|
British Mensa Travel Special Interest Group |
|
Home Copyright
© |
A
Midsummer French Ramble by Bernard Colman From the beginning of June, the easing of the spreading of the foot and mouth disease in UK allowed a few of my British friends, ramblers & riders, to land in our French working farm. Between 4.30am and 6.00am, the cocks sound the bugle, with in the background there is a chorus of geese and guinea fowls. It is time to get up! Opening the shutters of my bedroom, I disturb a hare feeding on the winter carrots still in the kitchen garden. He waves his tail to say goodbye to me. I notice on my right a hen pheasant trying to get in the aviary with her mates and pigeons. On my left an eagle, on his way to a raven nest at the top of an oak tree, has been intercepted at a high altitude by one of its nestlords. Stuck together in freefall, turn after turn, the eagle gives up avoiding the contact with a black fighter squadron of five ravens. It's going to be a very good rambling day! For breakfast, everyone prepares their own brew. One Irishman has even come with his own tea. Every man has his own individual tastes, which are often at variance to those of others. However, disturbed by three successive waves of flying wild ducks landing in the moat on the edge of our farmyard, he manages to spill his tasty Irish tea all over the kitchen table. He is not the only one to be surprised in the act. Then a swallow enters through one of the open doors, frightens everyone to death with its twitterings during its three swift laps of the room, just under the ceiling, before withdrawing through the window. With the pond, the moat and the river Rongeres, our farm is an earthly paradise for swallows who are breeding in about 15 nests. From mid-August, early morning and late evening, just under 200 swallows meet in our farmyard for a chat about their next migration. With or without Irish tea, now it is time to put on our rambling shoes. 2001 is going to be a terrible year for the French farmers, because the weather is abnormal. So far, it has rained during five months without break until the end of May, so a good pair of rambling shoes is not a luxury. Passing by
the pond, about 10 moorhens bow themselves out, so I explain to my disappointed
mates how to get plenty of time for observing or taking pictures with
this sort of customer. Going down to the river on a very good dirt track
which passes through our estate, just behind the aviary, we come across
an army of 40 coaltits flanked by 20 bluetits, always moving in the thick
edges full of oak trees, and always singing. For those who are interested
in wildlife, binoculars are not a luxury either, and we have so many species
of birds that a pocketbook is indispensable. Having to deal with British
friends, we even have books in English about wild life, very useful to
put everyone in tune! Noon is approaching and, at the exit or a wide bend, we interrupt the lunch of an eagle. Doreen cannot believe what her eyes are seeing. The eagle has already started to tear off the skin of the hare. As they have been told, all mates stay standstill and quiet, so tranquilly the killer bird takes off with its prey and thanks us with a flick of its powerful wings. Talking about lunch, by the river we pass through a paradise for big snails which are going to land on our kitchen table next summer; but that will be a surprise for the present guests, so I keep my mouth shut. Up and down the dirt tracks all day, at a leisurely pace, we miss a lot and we manage to come across two farmers in the afternoon, when the wild animals are resting. However, on our way back, we cross again the Rongeres on a solid stone bridge downstream where a family of stoats is bathing. To keep those British quiet, what a job! However, cuckoos are holding their breaths, and unexpectedly an eagle owl is going to take Doreen's breath away. To attract females, cuckoos rely on their voices, even if they do not look so awkward. Every morning, one of them is landing on the ridge of the roof of one of the barns around the farmyard and shows off its plumage under the nose of the pigeons who chase the dandy when they are fed up. Beggars can't be choosers; half a loaf is better than no bread! This cuckoo must be looking for a hen pigeon. Every time the cuckoos start to sing, the British freeze to death on the track because apparently they never had a chance to listen to those mystic birds. Walking up slowly, with Doreen on my side, we lead a platoon of very excited ramblers. In one day out on the dirt tracks, they have planted their feet upon well over a dozen discoveries. Shrieks of anguish coming from a bush under an