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love and care
shaun deeney
40 episodes
9 months ago
shaun deeney writer and producer
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shaun deeney writer and producer
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Personal Journals
Arts,
Comedy,
Society & Culture,
Books
Episodes (20/40)
love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Eighteen
‘The art of living is more like wrestling than dancing.’
                                                                                 Marcus Aurelius
The time has come to say goodbye to naturism and hello to clothes and convention. It’s ten o’clock in the morning, and I’m standing at the gate leading from La Jenny to the familiar painted green cycle path of La Velodysée. My faithful steed is loaded up, trailer and all, and champing at the bit, more so than me I fear. I’ve got used to the comforts of home whilst I’ve been with the Lotus Eaters, and whilst I look forward to the ride, I don’t feel the same about sleeping in a tent again. And after so long our of the world, I feel rather overdressed in shorts and a t-shirt, but when in Rome…
Bordeaux with its international airport would be the quickest route home. It is just sixty-five kilometres due east. It would take me around three and half hours to cycle to the airport non-stop and if Michel were to make the journey with me, roughly the same time on horseback. By coincidence, the same distance due east of Bordeaux would have me knocking on the door of Michel’s chateau. Though the main house was rebuilt after a fire in 1885, his library where he wrote the essays remains almost as he left it, bar the fact that the books are gone and the desk that sits theatrically in the middle of the room facing the circular walls, is more likely set dressing by the hand of diligent tourism officers.
Still, the inscriptions that have been restored on the beams overhead are his choices, and the view from the window that I would guess looks out on a landscape the great would recognise instantly, makes the place hugely significant, to me, anyway, and to many other Michel afficianados. I’ve never really gone in for hero worship, but for Michel, I seem to have made an exception.
I know all this because I visited the chateau, oh, I don’t know, maybe ten or twelve years ago, whilst on driving holiday through France with an ex-partner I haven’t seen for a long time. I remember the day like it was yesterday. Michel would something to say about the time slip of memory.
Having decided it’s time to go home, I could have made it to the airport today and packed up the bike for a flight home from Bordeaux. But that felt like an over-reaction, and when I checked, it turned out to be expensive too.
Nor is making a dash for the north coast of France and the ferry back to the UK an option. I had always intended to go slowly, but my current rate of progress would have meant at least another four weeks on the road if I wanted to reach Roscoff on the north coast of Brittany. With campsites closing around me, there will only be fewer options as I head north and the weather grows colder. There’s no fun in that, but the grand gesture of pushing myself to finish for reasons of pride feels like something of an idée fixe too. I have my own way of dealing with being stuck in a groove, something I’m happy to share, though I stole it from a tutor in screenwriting. He said that if you get blocked writing a scene, ask yourself, ‘What’s the opposite of that?’ It frees up your thinking and can result in a sudden lifting of the weight of feeling you ‘should’ or you ‘must’.
Still, I’m ready to go home, and I’ve come up with a sensible compromise between dashing back and carrying on to the bitter end. If I push myself today, I would be only a short hop from Soulac-sur-Mer, and the twenty-five minute ferry ride across the estuary of the Gironde river, and that would put me in the Charente, another entirely new département, and the best staging post to strike out for the UK.
I will take the car ferry across the Gironde and ride on to île d’Oleron, from where I can get a small ferry direct to La Rochelle and from there a train...
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1 year ago
18 minutes 21 seconds

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Seventeen
‘The only journey is the one within.’
Rainer Maria Rilke
On my last day here among the Lotus Eaters at La Jenny, I’ve taken myself to the beach. I have a makeshift picnic with me, leftovers and some bread, and a bottle of wine. It’s good to breath the sea air and today the weather is exhilarating. There are waves maybe a metre high crashing onto the foreshore.
Nature in all its glory gives human worries and woes some scale. When my concerns are pitched against the elemental, when the weather has some fierce quality, as it does today, I often feel that I am calmer inside. Why that should be, I don’t know.
As I pull my knees up and stare out at the ocean, I’m thinking about home. There’s a few good reasons why. I spoke to my sister yesterday, and though she did her best to hide her fears, she said mum is obviously deteriorating. There was a choking incident, brought on by masked banana and custard, which has never caused a problem before now. And our mother is sleeping more and more, up to sixteen hours a day.
When I probed, it was clear there had been a marked deterioration in the weeks I’ve been away, and my sister, in trying to be brave, was feeling the strain and had to hold back tears. And I’m not there, and that’s not right.
And I’m thinking about my video chat with Lilly as I sit on my sarong in the middle of miles of sand stretching to left and right, and thousands of miles of ocean are just beyond the long, straight horizon.
‘There’s something I want to say to you, I said to her, something I should have made clear a long time ago.’
‘You remember back in the day when we seemed to be forever heading up to London at dawn for yet another appointment with the professor, or a scan, or an X-ray? God knows how often we made that trip, all through lockdowns too, with masks on, hand sanitizer?’
‘I do, though it seems like it happened to someone else now, not me,’ she said, ‘or not the me I am today.’
‘And do you remember how I used to joke with you in the car that it was all mum’s fault? She gave you the dodgy knees and the hips, willed them to you in her genes.’
‘Yeah, well, I may be innocent on joints, but on the demons, the self-doubt, the stuff that keeps you awake at night my love? It seems they’re exclusively my gift to you. Because I get those feeling too. I got the demons from my dad, and you got them from me. I would wish it different, but I can’t change who we are. What I can do is tell you not that I’m just sorry, but that I think I get it. I have a glimmer of understanding about what you’ve been through these last months, and how brave you’ve been, how hard you’ve tried to overcome fear. You’re not alone, that’s what I want you to know. None of this living business is easy, for anyone, and we all need a break. This is mine, and Greece will be yours. We’ll make it happen, I promise love.’
And it’s not only my sister, my mother and Lilly. I miss Megs hugely, Lilly’s elder sister. She’ll be head down and working hard, no doubt, but I’m sure she could use a walk and a talk together, just the two of us, as much as I could. When I don’t get to see her,  I feel bereft, like a part of me is missing. And then there’s Phil. He texted soon after I spoke to Lilly and I tried to call him, but there was no reply. It seems he has a date for the operation. His sisters are flying in from the UK and his brother-in-law is standing by to do what he can to support him. But a time will come soon enough when the surgery is over and the family have gone home, and the long process of recovery begins to drag. That’s where I come in, maybe only a month or two from now.
The draw of home, be it real or my vision of the future,
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1 year ago

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Sixteen
‘A day without laughter is a day wasted.’
Charlie Chaplin
 
