The following is from my stonemasons journal; when I went to back to France
after the Lime conference...best way to enjoy is to download /print and read
at your leisure
enjoy Pyrate
ps out of pocket for a few days


.To live in France like a God"....old German saying

French Post Card

Two French thorurough breds run pell mell thorough the rocky Mayenne of
Britanny.
Their raven haired mistress riders crop their eager backsides with smirking
satisfaction as they stirup and spur over hedgerow and ditch.......

This is deep France. The air is fresh and briny with the smell of apples .

There are apples on the breakfast tables; apples in the markets;and apples in
the cheeks of fresh faced lovers who openly covert their ripe passions  in
youthfull display under the russet  colored leaf and golden boughs of this
rough  buccolic paradise.


My outdoor breakfast  table baths in the morning sun  as I  spy  the
riders  in their  compete for the last of the hill.
The massive foremuscles  of the  stocking beasts  pump and furrow the fertile
soil into  the steep of the  climb.
Their hard    hindquarters dig and lather wet the riders seat and saddle
allowing it  glisten  in  the sun.
Clearly they are pleased with their skill as they disapear  through the
alleys and golden groves of  orchards.

My Breakfast is simple ; black coffee and apple crepes with a  brush of
powdered sugar.nessled next to a small pitchet" (pitcher) of cool cider.
 I  greedily welcome the crepes  sweet  nourishment  amid the color  and
poetry of this primitive setting .
From where I sit, song birds  celebrate the crisp morning air  from atop the
stonewalls of a 15 cent farmhouse.; cut hay lays rolled in the fields; and
the sky is a crystal  blue from the nearby sea.
The  peace  of my meditation  is broken  when  the riders suddenly   crest
the hill; and break  for a   turn nearby my table ..
With arched eye  and mischievous grin. they  pound past  ; showering the air
with moist bits of warm turf..
 Humbly I  am caught  sweeping  turf   from my pants leg while  mesmerized in
the site of their smartly arched backsides  promenading in brisk canter  to
the paddock circle ..

"Bon Jour " ; "Bon Jour " They call in unison
 I answered back "Bon Jour "smiling  and  abruptly  stop ;
 pretending no dirt landed on me .  .

They ride towards me and dismount; their steaming champions  ; stand  ready
at bridle and  paw the turf  with well deserved pats..
They  introduce themselves as Sophie and Yovonique ; Historic building
conservators for Britanny and the Mayenne region .
They are jovial; yet seem in command of the  new  situation.;
 and me ;.I m afraid to admit..
  I like them immediately.
  .
Sophie has big round eyes ;they are soft almost doe like . She looks at you
with a bit of  surprise and discovery; Like you are her unexpected gift.
Her French welcomes you  in . It is songlike ; With little girl pouting of
the lip .
Her mouth blushes and pinks  crimson  as she kisses vowels and verbs.;
When she makes a point  she   softly scolds you....... to listen only to her
...
She is a professional architect and an expert on medievil structures

Yvonique  on the other hand ,is more mischievous and high spirited in her
humor .
Her looks are pretty with flashes of  natural raw passion ;
;She speaks her French in cooing cadence allowing  a creative little  tounge
to dart  and dance sensuously; along wetted  lips quick to smile.
Like Sophie she is a architect with a degree in historic preservation
Both  play well off one another and both look smart in their Black riding
attire

Yvonique  peers through you with unsettling attention ; its hard to read
between the lines; as both are having alot of fun..
 .
Cradeling her crop , she straddles her long leg with black riding  boot on
the fence, then shakes her red hair down in wild ringlets  from underneath
her  riding  helmet.
She then takes a towel from  Sophie  and   begins to  dry   her inner thigh
and boot  free of   the lather of  horse sweat and  the sweet smell of  grass
that has collected there.
All of a sudden   she tilts her head back  ; and with a little smile
  apologises  for being "so wet".
.
My French is bad; but not that bad .
 The double entendre of this culture defies reality;
before I can comprehend her  silliness  they are already laughing  at me and
the earthy  joke.

I laugh too ; responding that "Je ne pas parle bien Francais (I don't speak
very good French , to which she abruptly cuts me off  by  saying .
... "but you don't have to "...

We all laugh now .; Im beginning to enjoy my role as the straight man ; they
too are at ease as any pretensions  that were there before  are  dissipated
into the fragrant morning air  of this ancient place.  .

   .Our meeting has been pre -arranged by some stonemason friends who will
join us later. They change clothes and we begin our tour..

