where they vanish. At first I imagine these birds to be quail, but my photos say they are something different, perhaps a special bird. But I will never know.
There are much more scenic views of the water, and some lapwings at a pull out on the southern end. We stand for a long time, looking and photographing the herons, the cattle egret, some lapwings working the shore and another shorebird I can’t identify (if I were at home I’d say yellowlegs, but I’m not sure here). Then we make a dash toward Mirande, where it is the marche, market day.
Lac PuydarrieuxIn 1978 I attended spring semester of eleventh grade in Mirande. I missed my friends at home that spring and summer, isolated in Estampes with my mother and father and my maternal grandmother, who fell ill on arrival and spent much of the time in bed asking for tea, or to be brought this or that. It rained every day, making the house both cold and damp. But Mondays were always a treat. My mother would come in to the market and then we’d meet for lunch in town. She’d show me what she’d found at the market: strawberries or the walnut bread made by a friendly baker. It was our time, away from the house, from a grumpy grandmother and a father who was lost writing his third novel. I have always loved the marche de Mirande.
Lisa and I find strawberries, very ripe reine claude, the small green plums that are all sugar, white peaches, two kinds of gorgeous tomatoes, and then a runny sheep’s milk cheese that makes us happy. The whole day makes me happy in detail—the birds, the beautiful lake, the fresh fruits and vegetables, the company of my cousin. But lurking is the knowledge that I’m leaving tomorrow, and so every gesture, every plum eaten, every view, every bird seen is tinged with a faint melancholy.
