I am not sure who was the more surprised when I arrived--me or the
rabbits.... The door had been bolted and barred for a long time, and
the walls and platform were overgrown with weeds; so, understandably,
the rabbits had come to the conclusion that millers were a dying breed.
They had found the place much to their liking, and felt fully entitled
to made the windmill their general and strategic headquarters. The
night I moved in, I tell you, there were over twenty of them, sprawled
around the apron, basking in the moonlight. When I opened a window, the
whole encampment scampered off, their white scuts bobbing up and down
until they had completely disappeared into the brush. I do hope they
come back, though.
Another much surprised resident was also not best comforted by my
arrival. It was the old, thoughtful, sinister-looking owl, a sitting
tenant for some twenty years. I found him stiff and motionless on his
roost of fallen plaster and tiles. He ran his large round eyes over me
briefly and then, probably much put out by the presence of a stranger,
he hooted, and painfully and carefully shook his dusty, grey
wings;--they ponder too much these owlish, thinking types and never
keep themselves clean ... it didn't matter! even with his blinking eyes
and his sullen expression, this particular occupant would suit me
better than most, and I immediately decided he was only too welcome to
stay. He stayed right there, just where he'd always been, at the very
top of the mill near his own personal roof entrance. Me--I settled down
below in a little, whitewashed, vaulted, and low-ceilinged room, much
like a nun's refectory.
* * * * *
I am writing to you from my windmill, with the door wide open to the
brilliant sunshine.
In front of me, a lovely, sparklingly lit, pine wood plunges down to
the bottom of the hill. The nearest mountains, the Alpilles, are far
away, their grand silhouettes pressing against the sky.... There was
hardly a sound to be heard; a fading fife, a curlew calling amongst the
lavender, and a tinkle of mules' bells from somewhere along the track.
The Provencal light really brings this beautiful landscape to life.
Don't you wonder, right now, if I am missing your black and bustling
Paris? Actually, I'm very contented in my windmill; it is just the sort
of warm, sweet-smelling spot I was looking for, a long, long way from
newspapers, hansom cabs, and all that fog!... Also, I am surrounded by
so many lovely things. My head is bursting with vivid memories and
wonderful impressions, after only eight days here. For instance,
yesterday evening, I saw the flocks of animals returning from the hills
to the farm (the _mas_), and I swear that I wouldn't swap this one
hillside wonder for a whole week's worth of _Premieres_ in Paris. Well,
I'll let you be the judge.
Here in Provence, it's normal practice to send the sheep into the
mountains when it's warm enough in the spring, and, for five or six
months, man and beast live together with nothing but the sky for a roof
and grass for a bed. When the first autumn chill is felt in the air,
they are brought back down to the _mas_, and they can graze comfortably
on the nearby rosemary-scented hills.... This annual delight, the
return of the flock, was accomplished last night. The double barn doors
had been left expectantly open since daybreak and the barn had already
been covered with fresh straw. There was occasional, excited
speculation about the flock's exact whereabouts; "Now they are in
Eyguières" or "They are in Paradou" was rumoured. Then suddenly,
towards evening, we heard a rousing shout of "Here they come" and we
could see the magnificent cloud of dust that heralded the approach of
the flock. As it continued along its way, it seemed to gather
everything into its path to join the great march home.... The old rams,
horns assertively pointing forward, lead the way, with the rest of the
sheep behind; the ewes looked tired out, with their new-born lambs
getting under their feet;--Mules bedecked with red pom-poms were
carrying day-old lambs in baskets and rocking them to sleep with a
gentle motion. Then came the breathless, overworked dogs, tongues
hanging out, in the company of two strapping shepherds in their red
serge, ground-hugging cloaks.
The whole parade filed merrily past before being swallowed up by the
open barn doors. They shuffled inside with a noise like a tropical
downpour.... You should have seen the turmoil inside. The huge, silken
tulle-crested, green and gold peacocks loudly trumpeted their welcome
as they recognised the new arrivals. The early-to-bed hens scattered
everywhere as they were woken up. All the pigeons, ducks, turkeys, and
guinea-fowl were running or flying wildly about. The whole poultry yard
was going absolutely mad!... You'd think that every single sheep had
brought back an intoxicating dose of wild mountain air in its fleece,
which had made all the other animals hopping mad.
In the midst of all this commotion, the flock somehow managed to settle
themselves in. You couldn't imagine anything more charming than this
homecoming. The old rams relaxed visibly at the sight of their home
farm, while the tiny lambs born during the descent looked all around in
astonished wonder.
But, it was the dogs that were the most touching, the gentle sheep
dogs, who had busily looked after their charges until they were all
safely back in the farm. The guard dog, barking from his kennel, did
his best to call them over, and the well-bucket, brimming over with
cool water, also competed to tempt them. But nothing, nothing could
distract them, at least not until the livestock were all safely inside
the pen, the small gate securely latched by its large bolt, and the
shepherds seated at the table of their low-ceilinged room. Only then
were they content to go to their dog pound, lap up their slop, and
spread the news to the other animals, of the adventures they had had in
the mountains--that mysterious world of wolves, and tall, purple
foxgloves brimming over with dew.