Dear ones, I pray you are safe in your homes and your countries, free from the worry of all that is wrong in the world when it feels like so very much is.
So many of us are undone by this grief we can’t name just as so many of us are searching for an understanding of how to compartmentalise the absolute overwhelm the devastation summer 2026 has wrought; the unfathomable extent of charcoal and smoke, animals staggering in the shadows in an attempt to hide from scorching sunbeams which usually delight…
I am quieted, this month of August feels murderous. I am unable to form words past the horror of constant sizzling, suffocating heat, past a fear of fire as I’ve watched flames rip through the woodland of other close hills, past charred remains, past smoke that has choked us and my poor breathless sheep. And, past, a furious infection in my right eye which at times, shamefully, I have felt more fearful of than either crippling heat or a burning country.
I feared losing an eye. But, I am healing.
That which has been taken by flame or thirst will not.
I need to say that. I need to say that an irrational fear which didn’t feel even slightly irrational at the time, effectively wiped burning forests and my dying hill from my radar. I admit being less of a human than I should have been, less empathetic, less mother, less kind, less friend, less joyous. The few short days I spent with my dearest friends—children in tow this time—will be remembered as undignified and self-piteous, I am ashamed.
But—there’s always a but and thank all the gods for that—we watch the entire eclipse en famille, me, with my one good eye, my dearly beloved, grumbling amiably because climbing the hill is so not his thing and Seth armed with correct viewing glasses loaned by a friend from the valley. It is a celestial interlude, much needed by us and, so we very quickly find out, many, many others….
Note; I have written this in two parts, firstly because it is long, secondly to rest my eye and just so you know, this is not my normal light loving nature post.
August has been decidedly tricky to love…
AUGUST 1 — Following Seth on a breathless afternoon at a pace suitable for his age not mine, I take a spectacular tumble down the hill; an acrobatic slow-motion somersault with time to think I-am-going-to-break-something-when-I-land. I gracelessly take flight through hot dusty air, land on my shoulder, roll forward onto my knees, miraculously right myself with a squeal of pain—and surprise to be upright again—then continue at the same pace with just a few scratches from the stubble as proof. Seth is not witness to my fall, only questioning of the look on my face as I catch up to him.
— Are you alright mum?
— Sure darling, I just took a little tumble, no harm done!
I am black and blue the following morning.
AUGUST 3 — Two more suffocatingly hot days pass. My four sheep need a worm dose, one urgently—meaning all urgently—I throw some nuts in a bucket, holler through the heatwaves down the field, ‘liloo liloo liloo’, round them up without difficulty, close them firmly into the holding pen—aka the old chicken field where so much buzzard induced carnage happened in autumn last year—but the moment they hear the latch on the gate, before I even think of whipping out four syringes filled with gunky white medicine from my pocket, they know what awaits them. They always do. Every year the worm dose is an epic battle of wills. I never win first time.
Seth and I corner Sonny and Jersey, Milly and Juniper panic, look at the fence, then each other in silent, ‘let’s do it!’ agreement and leap out. While I turn to watch them Jersey sees his chance for escape, knocking me flying as he barges past. As I fall I catch my right temple on a stack of canal tiles1. I shake away a blurry cloud of dust and spinning stars look over at dear Sonny, the only one remaining and know on this occasion I am not going to win. It is not possible to treat just one, this is an all or nothing operation. I am uncertain whether it is blood, sweat or tears that are running down my face.
The following morning a bump the size of a golf ball adorns my head.
AUGUST 4 — Plan B has zero room for error as Seth and I are to leave for dear friends in fields of sunflowers again early tomorrow morning. Everything is ready, the sheep have been moved to the bottom field, their cabin is comfortable, lined with a fresh bed of last years hay I unrolled yesterday—how I miss small rectangular bales!—then dragged down in one of those very useful bags sand is delivered in these days. I am not confident as I wander down first thing with their bucket of nuts, head pounding from yesterday’s fall.
Ignoring the golf ball I try a nonchalant everything is normal attitude, place the bucket at the back of their cabin and miraculously all except Sonny follow me in. I slam the door closed on three unsuspecting black faces and look at my dear old friend, call him gently to my side, whip a syringe from my back pocket and before he realises the deception I am massaging white goo down his throat! Ten minutes later the other three have been wrestled still, their mouths pried open, gloopy liquid necessary for their wellbeing massaged gently down their throats and released. Only Milly is rebellious, half the dose is lost in her wool but for now there is little I can do.
My head is throbbing, my right eye is weepy and itchy but, job done.
AUGUST 5 - 6 — The cool of the morning lasts barely an hour. My eye is an itchy, ugly mess and I wonder at the wisdom of having leaving at all. Driving this road I love because it leads to friends and joyful reunions, sunflowers and vin d’orange, scrabble and huge, sweet fresh tomatoes for every meal delivered by a kind neighbour who recounts his one and only trip to the wilds of the Aveyron to me every year, is an obstacle course of bends and deviations I have no choice in taking because Rosie will arrive at the station in Cahors at 10h30 after a nights work and I know she will be beyond exhausted and it is far too late to cancel. So, I drive, dab my streaming eye each time the road becomes too blurred, telling Seth to grab the wheel if I veer off course, or hit the verge! I am not certain which of us is more worried?
Over the two hour journey whatever has irritated my eye has become a furious unstoppable beast. As we pull up—all three of us more than a little relieved—my eye is inflamed, almost closed entirely and alarmingly uncomfortable. I spend the rest of the day hiding in the shade, a cool patch over my eye, trying to fend off waves of inward rising panic. I lose a game of scrabble. My one eyed smile fools nobody.
