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Monday 13 March 2017

A story with the following words: ramshackle, bargaining, Burgundy, wall, Compostele




Eve's Story:

The Pilgrimage
I have been thinking of going on a pilgrimage to St.Jacques de Compostele it,'s spring in Burgundy and if we leave now (my companion and I), we should be back for Christmas.
This idea is so farfetched, bizarre, in a way, it seemed wond, in any case, I canerful at the time but the more I think about it,the harder the trip seems.
What to take on such a long journey,water,food,clothes and snacks must not forget the snacks, Taking the train or a car would defeat the purpose which is walking through France and Spain.  What a wonderful deed to accomplish,filling our hearts with joy,our feet with blisters,just magical!.

The people say you can get room and board for free ,in any case I can bargain but I must bring cash.Again,what to pack,what to take and cramming everything in a backpack doesn't leave room for error, plus I must have a Compostele outfit when we arrive ,my friend won't need any but will she be able to make the journey on such short,fat legs? or we might catch a ride over the mountains.  I am sure some pilgrims do it and never say a word.What an idea to walk,I mean,actually so far.  I do hope we get a medal on arrival so I can display it to my friends.  I really am worried about the trip, even though people do it all the time and live to talk about it.
Summertime is pleasant,hot;I'll need a hat plus I'll have to I'll have to carry loads of water or get a small carriage,put all our stuff in it  later leave it in someone's garage.
It's getting to be an ordeal.As I sit on the little wall at the end of my garden,looking at the lovely valley below,I decided to get a haircut before leaving,I must look good for the trip.
It is a good idea after all,I'll be thin and tan for Christmas,a plus.I have to google this pilgrimage deal and must get a map.Will all the stuff fit in the backpack,it's driving me insane .I must look decent,don't want to be taken for a bag lady or a voyager.
I must start on the project now if we are to leave in March.So many unanswered questions and I must provide for my companion who is a spoiled Princess,I am also worried about her chubby legs but I will not put up with any whining.
8 months of traveling over mountains, through rivers, meeting wildlife and our legs having no feelings in them but it is a small price to pay for such an adventure.
If we don't make it this year as time is getting short, maybe  next year would be a better idea and we will call the trip "the year of the Great Pilgrimage".

Angie's story:

'Burgundy!' they said, 'Who on earth goes  to live in Burgundy!?'
'You drink the stuff, you don't  live in it!'
It was true to some extent; the area was not that well known to British ex pats keen to have a little place in France as a 'maison secondaire', or even those, less common, wanting to uproot, go the whole hog and take on ' la vie en France' with all its unknown hazards and pitfalls.

However, holiday  cruising on the French canals, in their very own barge, Sally and Mike had found themselves on the Burgundy Canal one happy summer, when the sun shone and the wine flowed and the cheese, baguettes and croissant slipped down a treat as they reclined and lazily watched the little villages pass by in the distance each with a different church spire topping them off.
Every so often, right on the canal  towpath almost,  an 'ecluse' or lockhouse would hove into view, each one slightly different, all inhabited and in various states of repair. How romantic they thought, to be that close to water, totally free of neighbours but with a constant passing stream of sociable sailors, ready to call out a cheery word of greeting but not wanting to stop too long.

It was as they were actually voicing their thoughts out loud to each other that they drew level with a rather less romantic ecluse. It had obviously not been inhabited for many years and was ramshackle to say the least and that was just from the outside. Yet, as Sally and Mike looked at it, they both had the same strong feeling that it should be theirs. That they should be the ones to bring it back to life and restore its identity.

Yet at the same time as they thought that, they also were aware of what a crazy scheme it was. Yes, Sally was a French teacher so language was not a problem, and Mike with his woodcarving business was good with his hands but what happens easily in the land of your birth does not seamlessly translate into life in another country.

Yet, on their return to the UK the dream persisted. So much so that after not a great deal of time, their house was let and notice was given on both jobs. It was at that point the comments from friends came thick and fast..Ignoring the negative and embracing the positive they found themselves back in Burgundy, moored in a dock not too far from their little old ruin.
Negotiations with the Burgundy  Waterways  had eventually, after much bargaining resulted in a long term let for the foreseeable future.
It was the sale of the barge of course that was funding this new enterprise and providing a cushion in the wake of paid employment.
So the eventual arrival at their mini dream house was actually by road not water. They pulled up and parked on the surrounding rough ground adjacent to the tow path.
Nothing broke the silence of this idyllic spot with their beloved canal winding away into the distance through tall straight poplars and the rolling green hills all around them.
May was a beautiful month and living in a tent not such a daunting prospect with warm sun and not much rain to speak of.

