I drew the curtains this morning the sun was shining on the house opposite in such a way I was instantly transported to Talmont-sur-Gironde, in the Charente-Maritime, my head was filled with the delightful scent of hollyhocks, the beautiful palette of colours of the white painted houses decorated with the colourful flowers standing tall in abundance beside them, the ethereal peace and tranquillity that settles on the village, the Carrelet beside the church, there are many of these Carrelet (fishing huts) dotted along the Gironde and a lot of them are still in use. Yes it is certainly my favourite French village, we have spent many happy hours there whilst visiting our friends in St Andre-de-Lidon, I would probably go so far as to say that it is probably my favourite and most picturesque place that I have visited to date. The colours I remembered inspired me for a cardigan for me in pinks, mauves and green, now to find wool that fits the bill, I have the pattern already sorted, a cable patterns from my knitting magazine "Knitting", also drawn on Talmont for inspiration is a mixture of the French blue and white for a bag I have also got a pattern for, and all from a memory awakened by simply opening the curtains and the sun being in just the right place to make the shadows fall just so.
Talmont-sur-Gironde
Carrelet a Talmont-sur-Gironde
Here is a poem I found about a pilgrim embarking for Santiago de Compostela by taking communion at Talmont in Charente Maritime, prior to sailing down the Gironde:
Thank you for joining me again today, I will be here again tomorrow and look forward to your company. Have a lovely day wherever in the world you are.
Siwzy
PELERIN
I carried our sins all the way, coquette,
my calloused heels crushing cackling demons
and saw the face of Christ radiating
from each basin-bearing hospitaller.
I beat back hell-hounds in every hameau,
with my bog oak staff, my waisted gourd poured
down a parchment throat, as parched as the paths
I’d traversed to totter on that jetty.
Discarded oyster shells scarified soles,
as I scrambled onto the final ship
and I tried to erase your siren face
which haunted me from corbels, chevets
and polychromatic stone caskets,
from Aulnay, Saintes- and even Talmont.
Over the glittering estuary,
the Damascene sun glared epiphany.
Host fragments on my tongue, salt tang on teeth,
I’d hoped that the next kiss of a chalice
would transport me home, with my talisman:
a stringed scallop, showing where I had been.
Then I scattered blood-red hollyhock seeds,
like blisters, into the wake, trusting that
each would burst into a pillar of fire,
to illuminate my return voyage
I would walk over waves, though I was lame.
I’d wrestle with archangels, tear my nails
on all those petrified palmers’ handprints,
into which I’d press my desperation.
From Santiago I would come, burning,
like a bush that could never be consumed:
shriven, forgiven, ready for Heaven.
Now you too must go beyond the Gironde.
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