A Walk in the Countryside

Yesterday, I went for a walk. I set out about half past ten. It was the perfect weather, probably around 72 degrees, the sky a clear, cloudless blue. The road in front of the house meanders through wide, open fields, gently curving left and right, but always flat. It’s a single lane road, but the grass to either side is cut short, so that cars can pass each other when the need arises. Some properties have a few trees, and in the shade, it’s cool. But mostly the immediate horizon is uninterrupted by trees or buildings. A slight breeze gusts through from time to time.

Leaving the house, I turn left. Right next to the house is an open pasture with two cows. Their pasture sits right against the side and back of the house, so we’re on a first name basis. Today they’re deep into the field, so I can’t tell if they moo or flick their tails at my passing. I’m sure they didn’t. I’ve never merited any excited mooing, even though they seem to moo all the time.

After being snubbed passing the neighbor’s cow pasture, I’m surprised when I get to the next field on the left. It was all brown when I last walked a few days ago, but now plants have sprouted. As far as the eye can see, the long, wide field is populated with little bunches of green, a perfect trifecta of three oblong leaves that have pushed their way to the surface. Each sits about two inches from the other in long columns down the field and up over the rise. Spring has sprung, and planting season has begun.

I continue down the road, passing a few bikers along the way. I nod and say bonjour. I pick up the pace – I’d like to make it to the bridge and back within the hour. On the right, a vast field of green sways and dances in the breeze. I’m no farmer and have no basis for my judgment, but for some reason I’m certain they’re an older, wiser, mature version of whatever young sprout was growing on the left. At knee height, the fronds sprawl from the road back as far as the eye can see, a deep, healthy green that rivals the dazzling blue sky in its intense color. The sun, its power unchallenged by trees or buildings, beams down fiercely on my skin. The air is cool, but my skin tingles warmly under the unfettered rays.

About half a mile onwards, I take a turnoff on the left. Here on this new road the vegetation thickens, and the sun and I play hide and seek. We’re nearing the Gers, the river that gives the region its name. The road dips down, towards the river, finally ending in a low bridge. There’s a warning – pont submersible. When the river runs high, the bridge becomes completely submerged underwater, lost in the current. The narrow bridge has no rails – it’s like a concrete slab perched over the water – so I squat down, leveling myself only two feet or so above the water, and look for fish. The river ebbs and flows lazily, clearly moving towards a destination, but not rushing to get there. I can’t see anything within the murky green depths. Further up, in a large town called Auch, I had been able to see a silver fish or two dart along the banks – but today, my slippery friends choose to hide.

The bridge is my turn-around point. I’ve come about a mile or so, and with any longer the sun will start to beam down with full intensity. That’s not to mention my aversion to exercise. I climb back up the dusty turnoff road and soon have made my way back to the main road. It occurs to me, as I look back at this turnoff, that the field I’m facing appears so untouched – it looks like it could have looked a hundred years ago. Apart from the white streaks of passing planes in the sky, there is no shopping mall in the distance, no candy wrapper tumbling along in the wind, not a single human footprint in the field. This image in front of me is frozen in time.

Back on the main road the foliage has thinned, and the sun floods the road with light. I stride along confidently, until a movement to my right makes my heart pound. A small snake had been coiled at the edge of the road, sunbathing languidly. With my approach, he unravels himself and, to my relief, starts to slither into the grass. He is small enough not to be a major threat, but my heart continues to pound as I scamper away.

A similar moment happens with a bumblebee. A fat, mostly black bee circling clumsily in front of me seems not to notice my approach and, like a big fat oaf, crashes right into my chest. I’m not particularly afraid of bees, but I’m stunned by how hard he lumbered into me. I’m afraid he’ll blame me for hitting him and seek revenge. I break into a brisk jog, as far as my asthmatic lungs will allow, until I’m sure he and his brethren are long in the distance. To my left, a cat sunning himself in the middle of a small house’s front yard watches me wheeze. His gaze is somehow aggressive. Alone in the yard, he watches me like a guard dog, threatening me as a German Shepard would. Probably taking my wheezing for the weakness that it is, he feels it’s safe to let me pass with a warning. I’m not worth getting up for. He blinks.

I’m nearing the house now. There’s the field with the little green sprouts, and next the pasture with tufts of lush green grass. Then comes our house and the yard. I round the house towards the other side where I see the chicken, pacing idly by the pool. We first saw her Easter morning. I woke up and looked out my window, and there she was, watching me. She has hung around the house ever since, afraid of humans, but in our midst nonetheless. I say hello. I realize my error and hastily say bonjour instead.

Like all the other animals on my journey, she doesn’t do much to acknowledge my presence, turning her back to me as she rustles around in the bushes. I go inside.

I like to imagine someone 100 years earlier seeing a similar thing.