Trisha Ray - Log of a Travel Artist

Death on the Canal, Pagan Crossroads and Medieval Laundries - Mysteries Around a Canal Boat

Living here, on the Canal du Midi, there is time to solve mysteries. I like that.
There are plenty of things we don't understand. Mysteries.

For example - this building, just across the canal from us.

Maggie May is the second boat - the dark blue one. That's ours.

What in the world is it? A nautical bus stop?

Turns out - when the canal was built, in the 1600's, (!) they provided laundry areas, or "lavoirs" along the way, as a service to the villages. The villagers were cranky about the canal taking up so much valuable agricultural space. Plus, they had to help dig the canal, whether they wanted to or not. Thus, the lavoirs as an appeasement.

Now, they are used occasionally by local fishermen.

Here's what they might have looked like - back in the day:

Now - every evening, the doves come down to drink unsuspectingly from the lavoir.
However, there are large catfish lurking underwater, waiting for prey.

Suddenly, a fish GRABS the bird as it drinks - and it's gone!
Not a feather left!
The first time I saw it, I thought I must have imagined it.
Then - we both saw it.
- No wonder not many ducklings make it to full duckhood.

Then - there are cormorants. They dive smoothly to the bottom - and catch the fish.
They bring it back to the surface, swing it in the air and swallow it - in one gulp.

-Poetic justice in the world of eat-and-be-eaten.

A poor photo of the cormorant eating a LARGE fish.

(I might add - I have NEVER seen anyone else catch a fish here.

In spite of the number of fishermen, complete with all the latest equipment:

- boots, gear, chairs and multiple poles. Nary a fish.)

Another mystery:
We found these round metal disks - on bridges, churches, towers.
Were they a sort of inventory system?
Nope.

No decent map of France existed until surprisingly recently.
The hinterlands of France (which includes Languedoc, where we are) didn't care much for Paris.

- If they even knew it existed.

We're in Languedoc-Roussillon. WAY south - on the Mediterranean.

Back in the day, strangers running around with odd instruments, peering through strange eyepieces. This was bad news. Plague, pestilence, two-headed cows - anything was possible.

The safest thing to do was - obviously - kill the mapmaker.

It took decades to complete the map.

Turns out - these round disks are survey markers - and are still there.

Mystery solved. Cool.

The next mystery we found in the engine room of the boat.

Under the floorboards, between the huge engine and the huge generator, there were 2 spiffy looking jerrycans and a heavy duty dolly. What for?

After we owned the boat for several months, we asked:

Where are the nearest fuel pumps on the canal?
The answer: There aren't any.

Really? All these boats - and no fuel pumps?
REALLY?
Pretty much - no.

So where do you get fuel?
-At the supermarket gas station.

-With the dolly. And the jerrycans.

The other option is to call a fuel truck.
You share 1000 liters with another boat. Or two.

-No wonder you have to get along with your neighbors.

However - the tanks on the boat hold 900 liters (about 240 gallons) of diesel.
I got to thinking - 900 liters of diesel - that's over $2000 to fill your tank.

-No wonder they do it a bit at a time!

The steps up from our boat to the road. No dolly here.

Then: We got bicycles.

Tour de France, here we come - well, maybe not.
(There are a LOT of bicyclists here, and they take it seriously. Up and down mountains.)

We're just exploring the countryside.
Trails along the canals are flat.

(Although we DID go up one pretty good sized mountain, and I cycled to the top.

Well, actually, I took a long break or two part way up. Then cycled up the rest of the second half.

A passing Tour de France type saw me and gave me a surprised thumbs-up. I didn't really deserve it-!)

The winding canals - and the vineyards - provide good trails.

En route, we find odd markers - tree trunks, carved into the shape of crosses.
Stone monuments at corners of fields, with an old iron cross on top.

Even dolmens with crosses.

So what's the story?

Apparently, when Christianity came to France, it wasn't very popular.
Most people were strongly pagan.

The Church used the existing sacred sites - trees, stones, menhirs - where the spirits already lived. And simply added the crosses.

That way, the locals wouldn't destroy the monuments.
Over time, the ancient sites became conveniently "Christianized".

Maybe everyone was happier that way.

And then -- the bikes go back onto the boat.

- In just the right place, over the propane locker .
And - that's another story - until next time.

And the next mystery.

Back to Nature in Connemara

It was the time of the "back to the land" movement.

"Living with less".

The Whole Earth catalog era.

I loved the idea of a "self-sufficient" lifestyle.

So - back in the 1970's, I lived out in the West of Ireland, in Connemara.

In a stone cottage on a hill.

Overlooking Galway Bay.

900 acres, with 2 lakes and plenty of bog.

Cnoc-dhá-Locha, "Hill of Two Lakes".

Or Knocka-Lough, as we called it.

I was joined by my boyfriend Wolfgang, who I later married. He loved it.

The house had no electricity.

There were gas mantles, like a Coleman lanteern, that ran off a propane bottle.

One light in each room.

The heat was from the big kitchen stove, which was fed with turf.

Turf was dug out of the bogs around the house.

Dug with a special tool, a sleán.

It was heavy work.

Laid out to dry.

Then stacked, and dried some more.

Maírtín shows Wolfgang and Big Jim how the sleán works.