There is a German woman staying in the chalet just across the way from mine.
We waved to each other in a cheery way as I moved in. She is alone it turns out, and we chatted briefly as I unloaded the bike, both of us clothed. She told me she is a regular here, that this place is her sanctuary from a busy life as a teacher in Dresden, and that she likes to meditate in the evenings. I told her about the ants and I think she understood, with a little ant acting on my part. Then we waved good evening and that was that. Which I think is kind of how it is here, live and let live. Naturism might be still a little silly to me in some ways, but it does seem to engender a kind of mutual respect, and I have to say I like that aspect very much. It’s as if one has stepped back to a point in time where discretion and politesse were the way of the world. Where how one looks, or is seen by others, is far from being the most important thing about a person, and clothes, or the lack of them doesn’t count at all. Which makes it much harder to judge by appearances. The human body comes in all shapes and sizes, and with so many on view, a sort of democracy emerges from the mix.
That at least is my impression, and as I settle in to my own little chalet and prepare breakfast for myself, I celebrate with music playing on the mini speaker I have hardly used on this journey. Right now, it’s country classics, don’t ask me why, and I’m singing along to The Gambler with Kenny Rogers on lead vocals, and online. Lilly bought a family membership and allowed her father to take a share. It would have been churlish to say no, and if I am a hypocrite, I plead guilty as charged.
I’ve had earbuds with me all along, but I haven’t wanted to block out the sounds of trees and sea. At home, I have music on all the time, from morning to night and especially when I’m cooking a Sunday lunch. Though I have to admit my record collection, mostly scratched Blue Note compilations I wore out in my twenties but can’t part with, hasn’t been played, or even dusted down in recent times. I bought a record player from the charity shop that sits forlorn by my desk, a reminder of fluff and needles and counterweights and the crackle and hiss of vinyl. Les temps perdu, but time now to head to the pool in a sarong and little else, bar my straw hat. Courage mon brave.
Michel wrote a whole essai, albeit a very short one, with the title, ‘On the Custom of Wearing Clothes’, in which he says:
‘I was disputing with myself in this shivering season, whether the fashion of going naked in those nations lately discovered is imposed upon them by the hot temperature of the air, as we say of the Indians and Moors, or whether it be the original fashion of mankind.’
But it’s another of his essais that interests me today and that I’m reading again as I lie here enjoying a lazy day after a cool and deeply refreshing swim. Many people about the pool are are about my age – probably retired with no need to rush home. There are also young families with small children who presumably have not had to return for school, entirely absorbed in each other, in playing and changing nappies and doing what parents and their offspring do all around the world. My sarong is laid out beneath me and my towel makes a decent pillow. I am comfortable and happy.
The essai is called On Presumption, and it’s from Book II, situated close to the end where, like On Experience, it acts as a kind of summation of Montaigne’s assessment of himself, at the point in time he wrote it, anyway.
The reason I’m re-reading it is that I remember thinking how candid he is about his failings in particular, something that impressed me as bold and truthful when I first encountered him.
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1 year ago
18 minutes 30 seconds

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Fifteen
‘Neither should a ship rely on one small anchor, nor should life rest on a single hope.’
Epictetus
The very lovely people at reception give me a map. With 756 chalets on site, I’m sure I would struggle to find my new home without it.
The setting is quite beautiful. After the flatlands of my ride so far, much of La Jenny is set on gently rolling slopes, albeit with more sand dunes that lie beneath. Tarmac lanes wind through pines with brightly painted chalets in reds and blues and yellows, shy amongst the trees, like exotic birds. Their pitched roofs and white soffit boards with wooden decks and railings, vary from the really quite grand to the charmingly ‘hygge’, that much overused Danish word meaning comfortable or cosy. I am so completely entranced that as I ride towards my own corner of the site, I can’t help but smile all the way.
It’s four o’clock in the afternoon by the time I reach my own humble abode, amongst the plainest on offer, but also the cheapest at fifty euros a night. That is precisely what I would pay for my tent, a half carafe of very ordinary white wine, and a lukewarm pizza. I am already high just by being here, but when I unlock the door and go inside my chalet, I am dizzy with delight. A bed, a kitchen, and an overhead shower that I can’t resist turning on to unleash a generous cascade of water that is hot within seconds. I am tempted to become a warm wet naturist this very moment. Like Odysseus’ crew, languishing with the soporific effects of the Lotus, if anyone were here to remind me of home and of my duty to return to my loved ones, I would resist with all my might and reach instead for another libation of leaves.
Instead, I stake my claim to my own little slice of heaven by piling tent and sleeping bag and air mattress in an unceremonious heap, stopping only to touch the cotton sheets on the bed, just to be sure they’re real. On the table, I put maps and penknife, phone and sunglasses, and then open the cupboards beneath the hob – a hob, mind! – to find pots and pans, plates and cutlery. I put the few items of food I have with me on a shelf, cornflakes as a treat and cans of tuna, labels facing out, spaghetti, a packet of biscuits and a baguette. I put the sweaty cheese and a small jar of mayonnaise, together with a bottle of rosé I picked up at a supermarket on the way, in the fridge. I linger for a moment to savour the sound of the machine already on and humming with cool air. This trip is about finding my way home, and here I am, magically transported to a place that within minutes feels like home.
Half an hour later, my sunburned skin glowing pink after the shower, it dawns on me that I have to decide what to wear, and for a moment, I’m stumped. What exactly constitutes appropriate dress in a naturist resort? Especially given the pool and the onsite supermarket are a bike ride away from my chalet. I opt for a short-sleeved shirt and a sarong of sorts. In my travels over the years, I’ve taken to having with me an all-purpose piece of material that can act as a blanket, a towel, a tablecloth for picnics, and a sarong, assuming I can remember how to tie it securely. I once worked in Malaysia where I learned that the secret is to tuck one side into the other and then roll the top down to keep the cloth tight around the waist. Self-conscious, I check myself in the skinny full-length mirror and summon up some courage. I’m not used to skirts. I hope my modesty will survive the bike ride. Time to venture forth and shop for fresh vegetables and butter and milk and coffee, and a treat, a steak maybe, as slap up supper for my first evening in paradise.
 
The chill cabinet in the supermarket is brightly lit and the cold air is refreshing, so I linger in choosing what I want. Other happy campers come and go, some clothed, some not,
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1 year ago

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Fourteen
‘The past is never dead. It’s not even past.’

                                                     William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun
 
I’m standing on the jetty at Arcachon, waiting for the ferry that will take me and the bike and a dozen other passengers across to Cap Ferret. Today, putting all other thoughts behind me, I begin the journey again, with the thrill of crossing the bay by boat and looking back at the land from the sea for the first time on this trip.
To pass the time, I’m breaking my vow to avoid using my phone yet again, and looking up news reports of the wildfires. I found a photo that shows the exact spot where I’m standing now, and the sheer scale of the smoke wreath from only a few weeks ago, and it looks like a war zone.
Whilst I’ve been here, there’s been a heat wave. Temperatures that were averaging thirty to thirty-two are more like thirty-six to thirty seven. I’ve felt no incentive to cycle in that kind of weather.
Somehow, three days have passed quickly in this seaside resort made famous by its nineteenth century villas, strange and colourful gothic creations that pepper the Ville d’Hiver. An eclectic mix of influences from the Moorish to the Colonial, and some as if Switzerland had come to France, are mashed together in breath taking combinations that are part theme park, part monument to bourgeois living and the Belle Époque, all in a style that has become known as Mode Pittoresque. Turrets and outrageous hammer beams with showy wood traceries support pantiled roofs that cantilever over elaborate balconies, many enclosed by painted glass screens, each grander than the next, four and five stories high with walls of brick in stripes of red and white, and around every corner is another competitor in the race to impress.
With an old casino modelled on The Alhambra in Spain, and four districts to the town, each named after the seasons, this is a place for le flâneur, the ‘stroller’ or ‘lounger’, a man who walks the streets preoccupied perhaps with literary matters, maybe nursing a consumptive constitution, but actually hoping for a brief encounter, an interlude to break life’s ennui with a flirtation. Arcachon is the setting I imagine for Chekhov’s Lady with the Lapdog, an affair that will go nowhere, but will pass the time. Thomas Mann could have set Death in Venice here, and one of my favourite painters, Pierre Bonnard, painted here at least once. Toulouse Lautrec had a house on the seafront and Alexandre Dumas lived here for a while, but this town was born as one the first expressions of mass tourism in the 1870s. Trains opened up this coastline, not just to the Bordelaise coming from the city an hour away, but also to Parisians looking to take the waters and enjoy the sea air in an age when tuberculosis still had no cure.
Maybe I shouldn’t have lingered so long, but it was not just the weather that influenced my decision. The architecture and the genteel atmosphere of the promenades fascinated me. After so long amongst the pines and dunes, such a concentration of ‘civilisation’ in one small resort has been like a luxury vacation, and a step back in time. I could almost imagine myself a latter day flâneur, bumping into Guy de Maupassant and stopping for a coffee to gossip about those around us, before going back to our hotels to work on short stories about our day.
My prolonged stay in Arcachon has also given me time to plan ahead, and I have made a radical decision, so radical that as we troop down the gangplank to board the ferry, I have the odd sense that people might guess my destination. I settle myself in a seat open to the air with my bike propped against the gunwales. The lines are cast off and we reverse away from the piles of the jetty and turn towards the far shore.
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1 year ago

