you are the best food for me.

Les mûres sont mûres dans les mûriers
14 août 2014, 12.40
Filed under: English

The damp map was spread before us on the table. Our hands clutched mugs of hot tea. Outside, the rain was pouring.

When we’d walked in the pub, a row of eyes had fixated on me. My shaved head, my bright rain jacket, my biking tan, my weird shoes. Alex quickly ran to the bathroom while I ordered, ignoring the drunken stares of the six men sitting at the bar.

-Could I have two cups of tea please?

The bartender shook his head.

-Sorry, I don’t have tea.

-Do you have anything warm then?

I gestured towards the door and the grey sky.

-I have some instant coffee if you’d like.

I pouted in disgust.

-Well, we have teabags with us, if you could heat up some water for us we’d be grand.

-Sure, why not. I’ll put on the kettle for yous.

I let myself down on a bench nearby and slowly removed my rainjacket, spreading it across a chair to let it dry.

When Alex came back from the bathroom, the tea was ready. We took the map out and stared at it.

-Should we avoid the ring of Kerry then? I said. I don’t like those National roads, they’re too full of cars. And people keep telling us that the ring of Beara is just as nice but less touristy.

-Sounds good to me. What about this lighthouse right here? Maybe we could camp there?

Outside, the rain. Inside, wood paneling and Guinness ads. And us. Tracing roads with our fingers. Settling for a destination for the night.

As we were leaving, a man at the bar stopped me.

-Where are you from?

-From Canada.

-How do you like Ireland?

-Ah, it’s fantastic. Apart from just now, the weather has been brilliant since we got here 3 weeks ago. Biking is easy, the hills aren’t too bad and the landscape is ever changing and so gorgeous.

-Oh yes the rain. I’m afraid to go home it’s so bad.

I looked outside. The rain was falling heavily. « Afraid? » I thought. Alcool sure gives one strange emotions.

That night, we camped by the road, in the driveway of an abandoned house. Around our tent, thorny blackberry bushes were threatening us. The next morning, we gathered a bagfull of ripe berries and biked to the nearest town. Sitting on a bench by the beach, we cooked some oats. The sun was out. Clouds were scattered all over the blue sky.



1 août 2014, 12.13
Filed under: Français

J’en trouve pas des histoires à raconter l’Irlande c’est _beau_ rien ne se passe mal, rien n’est brisé. Alex j’ai pas envie de lui crier après ni de m’en débarrasser. Pas d’histoires à raconter que des images à décrire comme la falaise et le phare et le vent et à chaque fois vaut mieux imaginer une falaise et un phare (rayé noir et blanc, avec une clôture rouge dans le haut, contraste) et du vent parce que je me sens trop peu adéquate pour les décrire parce que l’imaginaire s’en charge bien mieux que moi. Fermer les yeux; imaginer un ciel gris, couvert (altostratus, cirrocumulus), un vent du nord-ouest qui fait danser le blé dans les champs. Les yeux toujours fermés, imaginer une tente verte (tante Jeanne), petite mais grande, plantée dans un champ. Ajouter des vaches (langue rugueuse). Un mur de pierre (gris), tellement vieux que le lichen (vert, jaune) ne détonne même plus. Garder les yeux fermés; la mer. Ajouter évidemment une étendue d’eau juste assez agitée pour que le bruit des vagues corresponde exactement à un bruit de vagues. Ne pas oublier le bruit du vent, la tente qui s’agite un peu. Le soleil se couche (les couleurs du ciel s’assombrissent: rose à l’ouest: vers les champs), une lumière s’allume dans la tente. Le phare éclaire la mer à intervalles irréguliers. Le soleil disparaît; odeur de cuisine; dans le ciel Cassiopée Grande ourse Dragon.

Lire Joyce emprunter de la ponctuation à Joyce aimer Joyce.