Cherry Time.

It is cherry time here in the Cevennes, South of France. I have watched them develop, over the month, from my walks along the banks of the Vidoroule with the whippets. We have a local, rather neglected orchard,  but this year they are prolific and suddenly the orchard it full with gatherers and their dogs, all chattering and barking under the trees. Huge baskets brimming over with the fruit. The whippets and I were deprived of our sneaky pocketful yesterday! Yes. I have a cherry loving whippet.
Then suddenly the clocktower strikes mid day and everything stops...silence... As if by magic tables and table cloths appear, bottles are uncorked and bread, cheese and saucison are liberally spread amongst the workers.


I love this about France. and I hate this about France. Generally this 12pm curfew is when I stick my head out of the door with the intention to hunt down a fresh croissant or a pint of coveted fresh milk. No chance.Everything shuts for three hours.


My body clock has no parity with that of my french cousins. I am slowly learning to understand that I have to do everything that applies to my bodily and household functions before mid day and then I can do what I get paid for apres midi. Most places are open from 3pm to 7pm, most especially all the favoured brocante shops that I love to haunt and cherry pick from!!


However, back to the orchard and today I noticed that one of the trees had died. Curled and brown it had just given up the ghost mid yield. The cherries were still relatively healthy, but unripe on it's branches,
but there was no one at all home. Neglected unborn children, still feeling the sun, but no chance of ever
coming to full term. It was quite a sad sight, as it stood, forlorn, along with all the others in the orchard healthy and heavy with ripe fruit.
Once I could  manage to separate the farmer's spaniel from the jaws of my whippets, I asked him what was the problem.  The reply came as a familiar french shrug...je n'sais pas. C'est une maladie!


If you have to be sick or even dying, so much better I feel to be suffering from a "maladie" than a disease. There is romance in a maladie. It conjures up pre Raphaelite women in languorous poses on velvet chaises. I liked this image and transposed it immediately onto the poor cherry tree. She was simply over come with the heat and demands of her children. Not dying, just in a faint for the season. The farmer seemed unconcerned and continued plucking the ripe fat healthy cherries. Very like the Pre Raphaelite painters I am lead to believe.