When I awoke in the middle of the night, I thought today’s blog would be about facelifts. What do you suppose I had in mind? That was before I spent two chilly hours walking the Bourges Marais , the French word which sounds much better than our English swamps, this morning. Such swamps, in France, are lovely, rustic escapes, brought into submission as only the French might do. Just imagine perfectly irrigated community gardens bordered by shallow ditches wide enough for a punting boat and anchored by a hut of some sort or other. Even today, when snow is expected, men were out collecting winter crops or double digging the earth for spring planting.
Such marvelous gardening ghettoes are fertile ground not only for vegetables, but also inspire unique creativity beyond agriculture. Gates made of bed springs, scarecrows a la français, poetic plaques, as well as all sorts of fencing were artistic, Sanford and Son delights, squared. A Patois Paradise to warm my heart and feed my soul on such a gruff, Gallic morning.