oak tree catch our eyes. Gradually and silently, we move toward the oak looking at the bush inquiringly. On the edge of the blackthorn, we watch the little game of a finch well dressed in a blue tinted overall, going up and down, left to right, and calling non-stop. Holding Doreen's hand, without moving even our little fingers and our noses, I am looking in the thick bush for a nest or a snake or both, when slowly I start to raise my eyes. And suddenly, at two metres above the ground, perched on a branch against the trunk, following all our moves with its binoculars, here he is, "Le Grand Due". As far as I know, the eagle owl species is extinct in UK and in many industrial states in France, but you still do run across a "Grand Due" in Auvergne sometimes, even if in the Middle Ages, the numerous castles of this state were full of lazy nobles! You can still visit their stone refuges today, but only a few of them are still in the nobles' hands. I was not very surprise to meet this Grand Duc, because every night he lands on the ridge of the roof of our living headquarters just to put to sleep our guests. When these sorts of ululations electrocute your sore body, then you understand that those shock waves are coming from a bird with a big chest. With its span of just under one metre, from the tip of his tail feathers to the top of his very, very long ears, this bird of prey means business. But with his tunic easily mistaken for the bark of an oak tree, it is nearly impossible to spot a "Grand Duc" in the woods and the forests around the Rongeres. On his guard, with his chest thrown out and all his feather up, this tough guy impresses us so deeply that we back off slowly. At sunset, very tired, I am just thinking about reaching home which I can now see, as soon as possible, when the Irish raises his arms. What next? At 20 metres from us, in a meadow on the edge of a wood, a harem of female roe deers are browsing. Nobody moves! In winter, herds of roe deer arrive in our farmyard. They are so many around Rongeres, that even the blind can see them. However the red deer from the north are starting to invade their territory. With my binoculars, I try in vain to find the roebuck because if this leader spots us or hears us, with its distress frostings, it will warn its females which will disappear in the twinkling of an eye. A few weeks before, with the help of the wind and the relief of the scenery, I managed to bring a British Mensan, with all his cameras and lens, to exactly 5 metres from a couple of roe deers. We were overlooking them, just hidden behind a little hedge where we stayed well over 15 minutes. Then the roe deers spotted us and flew faster than lightning. They reached the wood in three majestic bounds. Speechless, I was expecting a lot of cracking pictures until my dear Mensan friend confessed to me that he forgot to load his camera with a film. Typical Mensan! This evening, the roebuck is surely on duty with one of his females, so my friends enjoy for at least half an hour the spectacle. On my knees, I leave my excited friends, and head home with Doreen who manages to spot a fox going in the bushes around our pond. In the evening twilight, I catch the shadow of its tail. Yes, it is a fox and the moorhens are going to perform a grand opera until the intruder retires early morning tomorrow. Good Night! In spring, around Rongeres, every week end a commune organizes a Saturday or Sunday ramble which brings together between 200 and 300 rural people. As a social event, there is always a choice of four circuits, under 10, 20, 30, and 40km. For a mere £3 to £5, you will find on your way refuelling stations where you can pick drinks and cakes as you wish. On the finishing line, included in your £3 to £5, is a light meal which you share with the other ramblers. This year, I have been out many times, but I was not lit enough for the over 20 and 30 km. However, I am feeling much better now and my target circuits for next year are going to be over 30 km. Because, for the same price, we share also with the other ramblers on the dirt track a light lunch in the open, served of course at halfway. Mensa is
not too active here - it belongs to the ghosts. However, from next year,
on the dirt tracks, I am going to promote Mensa. Any help will be welcome.
So what is stopping you corning along? My British address and phone number
are in the Mensa yearbook! First published in VISA issue 44 (winter 2001) Sadly, since we first published this article from Bernard Colman, we heard the sad news that he has passed away. He will be much missed. We would like to offer our condolences to all Bernard's family and friends. |