IMPRESSIONS - GIVERNY

There is nothing like a pure moment in time.

When you are fully aware of the grass beneath you, and the wind that touches your skin, seems to move through you, and that exhale, and that ripple of the water as a bird cries, and all those dim outer noises on the horizons. 

Pure moments are magic. 

I sometimes wish to gather them up like butterflies in a net, and study them in this-here glass jar - this blank space which I can fill with my words and pictures and ideas. 

Others, too, have felt that longing to capture a pure moment, and I empathise. In fact, I idolize. Above all, I pay homage to the paintings of Monet...

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MONET

“To me the motif itself is an insignificant factor; what I want to reproduce is what lies between the motif and me… Other painters paint a bridge, a house, a boat.. I want to paint the air in which the bridge, the house and the boat are to be found - the beauty of the air around them, and that is nothing less than the impossible.”

— MONET - 1895

NYMPHAEAS

The lotus and the water lily are symbolic of the true nature of things. Their seeds may sit in mud, till a rain forms that mud into a creek, and then they will emerge, rising from the murky waters to bloom in all their glorious transcendence. 

In the Hindu and Buddhist lines of thought, these flowers represent the ascension of the self to enlightenment, and the cycles of life, and of the natural rebirthing of nature. A blooming lotus or lily is an awakening of energy.

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IMPRESSIONS OF GIVERNY

Shade, cold and damp under willow leaves
between the water
on top of my skin
and in the darkest recesses of the lake
caught in weeds,
promising that night will fall.

Now dappled, among the flowers and over
a small bridge
the air lifting it, placing it down only for a second
on the tips of the clematis.
 

A million whisperings,
gravel rustlings.

Birds and a dog barking,
skimmed over the surface
like a glance of a window from
the far off distance.
And the sun on the water, making the clouds dance
between bright sparks
between red, dark, and
pale pinks:
the nodding heads
of the flowers.

“I’ve got it... the Saint Lazare. I’ll show it just as the trains are starting, with smoke from the engines so thick you can hardly see a thing. It’s a fascinating sight, a real dream. I’ll get them to delay the train for Rouen for half an hour. The light will be better then.”

— MONET TO RENOIR - 1877

“I have gone back to some things that can’t possibly be done: water, with weeds waving at the bottom. It is a wonderful sight, but it drives one to crazy to try to paint it. But that is the kind of thing I am always a tackling.”

— MONET TO GUSTAVE GEFFROY - 1890

“My only merit lies in having painted directly in front of nature, seeking to render my impressions of the most fleeting effects.”

— MONET TO EVAN CHARTERIS - 1926

AU COUP DE SILEX

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”

— J. R. R. TOLKIEN

Food is a necessity in all aspects of life, it is our nourishment and medicine. But good food, great food, that is something else. It is a wonderful thing, to taste something to its full extent - a thing that tastes exactly as it was meant to, such as a rich and earthy tomato, can be a revelation. So much of what we eat is eaten without ceremony, without thought to the various complex flavours. But pay attention to a single leaf of rocket - that spice and tang - and you will reach ecstasy. 

Ecstasy is exactly what we felt, Oliver and I, when we ate the best meal of our lives. All parts of that meal had conspired to make it phenomenal... 

A plate of pastries, a wheel of warm goat's cheese, and a pot of honey, all drizzled with balsamic.

The small mama swallow who swooped to and fro above her nest of birdlings, in the corner on the wall.

The fat of the foie gras, cut by the spiced tartness of the white wine and the toasted gingerbread. 

On that note, I must include the gingerbread-like quality of the restaurant, what with its timber vaulting and exposed beams.

The raw simplicity of the ingredients, all pared back to their humble but beautiful selves.

Lemongrass infused, butter slathered, still-slightly-crisp vegetables.

A scattering of candied walnuts.

Moments of sharing; the passing of plates, and the wonderful conversations that come from appreciating one-another's dishes. Pure delight in the empathy.

The duck... that goddamn duck. I knew about halfway through that I would never, ever, not in a million years, eat duck that tasted that good again. Holy Jesus it was good. Marinated and cooked in its own fat till the meat was so tender it could have almost dissolved in my mouth without chewing, and the rich, crunchy intensity, and the salt, and the fat, and the pure game-y quality, and those perfect pairings of crisped potatoes and the red wine... All of it made that duck the best dish I have ever eaten. Boom.

That few precious minutes when we both talked only of the duck, appreciating every tiny morsel.

The searing hot plate of another, now thinly sliced, duck; bitter raspberry sauce on top.

A view of the cliffside, looming over the tiny town of stone houses, all draped in window boxes of blooms. Watching the sunset, the blues of dusk then melding into the blackness, and the candles that were taken out and lit on each table.

That happy-tummy feeling, once all the wine and the food has mixed itself together, half of it entering your blood stream and the other half sending dopamine to the brain.

Desserts:
(Two are always better than one)
1. A coconut panna cotta, served with warm, grilled, overripe pineapple. 
2. The obligatory chocolate cake, molten middle, homemade ice cream and berry coulis. This one was so divinely simple that I seem to remember scraping the chocolate shavings off the plate in an attempt to save any part of the dish from being wasted.

The end note: a small coffee and a biscuit.

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Naturally, we returned to this same restaurant the following three nights.

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LES EYZIES DE TAYAC

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IF THE STONES COULD TALK

THEY WOULD TELL TALES OF:

Human hands, paint covered, tracing elaborate lines in the dark places of the land - undulating swirls of bison and elk.

The tap-tap-tapping as one stone was shaped by another into a sharp point.

The outcrops and hillside growths of stone villages, slowly rising from the cliffs from whence they came - moulded into pockets of air, the dwellings of men.

   The creeping of vines. 

      The chanting of monks, echoing in the walls.

The reflected sun, from the chalky white ground to the grapes up above. The grapes themselves ripening beautifully, as if they had nothing else to do in the world.

The swish and chuckle of a river, and a brief flash of a silver fish - a shadow on the river rocks below.

   Lightning storms.

       Silence. 

Village festivals, celebrations, markets and days of joy.

And maybe they would talk of us - of me and you, and that moment of total bliss under a hail of fireworks. 

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