Hirondelle

Odette's barnWhen I am in Estampes, I can time my days to Odette’s movement: 8 in the morning she lets out the chickens, and the sheep, gives water to the rabbits. 7 At night and she’s back again, watering, feeding, bringing in her creatures for the night. On this evening as I follow her through the routine, I’m paying particular attention. I’m in charge of all of this the next morning as Odette has an early doctor’s appointment. Odette has rarely left her animals to anyone so I want to get it right. Water for the rabbits; don’t forget to shut the barn door behind the sheep. It’s all very simple, but I feel like I’m being entrusted with the most important job.

As we step into the barn to put down hay for the sheep, a barn swallow swoops through the open door. Swallows, with their white bellies and long forked tails are obvious all day long as they wing about chattering in elegant loops and dives. Inside the dark barn a dozen mud-formed nests cling to the wooden rafters. Strings of straw dangle from cobwebs nearby in this nearly abandoned barn. The space between nest and the ceiling is narrow—just enough for a swallow head.

young barn swallows“The swallows, they always return on March 20,” Odette tells me. A person of daily rhythms keeps track of the larger rhythms of the world around her. “The 20^th, maybe to the 23^rd, but always in March. Usually the 20^th. I’ve noticed that.” I nod. “Oui, the vingt Mars,” Odette repeats. “But the swallows aren’t doing well.” She points to the ground. “Look.” At the tip of her toe rest two dead swallows, their small bodies crumpled on the cement floor of the barn.

She can’t explain it, but the swallows are dying. She’s not the only one to notice this. Genevieve, the local baker, tells me she doesn’t see swallows anymore. There are ten swallows in the village, Claude tells me. They all guess at what is wrong: the fertilizers on the fields, perhaps. They all shrug: who knows. There are a lot of mysteries in the farming life. This is one more.

Odette and I look about the barn. Under two nests are bird droppings, a sign that someone has taken up residence. “Maybe there will be young,” she says, hopeful.

The next morning as I quietly go about playing farmer, then I check on the nests. There’s a swallow on one, her body covering the opening of the mud structure. When I look closely, I see a little beak poking out the side. I slide the barn door shut, leaving her to her swallow business.

Eight days later I look out the window of my bedroom and see two swallows on the phone line and another stuck to the side of the house, clinging awkwardly to the stucco surface. I pull out my binoculars to look more closely because though the swallows fly over the house during the day, they have never stopped in for a visit like this. And I see that they do not have the long tail streamers of the adult male and female barn swallow. They have shorter tails. But really, it’s not this detail that lets me know they are juvenile birds. They all look a bit lost, a bit goofy, a bit young.  When a car drives by they turn their wide eyed heads in unison to see what it is. When a larger bird flies overhead they look up to see what is going on in this huge world beyond the dark of the nest and the barn. The young birds are not afraid of me as I take their photos. They look on, a bit bemused, as they learn how to be swallows.

Through the day, they use our courtyard as a place to hang out, to practice flying and to beg for food. From time to time an adult swoops in and satisfies that need, but most of the time they are on their own.

Later that night, I return to the barn and tell Odette about the baby swallows. The news cheers her. I peer in at the nests and see that the young have all returned to the safety of the barn for the night.

young swallows on a wireThe next day, the swallows are back. As I sit at the dining room table writing I can hear their chatter as they swoop through the courtyard. And then I hear a flutter above my head—swallows doing laps in the dining room! I look over just on time to see two swallows fly out the door. They left quickly, but really they are welcome anytime.  

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.

Green Woodpecker, Estampes

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.

Pyrenees Hike, or, the Endless End

If you have never driven over one of the passes in the Pyrenees, you have never driven. The roads are narrow, winding—two cars have to slow to pass each other. I glance over at the GPS and the road unfolds like a lazy piece of twine, the turns at near right angles. Add to this that you share the road with cows, lamas and sheep and it’s downright treacherous.

We wind up the col du Tourmalet, a pass famous in the grueling tour de France, passing many cyclists. Some look fit, others are wobbling they are barely moving forward; all are sweating, breathing heavily. Two years ago my brother-in-law Olivier and I had bicycled up the shorter but still steep Col d’Aspin on bicycles I’d given to Becky and Olivier as wedding gifts. That makes them 25 years old. Every kilometer there are signs that tell you the steepness of the grade (10% starts to really hurt). But the signs encouraged me, setting my sites on the next sign, a kilometer away.

But today, we’re in a car. Every year we take at least one day to venture into the mountains, which we see outlined in the distance from Estampes. It’s always a longer drive than I’d like (over an hour), but with great stops along the way, particularly at the good bakery in Tournay (great pain au chocolate). We journey up the vallée de l’Adour that cuts south of Bagnères, and zip over the col du Tourmalet to park at the trailhead, the pont de la Gaubie, at 1,538 meters. We’re not alone. The parking area is full. This is often the case in the Pyrenees, the prettier trails brimming with hikers. We make our way up a wide path, the white and red marked GR10, which soon narrows as we pass sheep grazing, cows with their clanking bells.

Becky slips on a rock landing hard on her hand, and nicking her nose. She’s bleeding. I put a water soaked bandana to her nose and wonder if she should keep hiking. I’m secretly hoping that she’s ok, but hesitant about hiking because then we could sit for a while, and—look at birds. But Becky’s a trooper, and up she goes, ready to tackle the pass in front of us, the col de Madamète, at 2,657 meters. The path up is gentle, following a stream, and flanked by wide, green fields. Alpine flowers—bluebells, and others I don’t know dot the landscape. From time to time we pass a stand of pine trees. I spy a pied flycatcher, and higher up the small, lively Alpine accentor.

We stop at the col, which gives us vistas down into the valley on the far side, and into the Neouvielle chain of mountains, including the dramatic Vignemale and Balaitous. Two lakes, the Cape de Long and d’Orédon dot the valley below. A trail loops us toward the west, into another valley.

Half an hour past the col there’s suddenly no one. In the same way that the most popular trails are crowded, secondary trail are empty. There’s a deep sense of silence, as I stand in a valley, admire the high peaks, and wonder where all the big raptors are. There are none in this valley.

We pass the blue-green Lac de Tracens, and I clamor about swimming. The high sun is battling against the cooler air of high altitude, and winning. I’m hot. Only at the next lake do we stop, the Lac Blanc. There, we dip our feet into the water and watch fish nibble at our feet. Then I plunge in, the shock of cold delicious on my sun-tightened skin.

And then there is the descent into the valley where we parked. What didn’t seem that long on the way up, is endless on the way down. “Don’t you know,” Becky says, “that the ends are always endless.”