At an ungodly hour I don't want to know I peer blearily through the fog of lack of sleep and infection into the night. Blurry celestial gloriousness shimmers behind three Italian Cypress planted in the garden in front of the house. I know, even in this ridiculous state, it is one of the clearest night skies I have ever witnessed. I weep from self-pity and anger and the realisation that the bale of hay I unrolled the day before leaving must have been, unbelievable as it seemed, damp in the middle. I know this evil. I know I need treatment. Pronto!
In the light of the morning without any persuasion necessary, Ju drives me into the village to find help; the medical centre is closed, the village doctor has déménagé to another village which leaves only the pharmacy. The pharmacienne gives me nothing more potent than sterilised water and compresses, saying if there is no improvement by morning to go to the Honoré Cave Clinic in Montauban, which is one of three specialist ORL2 A&E clinics in France. The sterilised water is soothing but it isn’t going to cure what is now a violently raging beast which the drama queen in my overtired and over stressed head is convincing me is devouring my right eye.
We shelter from the sizzling afternoon heat under parasols by the pool while we wait for Ju’s son and sister—my first ever and still very best friend with freckles and strawberry blond hair—to arrive with her husband on the train from Bordeaux. I gaze at the scrabble board, one eyed and fearful. I am desperately trying not to ruin everyone's holiday but there is a very distinct and destructive misery in guilty as charged.
They arrive carrying suitcases with their beautiful tired smiles which quickly change into looks of horror then concern I try to brush off as I peer at them through the tearful blur of old love because it is three years since I have seen Cha and her adorable husband—an adjective we unanimously agree upon—Ivan. This HAS to be a happy moment!
We toast new arrivals at Le Marché Gourmand in Lauzerte. This evening the village is a heaving international mass of second home owners, tolerant locals and friends from neighbouring villages all brandishing loud smiles and glasses of rosé. A hot wind carries the smell of paella, moules-frites, and candy floss, spilled rosé and plastic tableware across the square. Children, apparently unattached to any adult, are dancing. Everywhere! The ambiance is one of a summer conviviality only the French seem to know how to conjure.
A trio of Irish musicians are revving up the beat from a stage, my feet tap the rhythm under one of the hundreds of trellis tables while we eat our evening meal. I want so much to dance afterwards. Nietzsche said “We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once.” I make an elephant sized effort I don’t think possible to join the others who are already swirling and tapping and jigging the jig. Regardless that my eye feels like it might fall out of its socket, my swollen cheek like something foreign and huge clinging to the side of my face I can’t un-cling, I dance. Our laughter mingles with the sway of the crowd as we cheer unforgettable music.
AUGUST 7 — I know, from a past two-and-half-month-other-eye epic caused by a similar dusty hay bale, that a village doctor is no longer an option. This morning I am Cyclops, my eye has disappeared, hidden by grotesque swollen flesh. My ear hurts, my throat too, I have a burning pain in my neck.
Enter the drama queen in full theatrical dress, acting out her role as if an Oscar was riding on her back!
Everyone is worried. I am terrified…
I call the Honoré Cave Clinic in Montauban for an urgent appointment which is given for 10h30—they sound very efficient. Ju drives me—thank you, thank you, I know you hate driving—the hours journey necessary accompanied by Rosie. I am seen within ten minutes of arriving—they are efficient—spend no more than two minutes with an ophthalmologist—perhaps too efficient—leave with a prescription for antibiotic drops to be administered three times a day for a week and told it is just conjunctivitis and could take three weeks to heal.
I feel marginally calmer, although…
The drama queen sees a flaw in that statement?
AUGUST 8 - 9 — The following morning the swelling is worse despite antibiotics and constant cleaning, and, there is pus oozing copiously from what was my eye. Hope is a difficult feather to hold but I try. For the sake of everyone I beat away the sceptic, do my best to smile through the mess, miraculously win a game of scrabble, go for a long walk to check a badger sett I found last year to get out of everyones line of sight and hold the right side of my face which feels very much like it might be departing from the left.
After the evening meal is cleared away, the outside projector is set up, chairs and loungers are arranged.
Showing tonight: Project Hail Mary with Ryan Gosling—drinks provided.
It is a film I have never seen—there are so many—and only half see tonight through one good eye that refuses to stop weeping; what a beautiful story of friendship and selfless kindness. My spirits are lifted…
Alas, the following morning my face remains unchanged and all high spirits hit the floor running! It is quite unbelievable how much toxic waste can ooze from one small eye, but ooze it does. It is time to take my mess home. I am ruining everyone’s days. We leave before lunch amidst concerned hugs and promises to call as soon as we are safe. As I drive away, broken for so many reasons, I realise I haven’t picked up my camera once.
The main road to Cahors is still closed and the deviation is a longer drive than the meandering cross-country route I don’t know, I take the shorter journey, at least there will be zero police! Rosie is ashen with fear and worry in the back… Seth, in front, calmly navigating, is ready to grab the wheel if necessary. Miraculously it isn’t but it takes me over an hour—it feels like ten—to drive the waveringly terrifying single track country lanes to reach—with a collective sigh of relief—a national road with a sign post to somewhere I recognise. The dead- straight road swaying in a melange of heatwaves and goo before my eyes is twenty-two minutes from the station, Rosie’s train back to Toulouse leaves in twenty.
We arrive at the station in Caussade with seconds to spare, I hug her as if it will be the last time ever promising to call as soon as I am home and drive through a blur of sadness and concern straight to Villefranche de Rouergue to a local hospital for a second opinion. Seth, blissfully unaware of the extreme concentration the journey is demanding, gives me a sideways, eyes heavenward glance when I hit the curb as we turn into the carpark marked URGENCES.
I am crying from the utter relief of arriving as I walk to the reception area but nobody notices.
To Be Continued…
Always with forever love
terracotta half rounded tiles common throughout the south of France.
Specialist Eye, Nose and Ear clinics.
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.