No strangers to practical work, Sally and Mike got stuck in and with their frequent visits to the building and DIY shops in the small town ten minutes away,they soon became known by the assistants and local customers alike.
It was one of the latter, a builder himself of many years experience, who suggested the idea of erecting oak beams either side of a dividing wall in the kitchen to give a more rustic effect. Had that conversation never taken place, how different things might have been.
After three months of solid grind, the little ecluse had been transformed, a new door and windows, all in keeping with the original , a complete clean up and paint of all outside walls and woodwork, meant people now looked from their barges and boats with admiration and interest, many of them knew the ecluse from old. Sally had filled tubs and boxes with the ubiquitous trailing red geraniums and a rose was already climbing half way round the door.
The tent was packed away, as they now had a bedroom and kitchen which were liveable albeit not completely finished. Sally was   thinking of looking around for teaching work for when school would start again in September.

The oak beams were delivered one sunny morning in August. It took Mike, the driver and his mate to manoeuvre them off the truck and through the door into what was to be the sitting area. There they rested them vertically against the wall. They were a bit reluctant to leave Mike to deal with them alone but he assured them that he was used to working with wood and he'd take care.
Even at that point all might have been fine if only two walkers with their large Labrador had not walked past at that moment. The door was still open and Sally had been cooking a chicken casserole which she'd put on a low table by the door to cool.
The dog, lured by the enticing smell veered from the path and following his nose burst through the door.
Mike, who was just grappling with the first beam in an effort to get it exactly in place, was totally shocked by the sudden onslaught of barking muscular dog invading the silence from nowhere.
He turned to see what was happening and in doing so lost his grip on the beam which given its weight and position inevitably
fell with a huge force crashing down and bringing all in its wake including Mike.
The noise was horrendous and Sally, outside hanging washing, saw the dog shoot out of the kitchen. She flew inside with just split seconds to imagine the scene that would meet her eyes.
It was as bad as she feared, the beam now lying across the floor and Mike pinned beneath it still and quiet.
In her panic she could not think straight needing to know if Mike was alive and yet desperate to find her phone to call for help. In the event the dog owners, aware of something very wrong, had stopped and now came in behind her ready to help.
By some miracle, the woman had had nursing experience and went into first aid mode checking for signs of life in Mike and talking to him in that calm reassuring way only the professionals can. For Sally it was far worse than any nightmare she could have imagined and feeling so utterly helpless and terrified for Mike she was in a severe state of shock by the time the Pompiers arrived with extra men and equipment to release Mike with incredible care and in doing so realised that as a matter of life and death he must be helicoptered out immediately if he were to have any chance of making it.
As they worked on Mike, Sally sat shaking and trying to talk coherently to the dog owners . She wanted just to be by Mike, holding his hand, but he was surrounded by the men who were trying to save his life in urgent voices but with infinite care.

                         **************************
It must have been the sun, coming through the window and warming her as she sat doing her marking, that made her suddenly think back to that hideous day. It had been very warm then as Mike was taken from her, barely conscious  and
heavily sedated. The agony of not knowing when and if she would see him, time had passed in a blur.
She looked across at him now. Working at the table on his wood designs he was totally engrossed. Then, he looked up, feeling some unseen communication.
'I'll put the kettle on love shall I?' He moved the wheelchair adeptly to the sink and filled the kettle.
She thought for the thousandth time how lucky they were still to have each other, and though the Burgundy dream was not to be, life was more special to them than perhaps to others who had seen not just their dream but almost their life ripped apart in an instant.
She looked at a picture on the wall of pilgrims walking the route of Compostelle. Although heading for Spain many passed through Burgundy near to where their little ecluse had been. They were making a pilgrimage to somewhere they believed was a place of religious significance, perhaps of healing for some.
Sally felt that they too had made a pilgrimage of sorts from brokenness to healing from despair to a new, different life of disability but huge gratitude that they were still together and were already finding challenges and excitements in the simplest of things for it is those that make for real contentment and love.





Jackie's story

Once upon a time a farmer, named Jarvis, lived in the village of Saint Jacques de Compostele.  He had few acres of land. One hot afternoon, the poor farmer was digging his field. All of a sudden, his spade hit something. Then he continued his digging. “It is a big metal pot," said Jarvis.   It was big enough to boil rice for more than hundred people. “It does not seem to be of any use to me. I will dig deeper. May be I will find something else," and he continued to dig.