The sites we are at are old ; 15 cent  at least ; with parts perhaps
medieval..
The walls of the farmhouses/ fortress drip with history.
 Oak beams wishbone throughout the exterior stonework.
Chimneys climb high over ancient heavy slate roofs that  are tied with
decorative iron bars to  peak and gable..
 Bullet holes and pocket blasts tell of war and revolution..
 Ivy turrets harbor master bedrooms and napoleonic sleigh beds that we pat
for comfort and fun .

Sophie and Yvonique  coo like song birds over honeysuckle  as they walk
through the history and of the methods and materials of the construction ..
From the bedroom they have  me look down past the bare of their arm into  the
courtyards below.
The yards are worn cobble set in puddled clays mixed with  lime.
 Draft horses clump by  arched stone doorways... inside the ivy covered walls
 there are  interior rooms similar to the one we are standing in  that boast
of long 18"  sguare  oak beams  gnarled and buried in walls of stone that are
 stucco  with  natural plasters of mustard yellow and off white.
I am intoxicated  by  the scent of their hair and person as I  am lead into
ancient  kitchens that  have  walk in Norman hearths of  hand hewn stone.
We investigate cooking pots of savory stew  and admire the  ancient wood oak
beams  that line the ceiling decorated with  hooks for hanging game and off
set by wicker pockets  of wild flowers fresh picked and fragrant.

From up high The sun streams through a   blue window set into the stone.
Its rays  silhouettes the beauty and  shape of  their soft  feminine form;
naked  through the thin  white of their  muslin dress. .
I am captured in a sun drenched  dream and It  takes all my effort to hold my
 concentration  and  not to make a complete fool of myself.
They giggle and smile at my awkwardness   then carry on to  expertly explain
 how the floors are set in large putty buff tile; or  as in some rooms;
 they are  poured  in a mixture of lime with aggregate and now worn  smooth
from centuries of use.
.
Sophie and Yvonique pour through the history of the house  like skilled
dancers in a ballet. I struggle with their French but Im just having too much
fun to worry about it

Taking my hand we cram down tiny stairways and giggle up against one another
in
 cellars of chalk; that  house ciders and wines in proliferate stock
Brushing back her hair Sophie pops a cork of apple licquer; as Yvonique
rinces three  glasses then spread out  for the top of the keg.
Its harvest time for the apples they explain; as she makes the  pour

"Millions of these tart little apples we see outside  are pressed by wood to
become  the  frothy cool ciders  that  grace the tables of the nation ".The
cool nectar is brown and goes down smooth after we touch glasses.
 My eyes meet theirs;
 Yvonique then  pats a keg as if it were a babys bottom
and expalins ;
"Then with  time; the nectar sleeps  in vats of oak; until  under  certain
moons  of the zociac
it  awakens as if in a fairy tale to  become  the firery Calvados of legend; "

She rubs the wet of her mouth with the back of her hand ; and crudely kisses
it for the sweetness and sweat ..We touch glasses again and
She contiues
"This then;  she holds her glass up ;  is  song of the ancient monks ; and
the chronicle  of the mystic Druids; a marvelous alchemy  that  "appreciates"
like children who have done well ;
Another toast ;
"Talented   children ,who sleep, and transform into the   deep  dark of the
lime chalk cellers   fermenting and complex until they are golden and brown
with age ;
then called for festive  and celebrated like family heirlooms; or  prodigal
sons  who return home restoring  harmony  and  memory of times long past.. .

We touch glasses agian as . Sophie prepares a plate of cheese and bagette
Tart and robust  the apple  nectar  is served  in little glass tumblers that
 when  accompanied by   the aged viscous  cheeses from the Norman coast it
melts into the mouth and lets go  dancing the  tastebuds  amid the  wash of
buttery  cheese and  crusts of fresh bread; creating a harmony of rich
complexity and  aromatic after taste.

Only the night before  in the care of the  stonemasons;  one old yeomen
farmer with tears in his eyes poured a glass for me  by candle light in his
celler and recounted that I was the first American in his house since
American GI.'s brought his starving family food rations in the bleak winter
of 1945..
I  revertly took  the  glass with him ; and then another Thus  completing a
debt of honor ;for him and for me .

Is time to go ; the masons will be here any minuet; our next stop is an old
14 cent stone mill   that one of the masons lives in . I suggest we leave
notes and meet them there ; this stroke of genius gets everyone laughing like
crazy which in turn  calls for  another round  from the keg ;.
To be continued  Michael


French post card /to be continues  MDD/allrts



.

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