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Gardener, Lost
My friend and oracle on all things romantic, Bill,
swears the first eye-meet is vital. He is something of an expert and says
that the initial eye contact will always indicate the intensity of the
relationship to follow.
When that first glance is a bit special, well, you just know that the
two of you are destined to get together. And not necessarily for a wild
and passionate affair. It's more a sense of being aware, beyond any shadow
of a doubt that the two of you will have so much in common that a meeting
must happen, and a friendship will develop. It will only be a matter of
time. This happened to me last May, when I saw, for the first time, one
of the most enchanting men I have ever encountered in my life. A truly
mystical character, almost unworldly. Perhaps I should have sensed that,
as always, these very special people are destined to leave us prematurely?
In April of last year I came to live in this wild and unspoiled place
in Southern France - the bit that joins with Spain, not the yachts and
glitzy Mediterranean part. Some very interesting people live in the towns
and villages of the Couseran Hills. The place seems to attract all sorts
of marvellously unconventional types. They paint, they sculpt, play music,
dance creatively, write, make fantastic jewellery, grow organic food,
sell clothes made in Bali in the market, and, taking advantage of the
climate, some create absolutely magical gardens. What are sometimes called
'alternative' life-styles are quite normal here. Apparently somebody even
lives in a tepee in the hills, although I have not met him yet. Thirty
years ago, I suppose they would have been called hippy-ish.
Because the villages and towns are so small, and the area generally is
under populated, I began to quickly recognise faces. The Saturday market
in our local town was a trip back to the happy, carefree, grunge days
of the Neil Young seventies. Hands up who remembers Woodstock and the
Isle of Wight festivals, the Dandelion market in Dublin? The hair on some
of the men here is wonderful - I had not seen the likes of it since my
Friday night rugby club dances as a young teenager. Bob Marley is played
a lot and Che Guevara posters are still sold here.
In the crowd at the outdoor market in May of last year, I saw a new person
coming towards me, and he saw me. A stupendous meeting of eyes ensued,
and I wrote the following to a friend:
'It's all my mother's fault. Those pictures of the Sacred Heart she adored.
All those saintly looking men with flowing locks. Well today I saw the
real thing. You can see his magnificent blue eyes from the other side
of the little square. He is very tall, very still, and has fabulous hair,
very long.'
And to my cousin in London some weeks later: 'Some of the people here
are amazing. Lots of interesting looking individuals. There is one tall
guy who stands out though. I see him around quite a lot. Do you remember
'Jesus of Nazareth', when the face of Robert Powell made us all swoon
and almost get religion again? I have a new one. You never saw such eyes.
Stunning, stunning, stunning.'
And then this to someone who replied that I still sounded sixteen years
old; 'The Saturday outdoor market is like being back in the seventies.
There's this guy, who I have only said hello to, well, what can I say?
He has absolutely amazing eyes and his hair is incredible. A sort of hero
look about him, but quiet and mystical at the same time. Think Lord of
the Rings. I ran into this fascinating individual almost every time I
went out during summer and autumn. His height, hair and eyes made him
stand out. At all the festivals, there we both were. Within five minutes
of arriving anywhere, I seemed to find myself beside my new hero and we
began to politely exchange Bonjour's. By the time winter came I had got
to know a lot of the stallholders in the market. But not yet my Jesus
lookalike.
The small ancient town of St. Girons is full of little streets and alleyways,
with some wrought iron balconies that are pure New Orleans. So it was
in the depths of a freezing January when myself and my Guru literally
bumped into each other turning a twisty corner in the old centre of town.
We both apologised, both said 'it's you', finally introduced ourselves
and that was that.
We spoke for ages using a mad mix of broken French and English. Despite
this little drawback we seemed to cover a lot of subjects. This superb
area of France, the fantastic wild scenery, the Pyrenees, lack of pollution,
traffic and people. The flora and fauna; the flowers here are magnificent
and there are bears and wolves in the high mountains, so there was lots
to chat about. We said absolutely nothing about ourselves. That old chestnut,
'What do you do?' would have seemed quite absurd.
In France people often have a garden in a different part of the town to
where they live. Eric shared a huge garden with two others, and when I
got to know him better I realised this was where he was happiest. In fact,
it was where he rather eccentrically preferred to live. Yes. In a section
of the fantastic greenhouse attached to the large garden, among the tropical
ferns, were sleeping and cooking facilities. They were arranged as a child
would do when playing Robinson Crusoe or Treasure Island. It was like
something from a fairy tale. Here was someone who seemed so calm and serene
that he positively radiated a purple aura, and his bohemian living area
was one of the most peaceful places I have ever been. He was happy to
see his apartment only occasionally and preferred to exist close to his
exotic flowers, plants and the most exquisitely scented roses, which the
other gardeners agreed he grew.