Eventually, you have something that could be burned in the stove.

Loading the dried turf onto the cart.

It burns beautifully, and gives off a lovely smell.

Often these days, it's pressed into briquettes.

But back then, it was just rough-shaped turf clods.

There were 2 lakes, where you could catch trout.

But we weren't much good at fishing.

There was no running water, but there was a well with a pump.

Kind of like an outboard motor, and just as hard to start.

It pumped water from the well into a tank on the roof.

From there - "running" water. Heated by the turf stove.

With a cow that I milked every day.

There were rabbits, which we occasionally scared to death, then skinned and ate.

But we weren't much good at trapping, either.

(Besides, they were awfully cute.)

We prised mussels off the rocks at the seashore near Spiddéal, (not easy!).

I baked Irish soda bread daily, using the buttermilk from the cow.

And made cheese.

Planted potatoes, carrots, onions, and tomatoes.

We had 2 hens, Gisela and Gerturde.

They laid eggs regularly - when we could find them.

Wolfgang built a hen-house for them.

Plus a cat, Wellington, and a dog, Cara.

The winds roared across the bogs in winter.

It was fierce - but also beautiful.

In fact, I've always thought Ireland has some of Europe's most beautiful beaches.

When the postman had something for us, he came up on his bicycle.

He would wait while I opened the post.

In case there was "good news" or a "bit of money" in it.

Otherwise, he'd be content with a cup of tea.

We lived there until after we married.

We married in Ireland.

Had a fine wedding party at Knocka-Lough with the neighbors, friends - and loads of music.

In the warmest summer that Ireland had experienced in memory, 1976.

Even a bit of dancing.

The houses were simple, and the neighbors kind.

(I once asked Sonny, "Why do you still ride the donkey?"

His reply, "Ah, I never could learn the bicycle.")

These two neighbors were making poítín, homebrew liquor.

-That's why they're looking a bit guilty.

Business - of all sorts - was conducted in the pubs.

This was a very modern establishment.

This one a bit more traditional.

There was another pub, Hurney's -

I remember a gang of us waking up in their hayloft.

After a particularly memorable music session...

Those were different times.

I'm glad we got to experience them.

In 2019, I took the whole family to Ireland.

The next generations.

Rented a castle. Walked the bogs. Drank Guinness.
Even - watched pigs racing.

That story, in Ireland recently - is - here.

Watercolor Art Gallery

Trisha Ray Art web shop

Grape Picking in the Corbières

In 1974, I thought it would be a good experience to take part in the wine harvest in France.

Without overthinking it, I signed up.

Ferry to France from Ireland.

Train down to the Corbières region of southern France.

I didn't realize it was SO far. Or that the work would be SO hard.

To the small town of St.Laurent de la Cabrerisse. Southwest of Narbonne.

Our 'patron' was a lively fellow a good 6 inches shorter than I was.

His wife was even shorter. His daughter, who picked with us, was also small.

I felt enormous in comparison.

Suddenly, their son Jean-Luc appeared.

He towered in the doorway to the kitchen! Huge!

I later discovered Jean-Luc and I were roughly the same size.

No wonder they called me Monsieur Muscles.

I shared a shack outside the patron's house with another student, Danielle from Toulouse.

It had no running water. The pump was in the street.

The toilet facilities, basically a hole in the ground, were across the street.

I was young and strong, but holy cow, the work was exhausting.

Hot. Sticky. Hard. Long. My muscles ached.

All we could do at the end of the day was fall off the truck and onto our cots.

Danielle and I really struggled with the work.

Other pickers in our group were members of the same family.

Three generations.

I was amazed at how the older women kept going, talking, telling jokes.

They helped us finish our rows when we were slower than they were.

We clipped the bunches of grapes with sharp secateurs, and filled our buckets.

They were heavy.

We hoisted the heavy buckets of grapes into the pannier.

The pannier was then carried to the wagon, usually by Jean-Luc.

I figured we hoisted over a ton of grapes EACH, every day.

While we picked, we gathered the vineyard snails.

The little granddaughter ran about, crying excitedly, "Scargo! Scargo!" while

"Mme Escargot", cooked them up in the evenings, using various recipes.

We started very early, and took a break a couple hours later for breakfast.

Breakfast was bread and wine with water.

We stayed in the fields for lunch, trying to find a bit of shade.

Also with wine.

For dinner, we ate with the patron's family in their kitchen. Maman cooked.

Once or twice, we all dined with Mme Escargot, who lived nearby.

"Ah, don't take a photo with my cap on!"

All the farmers brought their grapes to the co-op at the end of the day.

They were paid according to the weight and the sugar content of the grapes.

Everything was done by hand.

I tried to explain where I lived, but Ireland meant nothing to them.

"Where they have the wooden shoes?" No, that's Holland.

"Where they have the glaciers?" No, that's Iceland.

"Oh, where the men wear skirts!" No, that's Scotland.

Finally, I just told them I came from north of Paris.

They were terribly impressed.

(I didn't actually drive the tractor.)

We worked about 3 weeks, and got paid in cash and in wine, which of course, was impossible to take back. It was the most physically demanding job I ever had. (And that includes working one summer in Bavaria as a lumberjack helper.)