Vine talk
Ever wondered how the plants know when to bud? What the birds are saying? What the birds think of us? Those thoughts were triggers for this week's short tale from the Mediterranean.
The red earth swirled in zigzags made by tractor tyres. The farmer must have just ploughed between the rows of vines because clumps of mud flung from tyre grooves, had flip-flopped over the footpath. The farmer was thinking way ahead. The crisscross tracks were like magnified threads with a few knots in the corners. A crocheted field, nude, chilly, waiting for spring.
I walked further along the track listening to the birds. I would love a translator. Now that is one invention I would love. Good use of AI, translating birdsong. I wondered what the birds think of me, of my presence, or if they even notice me. I listened some more and imagined the translation in an app.
But for the birds, it was early enough to be beautifully quiet. Away from the drone of crazed news and the farce that the press loves to feed us, in a week that has got tiring watching clever people bowing to fools. A show of tit-for-tat that barely can be described as politics. It would be so funny in a film but for real, it is saddening and dangerous.
The dew gloved every tiny leaf near the ground. Silver was the new green. I sat down on a rock. This time no coffee. Trying to reduce my caffeine intake. I sipped some ginger tea and it was strong and warmed my throat. The tea is just that bit too hot, so I leave it standing. The steam curls out of the top and snakes to the wind. I keep an eye out for stray dogs who like to sneakily lick the top, like last week, although I would feel less distraught losing ginger tea. I subconsciously take in a deep sigh.
‘Finally, you’re still! Is it really that hard for you, just to sit?’
I’m sorry? I turn round but there is no one in sight.
‘You! You guys. You walkers. You’re all the same. Stomping around with your sticks.’
Sticks? What sticks? Nordic sticks? I don’t have a stick.
‘Don’t give me Nordic. This is the Mediterranean coast and every time you stomp along these tracks with those stupid sticks, I lose my concentration, and I can’t hear.’
I don’t have any sticks! What are you listening for? Who are you? I decide not to say obviously someone who needs glasses.
‘I’m right behind you.’
I turn but nobody is there. I wonder if I am going quite insane.
‘I am a fortyfour-year-old vine, and I have had enough of you walkers!’
Sorry? At a loss for words, obviously.
Well, if I annoy you, what about the tractor? How do you handle that?! I ask.
‘Huh! The farmer?? That farmer goes round thinking he owns the place!’
Well… doesn’t he? Own the place? I’m definitely frowning at this point.
‘At least he only passes by once in a blue moon.’
You know about blue moons?
‘I know more about the moon than you can imagine. Blue moon, supermoon, blood moon. Dear wise old moon, caretaker of the dark. Night whisperer.’
Mm. This is all rather weird. But the farmer, he does own the place, right?
‘That’s what he likes to think, but he owns this soil as much as the lichen on my shoulders owns me.’
Finding it difficult to find words. So… who is the owner of this, er, very red soil then? You seem to have all the answers.
‘The rain, of course. The rain is king. No rain, no soil. Soil just gets whipped up into dust. Fills the skies. Clouds turn yellow with dust. You know. Calima. No rain, no grapes. The farmer can say what he wants, but he can’t tell me what to do. I tell him. Anyway, I need to get back to work.’
Work?
‘Listening to the sounds of course! Listening to the rain. Singing with the moon. Waiting for that vibration. The vibe of spring.’
It doesn’t sound as if you sleep much.
‘Oh, I get all the rest I need. Like a horse; sleep standing up. I need to listen, or nothing will get grown round here and luckily for the first time in three years there’s been some rain, not to mention heavy dew every morning this week. Just perfect. In fact, today might be the day I get a tingle in my roots to start.
I stand up.
Nice talking but I have got too cold sitting here and I need to work today too.
‘Thank heavens for that. Before you go, would you take that nasty plastic bag somebody dumped? It’s been there a week and it screams at me in the wind.’
You are sensitive!
‘Well of course I am! How else would I know how to bud or turn red or drop my leaves in autumn!? How else would I know when it’s the right moment to make my move!?’
You make life sound like a chess game.
‘Well that’s about right and you dear human, are nothing but a mere pawn.’
Ok that’s enough of making me feel small. Before you attack my self-confidence any further, which isn’t my strongest point, I’ll be off.
‘Ha. You writers. You’re all the same! Head full of doubts. You don’t sit still enough to listen!! That’s all.
Me? I’m not a writer!
‘Nonsense. Of course you are a writer! I watch you everyday writing away! I never understood why most writers don’t admit to being writers! You are a complicated lot! Anyway. Off you go. Off my patch anyway and don’t forget the bag!?
I was tempted to leave the bag on purpose but couldn’t. It looked ghastly on the ground. I pick up the bag and headed home. I decide ginger tea is not going to help me wake up fast enough and looked forward to a decent cup of coffee.
As I leave, a green woodpecker screeches dividing the valley in two, sounding more like a horse neighing. That’s enough. I better get home. I definitely need a proper caffeine fix. 🌿
Thank you so much for passing by. Hope I see you next week. I’d love to know what you thought of this week’s story. Maybe a little nuts? If you liked it a little heart means I am a bit less invisible than I was yesterday. Thank you too for writing to me last week it was lovely to hear from you. 🌿
Lots of love. And speaking of love, to spread the love this week on SubStack….
I was very touched by Kendall’s story this week. It hit home on so many levels!!
And Nicole shares the same love of small things as I.
Romance on the hill and the arrival of spring, described with elegance as always from Susie…
Some sweet humour from
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“he owns this soil as much as the lichen on my shoulders owns me.” Favorite line in this delight of a story. And the concept of the rain owning the soil. Just brillliant. Loved this story, my friend!
I enjoyed your story, it was bonkers but in a good way. Maybe if more folks stopped to consider what the plants and animals could teach us we wouldn’t be in the mess we are. Thank you for sharing. 👏