Archive for the ‘corbieres’ Tag

where this weblog has gone   1 comment

It’s gone here :

Its owner has got all fired up about the protohistoric vestiges littered around this corner of Languedoc. And has taken upon himself the pleasurable task of unearthing what still remains.

It’s a week-by-week stumble  through the garrigues of the Corbieres and the Minervois, in search of a few humble prehistoric stones.


Crow’s Land   Leave a comment

Moux crouches under Mont Alaric at the most northern limits of the Corbieres, an arid mountainous massif 50 km wide and 50 deep. Flying over it at night, it is a black square : there are no towns, no main roads. Deep in its heart : wild boar and deer, red squirrel and pine marten, eagles and kestrels. The soil types vary: from pebbly terraces, sandstone and marls to limestone and the white schist screes of Alaric. In this season the sole colour comes from the rusting oxides of old iron volcanoes (the red-soil of rous-sillion) and the blackened greens of holm oak, cypress and pine.

Origine du toponyme Corbières : Corb c’est le corbeau en vieux languedocien. Une courbiére c’est littéralement un lieu colonisé par les corbeaux. Il y a bien longtemps, avant l’an mille le corb avait déjà laissé son empreinte dans les noms de ces petits pays, le Kercorb, Chercorb, Quercorb, Corbieres. Apparié à la racine ‘ker’ (pierre, montagne) on devine : la contrée des corbeaux.


Crow Alights from CROW The Life and Songs of the Crow Ted Hughes

Crow saw the herded mountains, steaming in the morning.

and he saw the sea

Dark-spined, with the whole earth in its coils.

He saw the stars, fuming away into the black, mushrooms of

the nothing forest, clouding their spores, the virus of God.

And he shivered with the horror of Creation.

In the hallucination of the horror

He saw this shoe, with no sole, rain-sodden,

Lying on a moor.

And there was this garbage can, bottom rusted away,

A playing place for the wind, in a waste of puddles.

There was this coat, in the dark cupboard,

in the silent room, in the silent house.

There was this face, smoking its cigarette between the dusk

window and the fire’s embers.

Near the face, this hand, motionless.

Near the hand, this cup.

Crow blinked. He blinked. Nothing faded.

He stared at the evidence.

Nothing escaped him. (Nothing could escape.)

Posted December 12, 2007 by Richard Williams in personal

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