Fiddling with France

Cher Diary,

7ish. I wake up in a warm bed. As usual I am pleasantly surprised to find I am sharing it with a beautiful woman. We arise. Food is consumed, coffee skulled. We sheepishly make our way out of the house waiting to be slapped in the face by the cold wind, then jump into the back of Jean-Michel’s Ute and are taken up the winding gravel road to the cherry orchards.

This week we partake in the art of grafting trees (1), an art expressed through the slashing of a given tree with a chainsaw and the insertion of new shoots into its mutilated branches. This gives the tree new vigour and allows the farmer to develop new fruit varieties as well as cross pollinate.

The orchard is silent (2). One of the old grafters strikes a match, looking forward to his third cigarette of the day. His mate goes forth and does likewise. These guys have been up since 4.30am waiting to get into it. They start chatting in Southern French: ‘Cold innit’. ‘Shit yea, mind you it’ll be 20 degrees this afternoon and we won’t know what to wear’. ‘Bloody hot in the afternoons’. ‘Oh shit yea, bloody hot’. ‘Last week was freezing. Everything was frozen solid’. ‘Frozen solid (3) Bloody hell’ ‘Remember this time last year...’ This goes on all morning while they bang in fresh branches into old trunks with their sturdy weather-worn hands. Hannah’s vocabulary will improve quickly.

12pm. The 6^th cigarette is lit with a sigh to signify the arrival of the LUNCH BREAK. We are transported back down the hill for a 3-course meal at JM’s parents’ place. Dish after dish is presented to us. Guilt befalls my Anglo-Saxon mind as I contemplate this sloth and gluttony. With much inner flagellation I partake in the salads, boar, blue cheese, goat’s cheese, Brie, Camembert and wine.

I’m told we are currently observing Lent.

Herein lies the paradoxical nature of French culture- traditionally Catholic yet smartly secular; partial to old rites but primarily concerned with the sanctity of the lunch hour [Little do they understand of the sandwich-eating capitalist efficiency that has made NZ the superpower that it is today].

2pm. With the sun blazing down on us, we discuss returning to work.

2.10pm. We shed this morning’s outer garments and make our way back to the trees.

3.50pm. The silence creates a kind of sensory deprivation sending me into a world of hallucinations and megalomaniac day dreams.

6ish. Job done (4). Go home. Light the fire. Enjoy a variety of local beers and watch the Super 14 on the internet.

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Now for the obligatory analogies.

Here we are. Young shoots from the antipodes. We have been wacked into France and now must allow its sap to flow into us (wine, language etc) resting in the fact that, if we are looked after properly, whatever comes out the other end will be fruitful, unique and flavoursome... No. That picture breaks down on too many levels. Hang on...

Here we are- tree trunks that have had to cut off ties and comforts to experiment with something new. We are opening up to a new culture and giving of ourselves to it. Jean-Michel and Katy- our lovely farmers- are taking excellent care of us. The elements may wear us down and strange events may yet assail us. Nevertheless, our roots go deep and sustain us. You, dear whanau/friend are one of these roots. Let it be known that we hold on to your love, and live each day resting in the peace of belonging. Arohanui.

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Trivia: 1. typing ‘define:grafting’ into google search will be of little benefit to you- I got: ‘The Grafting is the third solo album by Christian rock singer and former Petra frontman, John Schlitt'. It is my humble opinion that “When Schlitt hits the fan” would’ve made this album more notable.

Do not image search grafting as it’ll show you pictures of skin grafts that will stick with you.

2. I cannot elude the perceptiveness of the reader. The deep silence of the hills was in fact occasionally perturbed by the whining of the chainsaw.

3. French conversation 101- put on an expressive face and repeat the end of the sentence you have just heard.

4. Copyright G. Duncan

5. Had to rescue the cat from a tree. It wasn't to keen to be saved and got a bit 'clingy' once it found my chest hair.