Page 9 - In a different register - Sample

gestures let me know that I was remembered no matter where I was in the world. Like the bouquet of flowers and a welcoming note in that flowing script of hers when I arrived to take up residence at Rhodes University. It is only now, in old age, said Mary that I realise what a constant presence she was, that subliminally I knew she was always there for me. I realise now how churlishly I took it for granted. Marseille was another grey city, a sea port with all the history of the Mediterranean written on her face. The cake was my Christmas lunch. I sat huddled over a radiator in the cheap hotel room picking out the nuts and eating it crumb by lonely crumb. I cried with homesickness remembering how it had made me angry when I was leaving that my mother had said I would return one day. I thought of how in the summer heat Martha, my sister Martha, and my parents would be sitting at a ridiculously laden table when no one was hungry, with the sun sparkling on the sea calling everyone for a swim. No doubt they would be talking about me. Romanticising where I might be and what I might be doing. There would be the usual jokes, the familiar smells, the family-ness of it all. At Christmas only family, no matter how myopic, or perhaps because myopic, makes it Christmas. I tried to call home but couldn’t get through. Next day I picked myself up and hired a car. I drove along the coast with the waves breaking onto shoreline craggy rocks and Bonsai-weathered trees, a lonely reminder of home. I have no idea why, but the name Languedoc had a romantic connotation: troubadours and courtly love. Mine was a picture of country living and bonhomie where people get along and the life is simple but wholesome. That Christmas the Camargue was a different story. As far as the eye could see a vast tract of water ways and marshland lay under snow. Not a horse to be seen. I drove and drove enjoying the open space so unlike the cosy hills of England, the barrenness a balm to the loneliness within. Memories of being between water and sky in the Okavango with Matt. Then suddenly three horses under the dry trees. They lift their heads to look at me. A desire is met. My heart expands. Once more I am at home on the earth, I belong and I linger in gratitude for that long look that said: I see you. Sakubona! Ewe, Sakubona!Those faces bring with them a breeding that is redolent with some of the oldest cultures in the world – Celts, Greeks, Phoenicians, Romans, Visigoths, Moors, Franks ....... They have existed here in the ‘wild’ since prehistoric times and their origins are shrouded in mystery. They have adapted to living in a watery habitat and thrive in sea water, often being called "the horse of the sea." Horses are one of my first loves. My heart tightens with wonder when I see that exquisite form in plenary motion. To fly over the earth in harmony with such great power, sensitivity and intelligence is to be in the province of the Gods.Hunger took over and I realised that I had not even had breakfast. Visions of fried eggs on toast became more and more compelling. Despite school French and a year in Switzerland when I was eighteen I couldn’t remember what ‘fried egg’ was. The best I could do was ‘boiled’. So the plan was ‘deux oeufs bouillir avec le pain grillé’. I followed a sign to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, the 'Saint Marys of the Sea'. Very soon I came across a Boulangerie on a corner of its narrow streets and jumble of red-roofed buildings. It had a couple of small round iron tables and there was the smell of coffee. Not a soul in sight. When someone appeared I delivered my prepared speech of ‘deux oeufs bouillir avec le pain grille, s’il vous plait.’ The man looked puzzled. Didn’t they know about boiled eggs? I tried again with some elaboration. Finally he gave me a laconic nod. I sat down. I looked around the