TODAY WE PLAY HOST TO GUEST AUTHOR, LINDY VIANDIER, WHO IS SHARING WITH US AN EXCERPT FROM HER NOVEL, 'DAMSON SKIES AND DRAGONFLIES' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat
- Eva Bielby
- Aug 5
- 8 min read
Updated: Aug 6
Damson Skies and Dragonflies
It’s ironic that I’m reading a book in which one of the characters has writer’s block, having suffered this malady myself for many years. It’s both ironic and frustrating that my creative juices are now flowing like ants from a crack in the wall, as I’ve precious little time to write. I’m eliciting cold stares and exclamations
of ‘Tu n’as rien a faire’ (You haven’t anything to do) from my husband; hereafter to be named Mr (as in monsieur not mister) V. The ashes remain in the grate and the dishes in the sink, as I scribble furiously in one of his ‘journal of works’ notebooks at an old gate-leg table. Alas it’s too late; the torch of my imagination has been lit. So come with me on a little journey into what is, as yet, an unknown story...
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The house is in the heart of wine country on the Côte-d’Or (the Golden Coast), so called because in autumn the vineyards turn from green to amber, transforming the landscape into a sea of gold. The grape harvest is fast approaching, and the local paper is full of ‘advertisements’ seeking ‘vendangeurs’ to pick grapes.
If I were younger I would apply, but now the only grapes that I’ll be picking are the lovely black beauties hanging from a trellis covering the garage wall.
The garden, which is at the front of the house, faces south- southwest, so it has suns almost all day, apart from a little welcome shade from the scorching August summer heat provided by a single tree in the late afternoon. In the evening we’re are treated to spectacular sunsets when sitting on our patio after dinner. The nearby screen of poplars is transformed into a dark silhouette set against a flaming backdrop of bright, brassy yellow, blending into shades of dusky salmon and deep vermillion, before the sky turns midnight blue, then ink-black, and the realm of the stars reigns. The constellations are particularly bright here and appear closer to the earth somehow. I feel like I could stretch up and take the Plough in my hand.
This area is famous locally for its spectacular meteor showers and ‘les etoiles fillentes’ (shooting stars) that reportedly occur this time of year, but I’ve yet to witness this, probably because we’re so tired after a long day working on the house, that we eat, take a shower, and go straight to bed.
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The light here is exceptional, and is fuelling an obsession of mine more compelling than being a closet writer; photography. There are three distinctive lights. The first is clear, bright and pure which intensifies all the colours, particularly the myriad shades of green. The second bathes everything in a mellow honey glow, as the glow you get on an early evening in late summer. Here it occurs in the early morning also, often accompanied by a thin veil of mist clinging to the fields until the warm Burgundy sun burns it off. In the evening this golden light transforms the milk-white Charolais cows in the field opposite to a buttery cream.
The third light I call ‘la lumiere des raisins’ (the light of grapes). This appears when dramatic storm clouds hang low, sweeping the horizon in colours ranging from dove-grey to muted-lavender and bruised-damson, then finally, the deep angry purple of grapes. I think I love this light best of all, especially when seen in contrast against the fields of pale yellow corn.
It puts me in mind of the beautiful painting by Cézanne, ‘Le Pigeonnier’ that is boxed up securely in the bedroom that I call the rose room, waiting to take up its position in the living room, ten years or so down the line when we’ve completed all the work.
‘Le Pigeonnier’ is the first name that we gave to the house as we have quite an impressive one.
When I first saw a photo of the dumpy round tower crowned by a red-tiled roof on the estate agent’s website, I immediately thought of Rapunzel, one of my all-time favourite stories. As a child I used to beg my mother to buy a house with a tower so that I could live out my fantasy of tossing my hair out of the window. So you see, it was a case of love at first sight (or what’s known in France as a ‘coup de coeur’) and no matter what horrors were revealed on inspection, particularly at the back where the agent had skilfully avoided taking photos, there was never any doubt. Our destinies were meant to be bound together.
A Pigeonnier, for those of you who don’t know, and this included me, is where families kept pigeons in a circular loft. All around the walls there are little clay chambers big enough to house a single bird, which I, in my ignorance, thought were for storing wine. (Or was that wishful thinking?)
In times of hardship the birds would provide nourishment (I hate to think of this) and the wealthier the family, the more pigeons they kept. Our predecessors must have been quite well off as there are an impressive number of little pigeon holes up there (one day I’ll count them and let you know how many). I‘ve also heard that before the revolution, you were only allowed to have a pigeonnier if you were a member of the aristocracy, so not only were our predecessors wealthy, they were noble as well. I can’t help thinking about what fate befell them during the revolution and whether they survived or were sent to the guillotine for the crime of being ‘well born’.
As I have a pigeon phobia, I wasn’t keen on that name, so we switched to ‘Le Colombier’ (The Dovecot) which had more of a poetic ring, but that didn’t quite gel. We also toyed with the idea of Le Relais de Chasse (The Hunting Lodge), as the house was once a halt for the hunt, providing food and refreshments for both men and horses.