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Thirteen
No one saves us but ourselves. We ourselves must walk the path.”  
Buddha
The sky is copper-bronze, and the sun a burnished shield of cadmium orange. Streaks of thin black cirrus clouds are black silhouettes, as if painted on a Greek vase. Homer, it seems, can be addictive.
I am atop the Dune du Pilat, All around me are maybe a hundred people with exactly the same idea, here to witness the world in a state of becoming, or unbecoming as it is now evening, and to court a moment of awe. At least I hope that’s the case, because that line T. S. Eliot filched from Dante, ‘I had not thought death had undone so many,’ is drifting through my consciousness.
But I am not dead, even if some of my guests are, and nor are the people around me. Far from it. There’s chatter, and laughter, and animated conversations. This is less a mystical experience, and more like a music festival, with us, the audience, awaiting the headliners, Moon and the All Stars.
It’s seven-fifty. Sunset is listed online as eight-forty two. I’m tapping my fingers to the distant doof-doof of a boom box someone has thought to bring with them. It’s all a tad self-conscious, but I’m beginning to enjoy the absurdity of so many of us waiting reverently for a spinning rock in the void to turn a few degrees more to the east. The sun’s perfect disc is only a width away from the horizon, and I’m sure I can feel the earth’s rotation in the sun’s orbit through the sand beneath me. Or maybe it’s the rosé.
I am happy to say that most, if not all of my fellow duners, have brought their own food and drink. Many have come with blankets to sit on and whole hampers of good things           §. I had to trek some distance from the long wooden steps leading up here to find somewhere I could comfortably call my own. I’ve laid out my sleeping bag as picnic blanket, with my bottle of rosé, plucked deliciously cold from the supermarket chill cabinet, sweaty in the warm air. The very basic repas I’ve put together out of a whole pain rustique, a wedge of Comté cheese, some green olives, with fresh tomatoes, a little lettuce, and a rare tin of Dolmades, rice wrapped in vine parcels that I’m hoping will give the meal a Greek flavour. I struggled with the dessert menu and opted to keep things simple; yoghurts, framboise times two, and a bar of Milka chocolate, the one with crushed hazelnuts.
Half an hour later and the disc is a dome, as simple as a child’s drawing, and shimmering as it extinguishes itself in the wine-dark sea. To my surprise, people are leaving already, though the show is at its most grand and operatic moment. Full darkness is coming on fast and perhaps they want to negotiate the hundred and sixty-eight steps up here whilst there is still light to see by. Others are huddling together as the temperature drops, illuminated by phone screens and head torches, speaking less and in voices that are hushed by the coming on of night, and soon, we reduced to shadows and nightlights dotted over the great dune, like candles on a cake.
I’ve had all the food I want, but the others are still eating, enjoying earthly delights whilst they can. Epicurus is as good as his word, happy drinking water and contentedly munching some bread and cheese. Odysseus is somewhere out there in the dark chatting with some folk he said he’d heard speaking Greek, and he’s dragged a reluctant Marcus with him. Telling old war stories, no doubt. Nhất Hạnh and my grandfather seem to be engaged in some kind of mindfulness meditation, sitting side by side with their eyes closed with a thumb pressed against each nostril in turn. All these folk have been there for me at one time or another, usually a time of crisis, but it’s rare for me to be with any of them simply to socialise and enjoy a sunset. Rarer still to do it all together.
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1 year ago
17 minutes 29 seconds

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Twelve
be the dawn and dusk
of a world in constant flux –
embrace becoming!
                        Haiku
I said my goodbyes to Landes almost as soon as I set off this morning, and though only a dotted line on the map, a new département makes it feel like I’m making progress.
I’ve been riding parallel with the D218, though for most of it, the cycle path runs well away from the traffic so the ride is leisurely and peaceful. I’m heading due north between the sea and the Étang de Cazaux, one of the largest freshwater lakes in this part of France, fifty-five square kilometres in area, straddling the border between the Landes and the Gironde. The tarmac of the path is new – no bulging tree roots or water holes to look out for – and there are even white lines, like a mini-road. Before I know it, the short 20K hop brings me to the gates of my campsite, close to the dune.
This is a big tourist area and the majority of the sites have expensive wooden cabins to rent in advance, but very few pitches for the lone traveller with a tent. I’ve got used to checking in to meet that very Gallic shrug with the pursed lips indicating I don’t conform, but this time, I’ve chosen right. The majority of my fellow campers are like me, on bikes, motorcycles, or in overloaded suburban cars, with tents of all shapes and sizes, together with an atmosphere of heady anarchy. One reason, I’m sure, apart from the sheer joy of being on holiday, is that through the spindly pine trees the Yelloh! Village Panorama du Pyla campsite borders both the sea and the dune.
It’s just two o’clock in the afternoon so many of the campers – mostly French to judge by the number plates on the cars and vans – are still finishing their lunches inside or outside their tents. The rough track to and from the beach is mine to enjoy bar a few children playing with pinecones or riding bikes around and around in circles. As I stroll, I have a sense of satisfaction; I’m here, I’m coping, and I’m even making progress in my quest to explore new lands and find my way home again. I may not be a hero, but I am becoming the outsider I set out to be, with a quieter mind, less connected and yet more present to the immediate world around me. This is why I made this trip, for moments like this, when I can hardly remember my former self, a carer, a father, a middle aged man with questions about himself and his place in the world. I just am.
With the promise of the cool ocean, I find my place on the longest beach I’ve ever seen, arcing south to the horizon in an endless sweep of sand and trees, whilst to the north, the great dune looks like the smooth back of a sleeping giant, featureless and immense. Today the Atlantic breakers, normally so impressive on this coast are sleeping. Only lazy swells are visible on the horizon where the water’s surface has the gentle rhythm of a slow dance. Wavelets reluctantly expire on the beach to seep into the wet sand leaving thin lines of foam.
I put my things in a pile and head for the sea. I’m ginger treading the hot sand above the waterline and I can feel the burn on the soles of my feet. My moon steps leave no print until I reach the cool flat of the sea-washed sand. The first cool rush of a shallow wave rises up my shins and almost to my knees with the torque of an ocean three thousand kilometres wide, stretching all the way from Newfoundland to where I am wading deeper into French waters. When it reaches my waist, I dive, and the salt-cold soup boils around my ears and nose. I reach out with both arms, pulling against the water, eyes closed, blind and weightless, until I come up for air and roll onto my back to wallow like an upturned turtle. I blink away the seawater and squint up at the washed out sky, white in the glare of the sun. Now I can feel the swell, lifting and lowering me in slow motion,
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1 year ago
13 minutes 46 seconds

