Summary

The author describes living in the windiest part of France, the Languedoc region, and how the relentless winds affect their mental state, daily life, and writing endeavors.

Abstract

The Languedoc region in France is known for its strong winds, including the Tremontaine and the Scirroco, which can be destructive and last for days. The author, a writer living in this region, shares their struggle with the wind's impact on their psyche, leading to a sense of madness and a disruption of their work. They resort to rationing cheap wine into jam jars to control their intake, a method that is not entirely successful. Despite having a sign encouraging creativity and meditation, the wind's noise prevents the author from focusing on their book. A conversation with a friend, Becky, reveals shared experiences with the wind's chaos and a mutual struggle with aging and productivity. The author, feeling uninspired and procrastinated, blames the wind for their lack of progress and quotes a 17th-century physician who attributed various ailments to the wind's influence.

Opinions

The author suggests that the strong winds of Languedoc can negatively affect one's mental state, potentially leading to insanity.
Living in France on a tight budget is romanticized through the image of a starving writer, but the reality includes challenges like battling the wind while shopping.
The author is self-aware and somewhat self-deprecating about their attempts to limit alcohol consumption, acknowledging the struggle with self-control.
There is a sense of humor in the way the author describes their efforts to work despite the distracting winds and their conversations with Becky.
The author expresses frustration with the slow progress of their book, admitting to procrastination and blaming external factors like the wind.
The wind is personified and almost demonized for its impact on the author's productivity and well-being.
The author seems to find some comfort in historical references, such as the 17th-century physician's views on the wind's effects, which validates their own experiences.

I live in the windiest part of France .

There’s some scientific evidence to suggest that it can — well, if not actually crazy, it can play havoc with your mental state. George Bresson, the iconic French singer who lived for a time in the Languedoc region of France, where I now live sang about it.

Le vent qui vient à travers la montagne. Me rendra fou.

The Languedoc is the windiest area of France. Five separate winds, each with a name. The biggest two are the Tremontaine which blows down from the Pyrenees and the Scirroco a stormtrooper from the Sahara capable of sandblasting the paint off cars. Some bring rain, others heat. They all wreak destruction and blow for days on end.

One windy day, feeling sort of crazy myself after hours of roaring wind and clattering that suggests giants are right outside having a friendly game of tree trunk tossing, I stood at the kitchen counter pouring wine from a large plastic jug into five small jam jars. Cheap wine, the sort sold in places where you pump it into jugs yourself, is one of the bonuses of living the starving writer sort of life in France.

Cheap wine is also an invitation to consume too much. The jam jar thing was an effort to limit my intake. One jar a day I told myself. I didn’t really believe it..

In fact, I wanted to empty all the filled jars at once. It had been that kind of day. At the Intermarche the wind literally ripped the shopping cart from my grip. Almost airborn, it careened across the parking lot where some quick footed guy grabbed it just before it hit a parked car.

Back home in my writerly garret, I tried to work. I’d told everyone I was coming to France to eat cheese, drink wine, and finish the book I was working on. Several years on, I knew where to buy cheap wine and. I could identify five different types of French cheese, but the book . . . better not ask.

I hadn’t entirely given up. A sign above my desk read: When you want to create something important, sit quietly and meditate upon it. You will be guided by the creative spirit. That day, I tried to sit quietly as the wind battered the skylights, but the creative spirit was a no show. Blown away and en route to Morocco, maybe.

My friend Becky called as I finished filling the jam jars. We talked about the winds. She said they blew a plastic bag full of leaves into her swimming pool. “I’d finally got off my arse and raked them all up, “she said, “Now I’ll have to ring the pool guy.” She had a thing for the pool guy, except he spoke no English and was a bit on the young side.

“What are you doing?” she asked

I explained about the jam jars and how I was trying to limit my drinking to half a bottle a night

“Why?”

“I think my pre frontal cortex is shrinking,” I told her. “It happens with age.”

She laughed.“What doesn’t? First you bend, then you stoop. Getting old is pigeon poop.” She said she’d read it on a birthday card. Then she asked how the writing was going.

I hate that question.

“It’s not.”

“When do you think you’ll actually finish the book?”

I hate that question even more.

“Probably never.”

“You will,” she said. “Maybe you just need a break.”

“Blame it on the wind. “ I took a sip from one of the jam jars. A rather insipid red, but I emptied the jar anyway. “It renders the brain torpid and robs a person of his appetite “ I’d found the quote while I was waiting for the creative spirit to arrive. A 17th century physician who blamed his patient’s sexual disorders on the influence of the Scirroco, which happens to be one of our local gutters. “Benumbs and prostrates men and animals,” I went on. “Bloats up the body too.”

“How much wine have you had tonight?” Becky asked

“Not quite a jam jar full,” I replied and then a crash as the wind finally gained entry through the front door.

* * *