FONTAINEBLEAU

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THIS ENCHANTED REALM

“The light at certain points illuminating the outskirts of the wood. left the interior in deep shadow, or else, attenuated in the foreground by a sort of twilight, it exhibited in the background violet vapours, a white radiance.”

— GUSTAVE FLAUBERT - SENTIMENTAL EDUCATION, 1869.

It was here, in the forests of Fontainebleau, that French artists found inspiration. Around the outskirts a palace was built, inhabited over the years by Kings, Queens, and an unlikely Emperor. The halls were decked in Renaissance glory and gold, with many stately visitors coming to see the beauty of the palace in the forest. But deep in those woods, old as France herself, the true artists ventured to find their muse... 

These paintings were of a style nobody had seen before - executed in the changing atmospheres of the outdoors, with quick brushstrokes, capturing the beauty and colours of the shadows between the trees. They spoke not of radical feature-scapes but of quiet solitude and of nature's secrets. Scenes of nearby villages on the borders of the forest too: a small bridge over calm waters, a mill, a snow-blanketed dirt road through bare trees. 

Not much has changed since the time of the Impressionists, and one can still wander through the golden hallways of the Renaissance palace. Everything seems quiet here when compared to the hustle and bustle of nearby Paris or Versailles. It is almost as if the woods have formed an enchanted wall, encircling time and space; while the palace remains the abode of some princess, who remains sleeping in her medieval garb.

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SMALL WONDERS IN THE ENCHANTED REALM

Deserted hallways in the palace, a glitter of old gold, and a hint of tales long since passed behind the veil of time.

Mirrors flecked with spots, and drawer-topped writing desks.

A cone of strawberry gelato melting in heat of the afternoon.

The cool shade emanating from the edge of the forest.

Shifting cloud colours above Moret Sur Loing, where one can still see a true Impressionistic landscape.

Small tables slowly being occupied under lamp-light in the tiny village square.

Memories of the evening: sitting riverside watching the ducks and the scudding clouds, the grass prickly under my legs. That day ended in a whirl of purple.

Walking to our first campsite - over the railway tracks and under a canopy of greenery to find sleep.

Waking in the middle of the night to a leaking tent, and to lightning that crackled and lit the sky like it was daytime. Only five heart beats between each flash... 

Deciding to heck with it all, and undertaking a midnight-skinny-dipping adventure in the camp pool, under the raging storm.

Feasts of bread and Nutella at 3am. 

I'LL MEET YOU IN PARIS

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A LOVE LETTER

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Meet me in Paris, where we will kiss by the Cathedral of Notre Dame, while watching the fire dancers.

We will have no money, and will eat eight-dollar kebabs for dinner. We will walk by the Seine, and in the Latin Quarter, and of course we will buy pastries from Pierre Herme and savor them on the steps of St Sulpice.

Come with me to Paris, and I will show you the paintings; I will talk for hours on end about the light and the lines of her hands. Then you will fall asleep as we listen to Vivaldi in a church that resembles a jewel-box.

I will show you the Paris I have been telling you about - where you may see in the same scene: a riverside sunset 'twixt the arches of Pont Neuf, and a man peeing beneath the bridge with his junk on show. Let me show you also, those metro stations that could rival Dante's vision of hell, and those tree lined parks where tulips grow and you can buy a crepe slathered in Nutella. And we will conjecture: that maybe all this just adds to the fun of Paris. Or, maybe a selective memory is a lovely thing to have.

And I will apologize now, ahead of time, for the night when, famished and only a little stir-crazy, I get a bit huffy and make you walk for an hour, turning down every restaurant we come across because none is good enough. Yet, we will go back to that one that actually looked promising, and we will drink wine there and talk sweetly, and there will be a piano player with her husky voice that matches the wine we are drinking.

Meet me in Paris where we will buy a ring from Tiffanys. We will go to the real-life-Parisian, velvet cases, diamond-dust and sparkling-windows Tiffanys store. We will plonk our giant backpacks down on that shiny floor, looking to all the world like two ragamuffins, and we will buy the cheapest ring there is. Because that is the one I wanted. 

So please darling, meet me in Paris, where we will begin our adventures.

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HIKING IN AUVERGENE

...FEELING ALIVE...

What is it like to be alive
in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Auvergne?

Feelings: the sun beating down on me, warming my hair, getting caught between my lashes and my retinas. The cool respite of a cloud passing over the land. Itchy air, warm and tingly, like it is full of pollen. The breeze between my fingers. That thwacking swish swish swish noise of flowering grasses against leather boots. A stile over the meadows, and then another. The grasses give off a sweet smell. 

Then there is that moment when I just stop everything and look up from the ground, and I can hear my breath leave my mouth. It seems loud in the stillness. I feel like I have not seen a cloud in years, at least, not a real one; or maybe I have not been looking in the right way. Because, when I gaze correctly, each cloud has a shape that seems to denote the very width and depth of the landscape before me.

Now looking around seems the best thing to do, as I can see a great many things:  A brook, a deciduous tree, a small fountain, a ginormous dandelion clock, a stone covered in yellow moss, thorns on the blackberries... and, looking down for a moment again, the tracks of a small wild pig in the mud underfoot. 

But, really, looking is not enough, instead I have to pick that giant dandelion clock, and blow off all the seeds; and when we pass a farm I will always inhale all the smells very deeply; and I have to stop at a wild cherry tree to fill a hollow in my shirt with cherries for later, which I then eat straight away. And even then that is not enough, because I also have to swirl my hands in the waters that trickle from the fountain - they are cold - and I must duck into the small stone structure on the edge of the brook, to breath the air in there too - it is musty.

And when I do all of these, I feel very alive. 

Being alive is simple, too, it runs in my veins just like it runs in yours. I feel it when I walk uphill: heart colliding against my chest, and lungs pumping air. 

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EPIPHANY

The most ultimate moment, though, was when we walked through the wheat fields under the storm. It had been brewing for a while, and it broke when we reached the grasses, which stretched on for miles. I could feel the electricity in my teeth. Thunder rolled through the fields like the sound of rice on a tin roof. With an uninterrupted view of the storm as it gathered, I realised that there was even more to feeling alive than simply seeing or breathing. There is also the occasional full-bodily epiphany: of the fragility of your own life, knowing that it could be snatched away from you in a second. It reminded me of the moment before a bungee-jump, when I was standing on the edge of the abyss, and I became acutely aware of just how compact and solid my body was compared to the vast expanse of air beneath me. 

Walking through the wheat-field full of lightning, I sensed the bright spark of my own life, and the thin lines connecting it to the wider whole - the powerful push and pull of nature in all her glory. Then, I truly felt alive.