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Eleven
‘The only way to have a friend is to be one.’
Ralph Waldo Emerson
I am on my way to see one of the natural wonders of Europe, it’s biggest sand dune, and a jewel in the crown of the Gironde region; Grande Dune du Pilat, sixty million cubic metres of sand, five hundred metres wide, two point seven kilometres long, rising up from the flat coastal plain to stand a hundred metres above sea level.
With more than two million visitors a year, despite the recent fires this year and the August holiday season reaching its end, I am sure I will not be alone on the massive dune. But as I chew up the miles, my mind wanders its own path, unfettered by reality, and I’m beginning to invent a cunning plan to beat the crowds and lay the groundwork for a very personal epiphany. I’m thinking to climb the dune in the evening, as late as regulations permit. I want to sit atop all that sand and watch the sun sink in the west over the ocean, and I want to invite a few friends to join me. I’m used to having a natter with Montaigne as I ride, but I’m now imagining a small group of notables, each of which in their own way has been there for me at critical times in my life when I’ve sought guidance and wisdom.
I am refining my guest list as I ride, but given the location and the short notice, it may be as well that everyone on the list is dead. This also means none are likely to be otherwise engaged and takes the pressure off the catering arrangements, which might well amount to little more than some bread and cheese and a few olives. I’ve had a definite yes from two invitees, three if you count my grandfather who was there for me at the roadside on Day One. Montaigne has no choice, given that he’s come this far and goes where I go. Odysseus, ditto. And given that he – or Homer, or both – love a good rosy-fingered dawn or dusk, I think he’ll find the view spectacular after so long riding the coastal plain at sea level.
There is someone else I would very much like to come, a well known man who lived for many years in a place called Plum Village, that happens to be just down the road from Montaigne’s home. His name is Thích Nhất Hạnh, the most famous Buddhist monk and Zen master in the world. He wrote many books and became a global spiritual leader, a man who lived a simple life surrounded by nature, with his acolytes around him, retaining his precious humility right up until his death, only a short time ago. I shouldn’t be greedy, but I’m tempted to ask Epicurus and Marcus Aurelius if they can make it. I read that in the nineteen-twenties, funeral urns from ancient times were discovered in the sand, and given the dune’s vantage point on the vast ocean and the setting sun, I think the spiritual and mythic qualities of the place will be a draw for each of my guests, all in their own ways.
There is a glaring gender bias in my guest list. But if this little soirée smacks of locker rooms and drinking parties, I can only say there have been very significant women in my life who been there for me in critical times, and in a much more tangible way. Grandmother, mother, sister, my two daughters and those partners who’ve shared time with me, for example. All have provided guidance and wisdom, and above all love, at a very practical level, where my boy’s own club have tended to be there for me on paper only.
I am also open to charges of bias in choosing only dead men. Here, my reasoning fails. The excuse that I am fearful at the prospect of my own death doesn’t altogether hold water, though knowing these guys are making their way from the afterlife to join me in a light repas atop the dune does something to calm my fears.
 
I wonder if some part of my brain didn’t invent my fantasy repas as a distraction to stop me thinking about Phil, because he’s been much in my mind,
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1 year ago
17 minutes 33 seconds

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Ten
‘In walking, just walk. In sitting, just sit. Above all, don’t wobble.’
Yun-men, 9th century Chinese Chan master
 
There is no doubt any longer.
As I ride, the smell of smoke is quite distinct in the air, the result of the recent fires, particularly around Hostens, an area only fifty kilometres east of where I am today, en route for Biscarrosse Plage.
I thought maybe I could see the fires on the solemn faces of those people shopping in Mimizan this morning, but it was probably my imagination.
I stopped in the town soon after setting off from my campsite on the coast, after spending the night lying on the hard ground, and having firmly decided that I could not do another night without a mattress of some kind, not if I want to survive this trip. Ironically enough, as I arrived, it began to rain, giving the atmosphere a wet smokiness like the day after a bonfire. There was a shower the other day, gone almost as soon as it had arrived, but today is proper rain, mizzle some call it, a sea fret that has come inland to make its presence felt, and for me at least, it is welcome to stay all day.
The town has plenty of shops of all kinds, from supermarkets to tourist outlets, but not a camping store per se. Which means my choice is limited. I can buy an inflatable ‘lilo’ – the kind one sees in swimming pools, playthings for children and adults alike that double up under any weight and would not last a night on the forest floor unless I was to buy a yoga mat, or something similar, to go beneath.
The alternative is a single mattress of the kind one might keep about the house and use as a spare bed when visitors come to stay. I found it in a hardware store after looking up the word in French – matalas d’air. I was fortunate that the assistant in the hardware store only needed the French words I’d rehearsed on the way in to lead me straight to a boxed, deep blue mattress for thirty euros and automatically assumes I will need a pump to go with it. I took both, and made my way back to the bike to try and figure how I would fit this bulky new item in the fancy trailer. After much rearranging, I managed, and felt an enormous sense of relief that when I reach my destination this evening, I can look forward to my first good night’s sleep in forty-eight hours.
 
The challenge today is ambitious, for me at least; around forty-five kilometres, and the cooler air under overcast skies with the ground and vegetation wet only helps. Any regular cyclist worth their salt would scoff at my rate of progress. But I am not a regular cyclist, and as I keep reminding myself, this is not a race and even if it were, I am competing only with myself.
Besides the copy of Montaigne’s selected Essais, I have a ring bound guidebook that can be folded back on itself to reveal the route of La Velodysée in handy stages, just the right size to slide beneath the plastic map holder atop my handlebar bag, and so easily visible as I ride. Yesterday evening, I took it with me to the campsite restaurant, where I was forced by my budget to eat the cheapest thing on the menu, yet another pizza, though I let caution go hang with a full carafe of cheap white wine, intended as a sleeping draft. As I studied the next stage of my journey, I noticed that the route no longer hugged the coast, but veered east to go around an inland lake marked on the map as Hydrobase de Biscarosse.
There was nothing in my book to explain why I would be making a substantial detour to go around the lake and not follow the coast as I have done until now. I wondered if I was mistaking a road for the cycle path, so I got out the large scale Michelin map I’d brought with me to double check. Even with more detail, to the west of the lake, where the Atlantic lies, the map showed absolutely nothing; just a large patch of green, with beaches but without roads,
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1 year ago
18 minutes 9 seconds

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Nine
‘What cannot be cured, must be endured.
Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy
My nightly ablutions always involve a walk in my PJs past my fellow campers, bearing wash kit and towel, to a communal concrete building that is generally uninviting.
The wash blocks are all the same and all different in a way that makes no difference. They are generally smelly and the floors are always wet, no matter what the time of day, it seems. Some have showers that must be paid for with a coin, others use tokens, and others still provide hot water free of charge, though only at peak time in the mornings and the evenings. They are usually open to the air in some way, and they may be busy or deserted according to some habitude amongst the camping fraternity, or maybe a shared French custom, like the time one eats, lunchtime being sacrosanct and remarkably consistent wherever you go in this country. They will resent me saying so, but there is a conformist instinct in the French, perhaps a symptom of a certain chauvinism and a conscious sense of a shared culture, that we English lack. Or maybe we have our national characteristics, but disrupted by the persistence of a class riddled society that continues to make customs like tea and dinner mean very different things to different people.
The great leveller for all nationalities is to share the utilitarian sanctuary where you strip off your clothes, shave, shower, go to the toilet and clean your teeth. Shower blocks remind us of our common humanity, though I often find myself alone, or with only one or two companions, and I’m not at all sure ‘companions’ is quite the right word. My French is not good enough to hold a conversation of any length or depth, but the etiquette of these places is not geared towards getting to know one another, and that’s a relief. I’m learning that in lieu of passing the time of day, a clipped ‘Bonjour’ is as far as you should go in acknowledging anyone you meet at the basins or making their way to and from the stalls or the showers. More often, a nod of the head or better still, no expression at all is perfectly acceptable, even preferable.
Tonight, I feel no small satisfaction in the achievement of the day. Fifty kilometres according to the sat nav on my phone – the one I swore I wouldn’t use – fifty-two point four kilometres to be precise. I’ve reached Vielle-Saint-Girons and I’m staying at a site called Camping Eurosol. I walk back to my humble home past elaborate smoking barbeques and sneaked a look into the cosy interiors of oversized white camper vans and caravans I pass, their occupants ranged around tables under good, old-fashioned electric light, and felt a twinge of envy. But as I make my way back from what was a very hot shower to see my tent glowing softly in the distance, lit by my solar lamp, the mattress fully self-inflated under my crumpled sky blue down sleeping bag, I’m quietly proud of myself to be here, to be alone, and to be alright.
I pack my wash kit in the left hand pannier ready for the morning. I hang my damp towel out, knowing it won’t dry tonight, but positioning it as best I can to catch the first rays of the sun in the morning.
I’m wearing my version of pyjamas, cotton harem pants and a t-shirt, and debating whether to leave both on as I unzip the tent, at least until I warm up in the sleeping bag. It cost s something to bend my aching legs and get so low to the ground at the end of a long day, but I’m ready to be horizontal, though I know I’ll sleep soundly for a few hours, only to wake in the night and doze fitfully until morning. I’ve never been a good sleeper. Megs inherited insomnia from me, even as a baby. She didn’t sleep through the night for the first two years of her life. Not until we took her into our bed and she lay between us, comforted and happy,
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1 year ago
14 minutes 47 seconds

