It is still. Today there is barely a breeze, although last night’s cloud cover remains. No planned activities today. I pull out my book on French grammar; someone searches for a pencil with a crossword puzzle to complete. Bells from nearby Montagnol chime, neither insistent nor sorrowful, just marking the hour. There is something comforting in their regular peal, that crisp, warm tone traveling through the air.
After lunch (it was paella from dinner last night—I’ll spare
you the details of the incredible cuisine of Le Mas de Salel so as not to tempt you into the sin of envy), I set off on a solitary hike.
Sitting down here, letting Rilke’s Book of
Hours (translated by Barrows and Macy) open where it pleased, I silently read, “I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.” The poem asked—no, demanded that it be committed to memory. Ah, to have faith in that which has not yet been heard. I recited the lines out loud to the hills and
the birds.
I continued my hike. The clanging of cowbells came from faraway fields, the animals that bore them not visible at all. The trail led downhill through a very small village and onto a road. The cowbells seemed closer, and then I didn’t hear them at all. My curiosity peaked, I looked for those animals and their noisy jewelry. A
feeding station stood by the road, silent with no living creature in sight. But right after passing it, the bells sounded very near from behind. I doubled back—they had to be there—only to find nothing at all. I finished the hike, hearing those bells without owners, their clanging a multidirectional siren call.
Sounds all around, from marking the day’s progress to leading wild goose
chases by bouncing on hill and on vale. The real challenge seeming to be: to listen for the sounds which have not yet been made. 