The roof and walls consist of dried, yellowing, reeds. This is the
shack, which is to be our meeting place for the hunt. A not untypical
house of the Camargue, it has a single, vast, high room with no window,
getting its daylight through a glass door kept fully shuttered at
night. All along the huge, rendered, whitewashed walls, the gun-rack
waits for the rifles, the game bags, and the wading boots. At the back,
five or six bunks are placed round an actual boat mast which is stepped
into the soil and reaches the roof which it supports. During the night,
while the mistral is blowing and the house is creaking everywhere, the
distant sea seems nearer than it is, its sound carried by the
freshening wind, and gives us the impression of being in a boat's cabin.
In the afternoon, the shack is especially charming. Throughout our
beautiful, southern winter days, I enjoy being alone by the tall
mantelpiece, while several twigs of tamarisk smoke away in the hearth.
The howling mistral or tramontana makes the doors bang, the reeds
scream, and a range of noises that make the great, natural clamour all
around. The rays of the winter sun gather and are then scattered by the
fierce wind. Great shadows race around under a perfect blue sky. The
light comes in flashes, and the noise in crashes, and the flock's bells
are suddenly heard, then lost in the wind, only to emerge again under
the rattling door like a charming refrain.... Twilight, just before the
hunters come back, is the most exquisite time of day. By then the wind
has moderated. I go out for a moment; the great red sun, at peace at
last, goes down in flames, but without heat. Night falls and brushes
you with its damp, black wing as it passes over. Somewhere, at ground
level, there is a bang, a flash, as the red star of a rifle shot bursts
into the surrounding blackness. What is left of the day rushes past. A
long flight of ducks flies by, low, as if looking for somewhere to
land; but suddenly, catching sight of the cabin where the fire is lit,
they take fright. The one at the head rises, and the rest follow as
they fly away screaming.
Soon afterwards, a great shuffling sound, something like rain falling,
approaches. Thousands of sheep, brought back by the shepherds and urged
on by the dogs, are anxiously and haphazardly and breathlessly
scurrying about towards the folds. I am overrun by them and they barge
into me as I am caught up in a maelstrom of woollen curls, and
bleating. It was an ocean swell of sheep that seems to carry away the
shepherds on leaping waves of wool.... Behind the flock, friendly
footsteps and joyful voices are heard. The shack fills up, and becomes
lively, and boisterous. The kindling blazes on the fire. The more tired
they are; the more they laugh. It is a dizzy, happy fatigue, their
rifles stacked in a corner, long boots strewn about, and game bags
emptied into a bloodied heap of red, golden, green, and silver plumage.
In the smoke, the table is set out with a good eel soup. Silence falls;
the huge silence of robust appetites; only broken by the ferocious
growling of the dogs as they scuffle to sample their bowls by the
door....
The evening will soon end. By now, there is only the keeper and I in
front of the flickering fire. We chat desultorily, occasionally
throwing half-words at each other, peasant-like, with Red Indian style
grunts, which fizzle out like the last sparks of the dying fire.
Eventually, the keeper stands up, lights his lantern, and I hear his
heavy footsteps fade into the night....