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Eight
engulfing sorrow
sly tide on a shallow shore
submerge me alone!
Considering the cycle path runs pretty straight, south to north, with few branches in other directions to confuse me, I often stop to check the map just for a break. I take the chance to be consciously present in the moment by noting, quite dispassionately, my unchanging surroundings and feeling some sense of achievement at every staging post, each new to me, though they do look uncannily familiar.
Occasionally, fellow travellers pass by and wave or say, ‘bonjour’. We smile at each other, acknowledging we are on the same journey, this way or that, all following the same route between land and sea. But there are not many and few stop to chat so usually it is just me, alone with the pines, each tree a carbon copy of its companions, uniform sentinels of this landscape, a silent crowd, an army in formation, like the third century terracotta soldiers of Qin Shi Huang, China’s first emperor, guards, charged with protecting him in the afterlife. And whether because I’ve been so long in suburbia, the quiet monotony of the pine forest is rather confronting at first. My honour guard has an eerie quality. I’m more used to the endless variety of a deciduous forest, gnarled oaks and wispy silver birch reaching up for their share of sunlight; Larch and Beech and Maple, each with their own timetable of colour and leaf fall, and my favourite tree, the Aspen, Populus tremula, with its silvery leaves that shiver in the breeze and sound like the sea seeping through pebbles.
There’s a whole stand of Aspens behind the bungalow where my sister and mother and I often sit in the summer as if we were in deckchairs by the ocean, just looking and listening. The pines, by contrast say nothing, though I’ve no doubt that when an Atlantic storm hits the shores, they show their feelings.
Just in passing, Aspis, the Greek name for the Aspen, means shield. The lightweight wood of the tree was thought perfect for making the metre-wide circular shields the Greeks used in battle. ‘The Tree of Heroes’, as they called the Aspen, took on magical properties and the trembling leaves gave the power to visit the Underworld and to return safely. At a more earthly level, the dried wood of the Aspen is so buoyant, Greek soldiers could use their shields to help them float across rivers, using the buoyancy like undersized coracles.
The very tops of the pines are moving in the breeze today, but I can’t feel the breeze down here on the cycle path. Still, there is shade and the water in my bottle is still cold from the night, so I decide to stop and sit awhile. With my conscious mind preoccupied by the routine of the road, my unconscious emerges from the shadows to play and I get a chance to watch, or listen, to my own thoughts just as Michel did in his study. This is a quite different kind of thinking than I’m used to from the endless priorities and problems to be solved in the usual run of things, one that in effect involves not thinking. Time is plentiful out here, along with fresh air and the insouciance of nature letting me be.
I lay my sleeping bag out just off the path, keen to put a soft layer between me and the needles and cones that litter the ground. I sit, cross-legged if my stiff muscles will give a little, and still my mind to make my peace with the pines. Monotony has a meditative quality all of its own, one that encourages intuition to go to work and I want to grab some of the mindfulness of the moment. In his essai, On Solitude, Michel says:
‘…we must reserve a backshop, wholly our own and entirely free, wherein to settle our true liberty, our principal solitude and retreat.’ 
Trappist monks, for instance, are said to cherish the monotony of their lives. Monastic life is Spartan and rigidly organised days where repetitive rounds of work and prayer lead to an u...
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1 year ago
18 minutes 3 seconds

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Seven
‘Hope is a waking dream.’
Aristotle
I was well aware that camping was likely to be challenging after so long sleeping in a double bed with many pillows and a generous duvet. I had thought the ten days with my daughters might act as a kind of boot camp, even allowing for the fact that our tent was roomy and well equipped where my new sleeping arrangements are rather more basic. But it’s taking a while to adjust.
In planning this trip, I’d spent many a happy hour looking online at equipment that might mitigate the worst impacts of sleeping out at night and especially sleeping on the ground. I’d found a self-inflating mattress, bright orange and ghoulishly shaped like a coffin, but immensely practical, requiring no air pump, nor the terrifying head rush I might suffer from blowing the thing up myself, and packing down to almost nothing when deflated.
The excitement at finding the mattress led me naturally to a tent billed as self-erecting. Now you’re talking, I thought, and if I could hear Kenneth Williams from the Carry On films guffawing in delight at the notion of anything ‘self-erecting’, I didn’t hesitate. I would be moving often on this trip, and the image I had of myself making camp in minutes and packing up just as quickly in the mornings was worth every penny I paid to make that come true. These items were not luxuries, just damn good planning.
Once I’d started, I couldn’t stop. I need scarcely say that a self-inflating pillow was next to arrive in the post. Then there was the solar light that would hang from the apex of the tent at night and permit me to read as long as I wished, then charge itself during the day, strapped to the trailer with its starfish arms to the sun. There would be no need to worry about charging my phone either. That would plug in to a folding panel that would also adorn the bike as I chewed up the kilometres, carefree and with very little to do other than pedal, admire the scenery, and think great thoughts.
And yet, despite these innovations, camping remains, well, camping. The last two nights, I’ve arrived just as the welcome cool of the evening is coming on and the sweat of the ride brings a slight chill to my body. The weather has been hot, and the sun a constant, so it’s a relief. The paths are only partially shaded and I slow noticeably when I hit a patch that gives me a break from direct sun on my back. Then, Ill stop to drink water from the bottle strapped to the rear rack with a bungee and always within reach. I’d read that in these sort of temperatures, two litres a day was a minimum, and I’ve made an effort to keep hydrated, though the water is lukewarm and a little unpalatable. I wear a bandana around my neck as sun protection, as a sweatband, and partly because I have the absurd feeling it fits the ideal in my mind of the seasoned long distance traveller.
I’m only averaging thirty kilometres a day. Despite my sedentary life at home, I could do more. My muscles are not complaining as much as they might, the route is flat as a pancake and there are sufficient hours in the day. But this is not a race and I like to take my time. I stop for coffee whenever I stumble upon an inviting café, and yesterday, I took a first swim in the ocean, which was marvellous. Just knowing this is the Atlantic Ocean stretching west to the Americas inspires awe. The heaving breakers underline the vastness that lies beyond and gives the ocean a mighty quality that is thrilling for a man used to the south coast of Britain and La Manche, the English channel as we call it, where you’re aware the landfall on the other side is only tens of miles distant.
There’s paperwork to do when you arrive at a campsite. And there are chores to do. I have to clear the ground of pine cones and rocks, hang a washing line from tree to bike to dry your sweat-soaked clothes,
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1 year ago
18 minutes 5 seconds

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Six
‘The journey of life is like a man riding a bicycle…if he stops moving…he will fall off.’
William Golding
Day Three and my somewhat saddle sore life –despite the padded shorts – is concerned solely with questions of comfort and survival.
This is a good thing, I guess. This is why I chose to make this journey, to quiet the monkey chatter the better to hear myself think, to become a traveller and so an outsider, able to see myself objectively from the distance of the road. I try to think nothing, though I’m worried about Lilly, of course I am. I couldn’t get her on the phone, but I spoke to Megs and she tells me things are okay though she’s been so busy with work they’ve hardly seen each other. I got through to my heroic sister, who is the reason I’m able to make this trip, and she promised me she was coping well with the care of our mother and said I shouldn’t worry. But I do, about them all and about Phil who is right now going through chemo. His next session is in a couple of days, and I’ll call him then. Not that there’s much I can achieve by worrying. Besides, I’m here to break with that mind set, the yellow alert status that means I’m constantly wired to act or intervene, or just listen, and my quest is only helped by the fact that each day is turning out to be very like the day before.
Since I left l’environs de Bayonne, I have been surrounded by nothing but pristine pine forest, monotonous and uniform with no sign of fire, and with endless sand dunes bordering the sea. The Atlantic is seldom more than a kilometre away from the route of la Velodysée, and often just a few hundred metres away. I am usually riding a tarmac path wide enough for two bicycles to pass each other in comfort with no cars in sight and surprisingly few fellow travellers. Occasionally, the path becomes part of a road, but the route is still clearly marked with reassuring signs to keep you on track.
I am not complaining. The unchanging nature of the landscape brings with it a certain calm, a capitulation to the automatic action of my legs going around and around, the path stretches out before and behind, so much the same in each direction that when I do stop, I have to think twice about which way I should be going. There is a sense of refuge in the liminal, in being neither here nor there, but somewhere in between.
 
