A view from the washing line

Out on the roof terrace
Out on the roof terrace

 

There’s a blog I read.  Its author is a writer, a teacher, a mother, probably not in that order.  She loves people, words, conversations.  She’s enthusiastic, encouraging, and loves life.  She might be exhausting to live with: she’s exhausting to follow, because she’s constantly throwing out challenges.  What, she mused recently, makes you joyful?  Well, Renée Schulz-Jacobson, this is what.

It’s hanging out the washing.  And bringing it in at the end of the day.  How sad is that?

All hung out for the day
All hung out for the day

Every day, these simple acts raise my spirits.  We dry our washing out on our roof terrace.  From here, we can see the nearby peaks of the Pyrenees, covered in crystal white snow for half the year.

Zooming in on the cock  over the water
Zooming in on the cock over the water

Across the river just beyond our house, a neighbour keeps hens, and I enjoy watching them fossicking about for grubs and cabbage stalks.  Sometimes the heron swoops along the river while I’m there, and lands near the weir to look for breakfast or supper.  The morning air is cold, fresh and energising.  Actually, at this time of year it can be ****** freezing, in which case I’ll run down and warm myself afterwards by the wood burning stove.

It’s the evening though, when the washing is dry, sweet-smelling and ready for folding and hanging (carefully done, so there’s no need for any ironing) that I’m happiest here.  I’ll listen to the birds chattering and singing.  I’ll check up on those hens again.  But best of all, I’ll watch the sun setting.

A subtle sunset
A subtle sunset

The sky will turn from vivid blue, through rusted orange and citrus yellow, to navy blues and bruised purples.  The snow on the mountains will change from sparkling white to ice-blue and then the subtlest shade of grey.  Suddenly, the sun will drop from sight behind the trees, and for a few minutes longer the palette of colours becomes moodier before giving over to shadowy moleskin grey.  Then the stars appear and later, the swooping, chirruping bats.  I’ll be back indoors by then, my mood invariably lifted by the simple pleasure of watching as the sun puts on its daily and ever-changing show.

Nearly gone, the sun
Nearly gone, the sun

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7 thoughts on “A view from the washing line”

  1. I think it’s beautiful that you are inspired by things like hanging out the wash. That simple act is actually an enormous one: it is an act of giving back to one’s family so selflessly.

    Maybe our great-grandmothers knew that there was somerthing special about clothes that dried on the line.

    I’ll bet having that view helps, maybe.

    Thanks for the shout out, Margaret.

    Like

  2. I think I’d keep missing the line with the pegs, staring at that view. There’s something about washing on the line, particularly at this time of year when I feel lucky to grab a bright, windy day to dry the sheets. And then the pleasure of ironing them. Bliss.

    Like

  3. ..mmmmmmmmm Malcolm, you are a lucky guy, walnutcake for your birthday, in February ? see you soon Margaret, only the best to you 2, AnnA

    Like

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