Bartering systems are standard practice here. People exchange or share
whatever they grow or make. One afternoon Eric showed me a note he had
found pinned to the glass by one of his friends, a cheese maker, who had
passed by earlier. It read 'there is bread and cheese in your press.'
The good soul had even supplied the baguette to accompany the cheese.
Eric was so unassuming about his own skills; his extraordinary talent
for growing exotic blooms, for getting difficult plants to thrive, even
for playing the guitar, but most of all for making people feel the better
for meeting him, that it was slightly humbling to be in his presence.
He championed everybody else's talents and quietly boosted confidence.
I was struggling with a piece for a newspaper and told him it was going
backwards. He listened to me and said, Òbut just say what you are saying
to me. You have lots to say. Just write like you talk.Ó It might have
been advice from Maeve Binchy. Then I had an article on life in this area
published in one of the big Country Life glossies and when I showed it
to him, he pronounced me ÒMadame La JournalistÒ to all and sundry. Even
my digital camera provoked a reaction worthy of a brilliant scientist,
so impressed was he at my being able to master the thing. Everyone adored
him, and he was always to be found in the midst of a group of friends.
But he also loved to spend hours alone in the garden. I began to wonder
what his background was. I knew he was not from this area of France originally.
There were musical instruments in his living area and I thought perhaps
he had been a musician who was passing through some years before and simply
stayed after a festival. This is not uncommon.
Another thought I had, and this is not especially wild, although it sounds
it. But knowing this area and the people it attracts, it is not too off
the wall. I began to wonder if Eric was an aristocrat, an avant-garde
one certainly, who had just chosen an unconventional lifestyle. His height,
his build, strong features, good teeth, and general demeanour - his politeness
and gentle behaviour was almost of another age - certainly suggested something
special. He looked mediaeval. He lived exactly as he pleased. Possessing
a strong streak of individualism, he seemed a person totally in charge
of themselves and completely at ease with the world around them.
But, are things ever as they seem?
I hadn't seen Eric for a few weeks. It was strange for him not to be around.
The gate to the garden was locked when I called by. This was very curious,
as locks and bolts were not his way. He lived the very simplest life -
had few possessions. The things he cared about were the tropical flowers
and plants he was such a genius at growing, his books, and the diary that
he used for everything, based on the movements of the moon. Then I ran
into another of the gardeners, and laughingly asked if Eric had run away
on us?
Michel looked at me very sadly, and as gently as he could, he said 'you
don't know, do you?' I froze, because I positively knew that something
ghastly was to come.
And it did.
Eric had ended his own life. He had hanged himself in the greenhouse where
he mostly lived, surrounded by his tropical flowers, plants and books.
Michel and I went to the garden where the two of us sat for absolutely
ages, talking and smoking. Me totally stunned, shocked and utterly unable
to cope. I only knew Eric such a short time, but it was as if I had known
him forever. Michel didn't consider the length of time important. He felt
our friendship was a genuine friendship and considered my shock normal.
He is the 'techno' man of the group, and gave me a CD of photographs taken
very recently. Even if initially I found it quite difficult to look at
them, I am now very glad to have them.
Eric was one of the most authentic people I ever knew. In the garden that
day, sitting only a foot from where he had taken such a desperate and
final decision, I kept asking why, why, why? Michel gave me a very brief
history of some deep-rooted troubles in Eric's childhood, of how he had
chosen and enjoyed his lifestyle, his love and vast knowledge of the natural
world, and left it at that. Whatever demons haunted him, he always appeared
to me a calm and tranquil person. Michel very wisely talked to me at length
about how we must now let Eric's spirit go, because it had been his choice
to leave us, and my asking why all the time would not help him take his
chosen path.
I am indebted to Michel for making that time, in the place where such
a horrendous thing happened, so very bearable. So much so that I have
been back, the garden and greenhouse seeming as peaceful now as it was
when Eric was there. And of course a huge sense of him remains there.
Now I must accept that my friend of such a short time, who I had truly
come to adore, is free of whatever troubles he could not endure in this
life. I have to acknowledge his right to choose his death just as he chose
how he lived his life. As a thoughtful friend pointed out to me, there
are some people in this world that feel things too much. We think they
are able to cope with life's ups and downs as we do, but they are just
too delicate, they feel more pain and anguish than they can or want to
bear. She reminded me that I was lucky to have basked in Eric's gentle
radiance. I couldn't have worded it better.
A gentle radiance sums him up perfectly. In spite of all the Indian mysticism
I have studied over the years and my time spent at the exceptional School
of Philosophy in Dublin, coming to terms with this is a thousand times
worse than I could have imagined.
Perhaps, like it does everything else, time will help.
by
Jane Shortall
29th August 2004
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