I have yet to reach the areas of Landes most affected by the recent fires. They are inland and to the northeast of where I am. But whether in my imagination or not, I get the sense that the shock waves of the devastation have been felt here too. I know there are vast tracts of land affected – I’ve seen reports of 20,000 hectares, around two hundred square kilometres – and I wonder if I can’t smell smoke from time to time. Though it’s more the psychological impact that is palpable in a certain subdued atmosphere and fewer tourists than I expected for August, traditionally the height of the French holiday season.
Which is not to say that as I make my pilgrim’s progress at a stately seven or eight kilometres an hour – the pace of a walking horse, as it happens – along the unchanging paths, I am feeling subdued myself. Rather, I feel much lighter than I did at home, more alert and with less clutter in my mind and with a simple task to accomplish each day, getting from A to B, and a host of chores necessary to keep me going. Buying and packing sufficient drinking water is a constant when the air temperature is thirty plus. It is not hard to imagine how the forest fires took hold in these temperatures, where twenty-eight degrees is a relief and clouds in the sky are longed for mirages, harbingers of rain that never quite fulfil their promise. The heat is one more justification for taking things slowly and keeping the daily mileage, or kilométrage, low.
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1 year ago
15 minutes 22 seconds

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Five
‘You only grow when you are alone.                                                       
Paul Newman
 
I’ve wheeled the bike down to the gates of the campsite, panniers fully laden and my fancy trailer firmly attached to the rear rack. The girls have walked down with me and stand by as I make final adjustments to the bungees holding everything in place. I fold the map to show the first leg of the journey, and slide it into the plastic window atop the handlebar pannier.
We’re okay. I know my daughters were talking late into the night, and none of us got much sleep, but I think we’re okay. Though it will be hard to say goodbye in a few minutes time. And I do believe they have very real concerns that I’m not going to make it home in one piece. They’re looking at me as if willing me not to go.
‘It’s a gentle bicycle ride,’ I say, ‘I’m not climbing a mountain or going caving. I’m just tootling along by the sea, taking my time and drinking wine. D’accord?‘
Megs says, “Will you please be careful though?”
“I won’t be pulling any wheelies, not with all this kit.”
I hug her tight for the longest time, and then I go to Lilly and she opens her arms wide. I can’t read her expression. It’s so hard to let her go, but when I do, I’m relieved to find she’s looking right into my eyes, and smiling too.
“It’s going to be fine,” I say, and she knows I mean for us both.
“I know Dad, I’m okay, really.”
I don’t want to linger, this is hard enough as it is, so I hug them both again and then begin to wheel the bike down to the road. I turn and give something like the bravado wave of a circus performer and prepare to mount my steed. But as I swing my leg over, I catch my foot on the crossbar and though I manage to hold the bike and trailer upright, I stumble.
‘Fine! All fine. Here we go!’
I’ve got a helmet, but I’m damned if I’m riding away wearing it. I look daft enough already in my padded shorts designed to protect my ageing ass and a cycling top that reveals rather more paunch than I might wish to own.
As I wobble away towards the coast road, I change down a gear to make the peddling easier, and risk a backward glance or two as I go. They’re still there. It’s a family tradition to wave until you’re out of sight, but I don’t know if I can manage to do that and stay upright. Finally, the road bends, and with a last trembling glance over my shoulder, my beautiful daughters disappear from sight and I’m on my way, talking out loud to myself about going the wrong way round roundabouts, stunned to find myself at the start of a foolhardy adventure that was, until this very moment, nothing but an idle fantasy.
Ten kilometres later, and I’ve negotiated the streets of Biarritz centre ville, taken the back roads through its suburbs, and joined the D260, busy, but the most direct route to Bayonne. I had to leave before the girls because I needed to make it to a campsite in good time. I’ve picked a place that is the other side of Bayonne, close to the Atlantic coast, and I think I’ve reserved a pitch there online, but you never know. So I’m allowing two hours to get there and an hour to sign in at reception – which closes at five, along with the gate, apparently – and set up the tent. I’ve got more than enough time, but I want to play it safe on Day One.
I check my phone for the time, but for the route, I’m relying on the map. I mean to start as I intend to go on. My daughters may well be on their way to the airport by now, but they won’t take off until 4.30pm, and by then, I’m aiming to be through Bayonne and on the other side of the Adour river,
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1 year ago
16 minutes 55 seconds

love and care
Happy Hour Teaser
HAPPY HOUR (working title)
Pam is ninety years old and lives with Parkinson’s dementia. She’s also dying, but Pam is a lucky woman.
For eight years now, her two grown up children, both in their sixties, have done everything they can to look after their mum in her own home. But their love and care has come at a price. Shaun has experienced anxiety attacks, and his sister Karen has had to cope alone. Only a sense of humour has kept them going.
Now they face a greater challenge in letting their mother go. Pam sleeps for up to eighteen hours. She has trouble swallowing, and her skin tears like paper. There’s a ‘cocktail’ of drugs in the bedside cabinet to combat agitation and distress. ‘Just in Case Meds,’ the doctor calls them.
‘It’s time to leave the care to us,’ says Jo, the palliative nurse ‘and for you to be a family again, and there’s the hospice or a nursing home if that’s what you want.’
What they want – desperately – is a good death for their mum. That’s what we all want. Nature decides when, but Pam’s children must choose how and where. Because dying is seldom easy. And it can be hard to witness, too.
All that’s certain is that the summer ahead is precious. They’re determined to take time out – as they’ve always tried to do – from the chores, and the fears. Time to banter and be close to mum. Time to reflect on their lives to date. And time to figure out what they’ll do when Pam has gone.
Sitting either side of mum in their garden with a cup of tea, an ice cream, or a sundowner, is what they call their ‘Happy Hour.’
Maybe it can be still, whatever is yet to come.
 
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
 
Pam, 90 years old              Living with Parkinson’s dementia, mother to Shaun and Karen. She is reaching the end of her life and is often not aware of where she is. She cannot feed or care for herself, or move independently.
 Shaun, 65 years old           Pam’s son and carer. He helped put his mum in a care home for her own safety. When his father died in 2015, Shaun returned from France where he was then living to take his mother home. He’s written a book about the experience.
Karen, 63 years old            Pam’s daughter lived in Vancouver, Canada, until she took early retirement to help care for her mum.
The siblings lived on opposite sides of the Atlantic for more than forty years before setting up home together.
Copper, black Lab              Copper is a ‘companion dog’ from Canine Partners and a former police dog who failed the grade. He is now Karen’s dog. He eats, a lot, and likes to sleep when he’s not out on a walk.
Megan and Leah                 Shaun’s daughters, now in their early thirties and working abroad, flying visits when they can. They’re close to both their dad and their auntie.
Lottie or Charlotte              Shaun’s partner Lottie lives eighty miles away and though they get together whenever they can, the distance and the care burden makes it hard on them both. Still, they find the joy.
‘Frazzy’ or Frances             Frazzy just started caring for her own mum at home. She and Karen go all the way back to school days, though they too have lived on opposite sides of the pond.
Our ‘old’ carers                   A cast of regulars who know Pam and her children very well, and have a real soft spot for the family, for the coffees we make and the music we play whilst they work, though not the Fado.
Our ‘new’ carers                Pam’s approaching end of life means more care is required, and a new agency might be needed to fill the gap. It’s going to be a wrench for everyone.
 Jo, palliative nurse             A welcome presence,
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1 year ago
8 minutes 48 seconds