The pond is a man-made pond at the side of the house which is known as an abreuvoir, and it’s here where the horses and cattle were watered. This is what attracts the abundance of dragonflies, hence giving the house her final name ‘ Les Libellules’ (The Dragonflies). The abreuvoir gorged with reeds and duckweed but remains a magical place, and it is here that captures the ever-changing light best of all. In the early morning when the rising sun breaks through the screen of tall birch trees to the east, it casts a dappled effect on the water. By lunch time, the half of the water now shaded by the trees is pea green, the other half is rivalling the dragonflies with a shimmering shade of apple. By evening, the entire area is a deep lime colour as the sun descends in the west. But best of all is when a golden shaft pierces through a gap in the leaves and illuminates a tiny circle on the otherwise sombre surface. I am mesmerized by its beauty and could while away the hours watching it constantly change.
I’ve just been out with my camera trying to photograph a dragonfly, but I need a much better lens with a faster speed. Even so, I’ve managed to capture a blur of blue, green and yellow and furiously fluttering orange wings, like an iridescent fairy, ethereal and unobtainable.
I have a theory. I’m getting very good at developing theories. I think that long ago, dragonflies were mistaken for fairies and entered into folklore; this theory serves to reinforce the fairy-tale quality of the Rapunzel tower.
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The sheer plethora of life here has completely thrown me. The garden is alive, though at first it appeared to be barren, stony ground, with tufts of yellow sun-scorched grass.
Everything is larger than life. There are snails the size of finches, rust-brown slugs as long as a lizard, enormous butterflies in every colour imaginable, ranging from bright cornflower blue to vibrant orange, red and yellow. Plus sinister, jet-black moths that like to come into the house. The ground is crawling with large, fluorescent-green beetles and things that look like a cross between oversized earwigs and ladybirds, red with black spots and pincers. There are prehistoric-looking millipedes, caterpillars, crickets, grasshoppers, tiny green lizards with yellow spots, small grass snakes and more varieties of spiders than I ever knew existed, including some the size of the palm of my hand.
I’ve started to believe that mosquitoes smelt my fear and that’s why I’ve been a target for them all my life. My neurosis resulted previously in me wearing protective bangles on both wrists and ankles, smothering myself in foul-smelling repellent, and burning lemon-scented candles, as well as planting an abundance of geraniums outside the bedroom window at our Paris apartment, and sleeping under a net with a plug-in deterrent at the side of the bed. I also had a can of hairspray at hand to paralyse their wings (I read this somewhere) should they break through these defences. All of which didn’t work. Despite my efforts, I still woke up with angry red mounds everywhere from the tip of my nose to in between my toes; they obviously liked a challenge.
Week one at Les Libellules saw pretty much the same scenario, minus the net as there’s nowhere place to hang one up, even putting a small hook in the ceiling resulted in a hole the size of a large orange; yet another point of access for things that crawl and fly. By week two however, I was nonchalantly flicking them from my bare arms and swatting them with my bare hands. In fact they’d become almost welcome along with house flies as one of the few species that I was familiar with.
I have two unexpected allies in my war against the insects, Pussy Willow, the previous ‘fly gourmet’ cat, not being one of them, as flies have become as mundane to her as mosquitoes have to me.
One of these allies is the namesake of the house: the dragonflies. We have two varieties of dragonfly. Small, sprightly, neon turquoise and red ‘naiads ’ that stay close to the water, darting just above the surface to feed on small flies and mosquitoes; and a squadron of ethereal emperor dragonflies. These aren’t anything like the dainty species that I’ve occasionally seen in the UK. They are majestic colossi, and very curious it seems, hovering close to me as I stand still while observing them; maybe they take me for an insect farm or a sort of human convenience store. It’s these spectacular creatures, with their vibrant green and yellow bodies, electric- blue tails and orange, gossamer wings that fan as fast as a humming bird’s, who patrol up and down the passage behind the house, consuming everything in their flight path. They also sweep across the murky water, which I suspect is a breeding ground for biting, stinging things that fly.
My other ally is even more surprising, especially if you know me well, or even a little, as you’ll know that I have an irrational fear of things with wings. Top of the list, next to pigeons, are bats, usually even the name of which makes me shudder, but here I’ve developed a surprising affection for them. They’re small,, round, pipistrelles, roughly the size and shape of a furry ‘quidditch’ ball and travel at about the same velocity. These too act as minesweepers, patrolling the same strip of land by night that the dragonflies do by day. I’ve read that a single bat can eat around 600 mosquitoes per night.
‘Les hirondelles’ swallows however, have always been my friends. I love these little fork-tailed allies. The telephone wires are laden with them; a sign that they are amassing before flying south, signalling the end of summer. It saddens me to see them go as much as it fills me with joy to hear their whoops and squeals when they arrive in late April/early May, heralding once more the onset of spring. Plus, they eat mosquitoes…
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COMING SOON: On Friday, 8th August, our team member, author Jane Murray, writing as D.C. Cummings, shares Chapter 1 of her novel, 'The Haunting of Riverbank House'
I enjoyed this so much and I must reread this fabulous book!
I just love to get lost in the story of Les Libuellles and read and re-read chapters as they transport you to that Burgundy village .
Two questions .
I wonder after the years spent there now have you a favourite season or time of day and why ?
If there is one thing you have discovered about life in rural Burgundy that you weren’t expecting or suprised/ shocked what would it be ??
Great news!!!!!
Thank you so much Eva for inviting me to be your guest author.