After he had dug for a long time, Jarvis felt tired. “It is of no use. There is nothing in this field" he thought. Then, he threw the spade into the pot in frustration and sat against a wall to take rest for a while.

After a while, when he got up to leave, he could not believe his eyes. There were one hundred spades in the pot. “This is a magical pot. I will put this potato inside the pot and see what happens," he thought. He then got 100 potatoes enough to feed the whole village.     Then Jarvis put a bottle of  wine into the pot. To his astonishment, later he found one hundred bottles of wine. Jarvis carried the pot to his home and kept it in an old ramshackle hut so that no one would become aware of it.

After that, he put many things in the pot  and each time everything became hundred folds. With that pot, he became a rich man. The King of Burgundy came to know of the pot and its whereabouts. The King was curious to know about it and he was a greedy King. “I want to find out the secret of the magical pot. If it is valuable, it should be in the King’s castle ,” the King thought. Then at once, the King ordered his men to bring the farmer and his pot.

When the magic pot was brought to the King’s chamber, he did not know what to do. The King thought, “Let me see what is there inside this pot which makes it so magical?" He peered inside.  He hadn’t bargained on it being so deep and he slipped and fell inside the pot. When he climbed out of the magic pot, he was shocked to find that there were one hundred other Kings.

All the kings then started to climb onto the throne. They fought among themselves and all died.

Jarvis who had become so rich also then became King of his land.   


Moral of the story :   don’t throw out any old pots …..

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Annemarie's story:


Words, Words, Words

It is said that six degrees of separation is the idea that all living things and everything else in the world are just six steps away from each other. Well would that be the same for six random words out of more than two hundred and fifty thousand?
Well here I am in a small Spanish café perched precariously on a ramshackle chair (in my dictionary ramshackle is squeezed between ram-raid - is that why the chair is ramshackle?- and ransom, meaning wild garlic and, yes, breaths of garlic waft from the restaurant kitchen. I see that ramshackle means 'tumbledown ',’ badly constructed’. That explains why this chair creaks beneath me, no doubt bought in a sunny street market and hopefully with a good degree of bargaining on the part of the buyer. To 'bargain', nestled between 'barf' meaning to vomit (and doesn’t it sound like that?) and 'barge', a flat-bottomed freight boat. Well I hope the buyer of this bottomed-out chair haggled his way down to just a just a few Euros.
 I have idled the days down the idyllic tree-lined waterways on a picturesque barge, all the way from Burgundy to Spain. Burgundy - think of full-bodied red wine, a rich purple-brown-red colour, reminiscent of clerical colours, of chalices of communion wine. You may have had a glass or two,(but careful now, not too many, - burgundy is just before 'burial' in the dictionary!) at the convivial bar halfway up the cobbled street which winds its way to the basilica in the sky in the pilgrim's town of Vezelay. Yes, not too many glasses if you are a pilgrim as you will still need to stagger down that steep hill, following scallop shells embedded in the street pointing the way and the wearisome walk to Santiago de Compestela.
Now Compestela doesn't feature in my dictionary but if it did it would be hunkered down between 'compose meaning to restrain - you see what I meant about 'careful with the wine'? - and compete. Now I'm not sure you

would be striving with the other pilgrims to be there first but perhaps you would be contending with your own ability to walk for three months in dust, rain, burning sun or sharing your bed with fleas in the many lodgings en route.
   How worthwhile when at last you reach the walled town overlooking the green Galician hills. Wall, ( appropriately after walkathon, - a long-distance walk-) meaning to enclose or fortify. Over the centuries Compestela had need of its walls, constructed after a Viking raid in the late 10th century and again after an attack by Arabs a few decades later. Now the hordes are more likely to be scallop-bearing pilgrims finally completing the arduous pélérinage to the Baroque cathedral of SaintJames.
   I hear you ask how magical can be linked to Compestela since the Christian church condemns magic - or 'witchcraft' as defined in the dictionary - but fortunately for me it also defines magical as enchanting and wonderful.
   And so was the scene I observed as I sat on my ramshackle chair with a glass of burgundy wine in the golden evening sun. The magical, nay, enchanting sight of a tall elegant woman, albeit rather exhausted, hauling a giant skateboard upon which stood a long tubby body with four short legs which were as wrinkly as floppy suede boots; two long velvet ears dangling this way and that and two lugubrious eyes which stared in bewilderment, wondering why she had walked, or almost walked, one thousand, five hundred and ninety-five kilometres.





For Fendi, in training for her walk to Spain and who only hopes for 'downhills'

6 random words:  ramshackle, bargaining, burgundy, wall, Compestela, magical 9to be included in the story)

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