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Four
‘Life is pain Highness, anyone who tells you different is selling something.’
The Dread Pirate Roberts, from the film, Princess Bride
 
Life is hard. It always has been. It was hard for Michel de Montaigne, a respected ‘seigneur’, or lord, with his own vineyards and lands producing revenues and every opportunity for a comfortable life. He lived in a chateau near Bordeaux, close to where we’ll be cycling, and he was twice elected mayor of the city. He had a wife, a daughter, and many friends. He was a magistrate, and a diplomat, held in high esteem by kings and princes…
Life is hard. It always has been. It was hard for Michel de Montaigne, a respected ‘seigneur’, or lord, with his own vineyards and lands producing revenues and every opportunity for a comfortable life. He lived in a chateau near Bordeaux, close to where we’ll be cycling, and he was twice elected mayor of the city. He had a wife, a daughter, and many friends. He was a magistrate, and a diplomat, held in high esteem by kings and princes.
But Montaigne lived – as we do – in troubled and violent times. As a teenager, he witnessed atrocities in his home city – executions, murders and riots – first hand. The Wars of Religion, fought between Catholic and Protestant factions, ravaged the country, sprouting random violence and rogue bands of soldiers who attacked and killed without discrimination or mercy. He had his fair share of personal tragedy, too. His wife gave birth to six daughters, but only one – Léonore – would survive beyond infancy. If that was hard on Montaigne, pause a moment to reflect on his wife’s lot. The pain, the grief, and the continual pressure to produce children, and no doubt a male heir in particular, was probably immense. He scarcely mentions any of this in the Essais, who knows why, but part of the reason may have been that infant mortality was such a common tragedy in his day.
He lost his most intimate friend and soulmate, Étienne de la Boétie, to plague, the pandemic of the period. Millions had died in the fourteenth century and the disease continued to make regular comebacks. Montaigne had to leave his home for months and take his family on the road to escape one of the outbreaks. And there were other dangers. He saw his beloved father’s painful death caused by kidney stones – the same disease that would one day kill Montaigne – and soon after, his younger brother, Arnaud, died at twenty-three after being hit on the head by a tennis ball, ‘leaving neither visible bruise or wound.’
A tennis ball in those days was made of leather stuffed with wool, but was hardly a lethal weapon.
After all his travails – some commentators say because of them – Montaigne, decided to withdraw from the world. And though he was sometimes called back to the fray in his role as a trusted go-between, he managed to carve out enough time in his study and his circular library, situated on the top floors of a squat tower in the walls of his chateau, to write what would one day become his world-famous Essais, three volumes of reflections written over twenty years designed, as he put it himself, to record ‘some traits of my character and of my humours.’
It’s a modest claim, one that belies both his motives and his achievement. When he first sat down to write the Essais in 1572, having just turned thirty-eight years old, Montaigne was fighting his own demons. Average life expectancy for a man in his day was thirty-three, and though he says melancholy was not natural to his character, he’d lost his best friend, his father, his brother, and then his first child only a short time before he began writing. He freely admits his thoughts were agitated and he compares them to a runaway horse, or a shapeless lump of flesh.
‘When I recently retired at home, I was determined,
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1 year ago
13 minutes 46 seconds

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Three
‘There is no remedy for love but to love more.’
Henry David Thoreau
Ours is a swish campsite, and we have a spacious tent. We have two ‘bedrooms’ separated by a bit of canvas, a hob to cook on and a fridge. We have our own little concrete terrace outside, and we’re only a few minutes walk from the beach…
The on-site pool where we’re spending most of our time is pristine. Not big, but newly built. Set on a high point of the campsite, there’s a view of our surroundings beyond the green wire fence and the freshly planted grass, turf squares still visible.
We’re in the southern suburbs of Biarritz, with houses around us, hacienda-style, rust-red roofs, staggered in curving rows and tightly packed. We have ventured into the city centre of Biarritz only once. We had to walk for a long time, got lost, and finally called for a cab. When we got to the centre of town, the designer shops were closed, and there were only a couple of bars open that didn’t serve food. We gorged on crackers and cheese when we got back to the tent.
This campsite attracts mostly French visitors, to judge by the snatches of conversation we hear around us, and there is another clue. For a couple of hours at lunchtime, when the French tend to sit down to eat, we’ve often had the pool to ourselves. Our British lunches, prepared and eaten outside the tent, have been quick and dirty – a fresh baguette with a soft cheese or a tuna salad. I’ve had a doze most afternoons, taking advantage of the quiet, listening to the sound of breezes in the trees or the chatter of passers by though the thin canvas. Now I’m older, I’m good at these power naps. Twenty minutes, and I’m up again, and if our chores are done I might read in the shade, only going back up to the pool as the sun begins to sink.
Our days have drifted lazily by, one melding into another, the ritual of swimming and eating, taking a stroll in the evening, sitting until after dark with wine and pasta and chocolate to follow, and citronella candles on the table. We’ve told stories of other holidays we’ve taken together, just the three of us. When my daughters were young, we went to Cornwall for summer holidays, and sometimes in the winter too, donning wetsuits to plunge into the icy sea on New Year’s Day, staying with friends in rented houses, or camping when it was warmer. We had a VW campervan for a while, and thought ourselves très cool, and more recently we went to what the brochure – printed on recycled paper – called an eco-site. It boasted no pool, no shops, and compost toilets. I don’t doubt we did little harm to the environment by staying in an old bell tent from the nineteen-fifties and eating our food cold because lighting a fire was deemed hazardous at every level, from forest fires to ozone. But when I managed to escape the green paradise and buy myself a much needed bacon sandwich on the seafront, a wasp stung me between my fingers and that tipped me over. I suggested we might go home early and let the planet go hang.
“Do you remember the magic pear, Dad?’ Lilly was spitting wine as she tried to speak and laugh.
‘How could I forget? But I still maintain that I did not snore. I am not a snorer, as you know from the past ten days.’
I’d been rudely awakened by the two of them shaking me in the dead of night to tell me I was snoring, I had indeed asked them to hand me a pear, in the hope that eating something might cure a snore I was certain was only happening in their imaginations. The story stuck.
‘You’d had a lot of wine, Dad. We all had. Don’t blame yourself.’
‘I don’t! The wine was entirely necessary to my survival in that gulag!’
Our last day, and it has come around so fast it’s caught us all off-guard.
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1 year ago
15 minutes 57 seconds

