I: All Saint’s Day – somewhere in the Zone

The day after Hallow’een is always a bit of a let down, a sensation akin to finding yourself still seated in the bath tub after all the water has run out. We’d gathered around a bonfire on the riverbank the night before to remember the dead and thank the river and the forest and Pacha Mama for seeing us through another season – and one hell of a season this has been – perhaps the most terrible and most beautiful summer I have ever had the privilege and misfortune to survive.

Seasons turn on a dime here in the high valleys of the French Pyrenees and the stars began to wink out as we took turns burning sigils on the fire, casting our bad luck on the embers, pouring libations for the loa and attendant elementals, drawing some small comfort from the vitality of the flame, casting its jagged uncertain light across the river Salz into the woods beyond. Around midnight a thin, cold mist blew in that turned to rain and jumping over the embers one last time for luck, I headed back to the house

By morning a great wind had risen, clearing away the autumn leaves on cue and bringing the first dusting of snow to the mountains. I watched from the window of the tower room in the Maison Bethany, the crumbling stone edifice overlooking the river that has become my headquarters in the Zone, mesmerised by the sight of hundreds of thousands, indeed millions of leaves taking to the air, whirling and dancing into the storm riven heavens. It was the first real day of winter, the first day of the new year in the Celtic calendar. Catching the smell of snow on the wind, I tightened my keffiyeh, realising it was high time I started keeping a weblog, some form of public record of what we have been living through here in the wild mountains.

When snow comes this early to the high pastures it doesn’t augur well and this winter promises to be long and hard. Bid that it be hard enough to purify the land and reset the stage for the world to come.