I was born in the last century, around 1830. Does it matter exactly when? I don’t know my exact date of birth, but of one thing I am certain: today, I am an old shepherd. I must be over eighty. I’m old, old indeed. My mind hasn’t gone yet, though. I was born in this village in Baux-de-Provence. The winters here are mild and dry. Still, I need to warm myself by the fire when the sun sets. Big frosts are rare, and the evening breeze is my only enemy. The mistral blows a hundred days a year, on average. I have some fifteen ewes. In the springtime we share the pastures up in the mountains; estives, we call them, and the in the autumn we head back down to the plains once they’ve had their fill of the grassy meadows. The village of Baux-de-Provence is full of traditions. When it’s time to move the herds, the whole village turns out. My border collies are my greatest helpers. They drive and guide the ewes when it’s time to come down from the hills. Twenty years ago I lived in the mountains with my flock. I slept in a shepherd’s hut, a cavolar, and made cheese there. Now I’m too old to make the journey. I stay here, in the village. Luckily Colette is still here to bring the sheep out to graze in the lands around about. Colette is a fine woman. She must be twenty or so, and she dreams of being a seamstress in the capital. We all have dreams at that age. Paris, of all places! What worse hell could there be? I’ve been to Paris, twice. It seemed to me that Frenchmen don’t recognise themselves up there. There are horses and carts flying in every direction in the streets, and the women are all fancy. They spend hours powdering their faces, tightening their corsets and donning their huge dresses. Here, the women don’t have such notions. Paris was the capital for the Exposition Universelle. That Eiffel Tower – did you ever see such an abomination? A tower of iron. I prefer the trees and meadows to all that grey stone. I told Colette: “When you get to Paris, don’t forget me! And don’t forget what the real country looks like.” Colette’s a dear young woman. She gave me a house cat for Christmas. At first I didn’t think much of her gift, having known mostly dogs as companions myself. Still, in time I grew attached to the little ball of fur, once I’d de-loused her. For Christmas, the families in the village all come to the church of Saint-Vincent des Baux for midnight mass. The crèche is all lit up. There’s a cart pulled by an ox, decorated with leaves and candles, bringing a newborn lamb. God-fearing shepherds came of their own accord to kiss the infant Jesus’s feet. Then they passed the lamb between one another before offering it as a gift. My village is full of traditions.
All of a sudden the old shepherd heard bells ringing, barking and whistles. The ewes were coming back. The day had been long. Waiting there all day was hard for a working man, but for an old shepherd the time rolled by like forgotten landscapes. The door opened, and the two dogs rushed in, their tails wagging. Colette came over to the fireplace to stoke the fire. The nights were cosy, spent by the hot embers and in good company. But where was the cat? Not used to the presence of dogs yet, it had buried itself in a chair. “We’re not all made for company,” concluded the old shepherd.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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