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter Two
‘He who fears he shall suffer, already suffers what he fears.’
Michel de Montaigne
The appointment was routine enough.
An ancient wisdom tooth had been grumbling and crumbling away at the back of my mouth for some time. At my last check up, I’d been told I’d be better off without it and it was time to follow through…
The dentist gave me Novocaine, doing her best to hide the huge needle below my sightline as she prepared to strike, though my imagination managed to conjure the cartoon shadow on the white wall. Then she went to work. I felt no pain, only the squeaky tugging of tiny roots clinging to gums that had been their home for decades. When the tooth finally came loose, she put it on the tray in front of me and pointed to a thin black ring once hidden behind my receding gums. ‘Bacteria’, she said. I tried to muster the appropriate response through lips still numb and with a wodge of cotton clamped between my remaining teeth to stem the bleeding.
I left the surgery feeling bruised but relieved the ordeal was over. That night an abscess developed on the roof of my mouth and grew to the size and shape of a kidney bean. Some time in the early hours of Sunday morning, the abscess must have burst, and by the time I saw the dentist again, the kidney bean was no more than a flap of raw skin, and the pain had gone. She insisted on X-rays to make sure there was no underlying cause. There was. She found an enormous cavity, hidden between two teeth, and worse, worrying signs that the bone of my jaw was eroding. Thus began a series of expensive and often uncomfortable treatments that are not entirely over yet, and a warning that unless I control the downhill slide in my teeth, and cap those that are too far gone, I am likely to lose them all in the not too distant future.
Harsh news though nothing out of the ordinary for a man of my age, and yet it hit me hard. Too hard. I determined to pull myself together and I fully expected my low mood would go as quickly as it had come. But a few weeks later, when the cavity had been filled and the gaps in my lower gums excavated with a surprisingly painful water jet, I was still listless and morose.
If I was making a mountain out of a molehill – and I was – it seemed I’d been tripping over a lot of molehills recently. Varicose veins on the calf of my left leg that made me limp for the first few hours of every day, and arthritis in my little finger that was sore, especially in the winter. I had a knee that clicked and a lump on my back that might be growing, I didn’t dare look. All thoroughly minor ailments and par for the course, so why was I taking it all so personally? It was not depression, though it seemed that way to those close to me. They sensed my absence, circling and soothing me with their quizzical love, and I was sorry for them, more so than for myself. But I didn’t feel low, so much as panicked.
Others had real mountains to climb. A friend and colleague, a man who gave me opportunities beyond my talents, a man I hadn’t seen for some years, wrote a serene email to tell me of his terminal diagnosis. For a week or two, that humbled me and put my indulgence in nebulous fear to shame. We’ve met for lunch more often since, and I’m glad we do. Another, my former editor and a dear man, has kept me up to date on a long series of operations that seemed to go on forever. And just three months ago, Phil, my best friend in the world and a man I’ve know for more than forty-five years, called to tell me he had cancer of the oesophagus. That floored me, not least because I’d been staying with him at his home in France until the day he went to the hospital for the tests. When he dropped me off at the airport for my return flight, I’d wished him luck and told him not to worry. I said it was probably indigestion.
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1 year ago
12 minutes 57 seconds

love and care
Me and Michel Chapter One
Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home
 Matsuo Bashō
I am flying to Biarritz in the south of France with my two grown up daughters, where we’ll holiday together for two weeks on a campsite. Then, when they’ve gone, the plan is I will cycle the thousand kilometres home again – alone. I’ll be gone for maybe six weeks.
My daughters are waiting outside the airport terminal. Now beautiful young women of twenty-seven and thirty-one, and seeing them together, chatting and giggling as we park up, I realise I am the luckiest man in the world to have this time with them.
As the plane takes off, I know I need this break for other reasons. I have flown in planes all my life, and all at once, I fear flying. What’s happening to me?
 
La Velodysée is the longest cycle route in France, twelve hundred kilometres running from Hendaye on the Spanish border to Roscoff in Brittany – depending on your direction of travel – most of it on special cycle paths well away from cars and roads.
I’ll be making the trip from south to north, but only after ten precious days camping with my grown-up daughters in Biarritz. My children are women now. Megs is thirty-two. Lilly is twenty-seven. They were eleven and six when their mother and I divorced and I became a halftime single dad, and we’ve been close ever since, really close. But we haven’t had the chance to be together like this, just the three of us, for a long time.
They’ll be on their way to the airport right now. I can picture them on the train even as my sister asks me – with a certain edge in her voice – if it might be time to pack the car with the remaining stuff still laid out on the garage floor. Most of our adult lives, we’ve lived on opposite sides of the Atlantic, and yet we’ve ended up sharing a home in our sixties and together caring for our mother, who is eighty-nine years old and has Parkinson’s dementia. I’m leaving my sister with a huge responsibility, and yet she’s only encouraged the whole venture, which is astonishingly generous.
I will be riding a bike I bought second hand for forty pounds so many years ago it’s like an old friend. It’s a Claud Butler – a make that sounds French, but is actually British – and a model that happens to be called the ‘Odyssey’. Given the route, and the bike, the temptation to think of myself as a latter day hero on a mythic quest to reach home is tempting, though I have no illusions I share qualities in common with the wily Greek. The madness of Don Quixote is another matter entirely.
As reading material, I have a selected edition of the sixteenth century philosopher Michel de Montaigne’s Essais. I’m no scholar, but he’s good company, and his thoughts on everything from smells to facing your own mortality are short, easy to read by torchlight in a tent and always thought provoking. Crucially for me, he’s funny, especially about his own weaknesses. I haven’t done enough laughing recently. I like the idea of my favourite Frenchman as my travelling companion, albeit he’s coming along for the ride in an English translation, because he and I have been having imaginary conversations for years. And it’s only right that he’s with me because we’re peddling through his part of the country. Montaigne was a Gascon first, a Frenchman second, and we are on our way to Gascony, a region that once had its own language and customs and its own king in Henri de Navarre, later Henry IV of France.
My route hugs tight to the Atlantic coast virtually all the way, often only metres from the dunes and the sea, until it cuts across Brittany, tracing canal paths and railway lines to the magical Pink Granite Coast. Most of it is as flat as a pancake, perfect for a man who has done little in the way of real exercise for years.
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1 year ago
14 minutes 16 seconds

love and care
episode twenty, or episode one? Either way, a modern odyssey begins..!
Episode Twenty: A Modern Odyssey begins…
We’re told everything is in constant flux, that change is everywhere, and that nobody stays in one place anymore…some truth to that, but there are signposts to guide us on the journey from one place to another, and from one story to another…
This brief episode is such a signpost, because I want you guys to join me on a new adventure, with the people you’ve got to know through listening to Love and Care, but in an odyssey that picks up the story of our lives a few years later, after the pandemic began to recede – hopefully for good. It’s called, Me and Michel. Catchy eh?
The odyssey I’m taking you on involves a bicycle, but don’t worry, I’ll be doing the peddling. If got a companion, but he won’t be peddling either; the philosopher, Michel de Montaigne, who lived almost five hundred years ago, before bicycles were even invented. But Michel had his own invention, he called it ‘the essai’, which in French, roughly translated, means ‘to try’ in the sense of attempting something, or experimenting, in his case with a new form of writing and self expression.
We call it the personal essay, and it takes many forms, especially these days with the explosion in blogs and podcasts giving all of us platforms and ways of reaching others.
Michel also did something even more revolutionary for his times. He wrote openly and honestly about himself. Back in the day, to reveal the inner workings of your mind, to uncover the many faults and failings he felt he had, to let us in on his thinking about the big questions, and about the trivia of life, to share so conspicuously, was pretty much unheard of.
There was some biographical writing– Vasari’s Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects, for instance, published in 1550. Or the goldsmith, artist and general bad boy Benvenuto Cellini’s autobiography, completed in 1562, but these works – contemporary with Michel’s essais – seek to do something very different, to celebrate, memorialise, appreciate and criticise their subjects with something like a story of a life that makes sense as the framework.
Michel is altogether different, and altogether more modern. His essais reveal a man of many facets, every changing opinion and shifting moods, in all his contradictions and reveries – as much concerned with what he does not know or understand, as with those subjects he comprehends in some way.
I’ve been having a kind of imaginary conversation with Michel all my adult life, but this is the first time we’ll get to be together for a few uninterrupted weeks, cycling through, or at least nearby, to his homeland, forty miles east of Bordeaux, in France.
We’ll be riding to the west of that great port city, but still in Gascony, and Michel was a proud Gascon, amongst dunes and pines, where his chateau, that still stands today, and his study, where he wrote his essais over the course of ten years or more, having retired from public life, can still be visited today.
His books are gone, but there’s a desk where he might have sat in the middle of his round tower room, and you can see where his daybed was, and if you’re really keen, there’s even a rudimentary bathroom…more a toilet, really.
And we’re heading south to north, from Biarritz, close to the Spanish border, all the way north to Brittany and the ferry home. About a thousand kilometres of cycle track and road, most of it hugging the coast all the way.
I won’t just be reading Michel. I’ll be writing my own essais as I go. Attempts to put my own life, now I’m beyond sixty years old, in some kind of perspective, to own my own faults and get some time to think about the many things I don’t know or don’t understand, as well as the few lessons I’ve learned along the way.
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2 years ago
8 minutes 53 seconds

love and care
shaun deeney writer and producer