Tag Archives: horseflies

Encounter with Vampires

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Husband’s sights are firmly fixed on Heric for our next stop. The plan is for us to cycle some more parts of the towpath along the Nantes-Brest Canal, stretches we didn’t travel last time we came. He’s chosen a site near Heric for its proximity to the canal,

The weather has become very warm, sticky and sultry. We arrive to the site and notice immediately that it’s not near any kind of community that we can walk or cycle to and that the main road is very busy and inhospitable to pedestrians or cyclists. But for all that it looks a cute site, not huge and with some quaint features,

I’m standing at the check-in desk, proffering our ACSI card when I feel several sharp, piercing sensations at my ankles. When I glance down there’s blood emerging from small puncture holes. The itching soreness begins straight away and I know the culprits- having plenty of experience, of course they’re horseflies. It’s not a good start and I’m keen to leap into the van and get at the antihistamine cream before my ankles swell to elephants’ dimensions.

We get parked and install all of our cooling technology [ie fans]. A desultory inspection of the small site reveals a half-resurrected bar area, an indoor pool and a ‘zoo’ [consisting of two goats]. one goat is tethered, the other wanders at will but when she appears by the van she is disdainful of the lettuce I offer, preferring the dead, brown laurel leaves that have fallen from the hedge.

It transpires that the site is not, as claimed, by the canal at all but 7k away, meaning that a 7k ride will be necessary before we even begin on the towpath. Hmm. A jovial Irishman stops to chat. He comes here every year, ‘Yes- there are horseflies. His wife gets bitten a lot. No- it’s not near the canal. Do we not have electric bikes then?’

No, we don’t.

Given that we’re not near anywhere and I’m being eaten alive by flies we opt out of a 3 night stay, deciding to move on tomorrow.

We travel on down to the Loire, at Montjean-sur-Loire, where it is still hot but offers much more convenient cycle paths from outside the site gate. Montjean is a pleasant town with an imposing church and lots of arty sculptures everywhere, There’s a handsome bridge across the river but it’s a shame to see the mighty Loire reduced to a narrowish channel with a wide expanse of beach each side. A couple of bars by the bridge are open for early evening drinks in the sun,

The temperature has climbed unto the 30s but next day we get into cycle gear and head off across the bridge, which is easier than expected, to follow the track along the riverside. Here the narrow roads are shared, bike/car, car users giving priority to cyclists, so that there is no irate hooting or swooshing past with centimetres to spare.

Although we’ve left our cycle until late afternoon it’s still hot and feels like hard work in full sun. We’re glad to get to the next bridge and cross back before plunging into a wooded stretch.We come to another bridge and there’s a beautiful cafe/restaurant across the road which we must leave for some other time. We press on, but the path appears to be heading off in the opposite direction, across the fields. Using guesswork, we cycle through what appears to be someone’s garden, Monsieur mowing the grass assuring us that ‘Oui’ this is the correct route and at last we’re back in Montjean and sinking down into seats at the bridge bar, under a sunshade…

Grace is the alter ego of novelist and short story writer, Jane Deans. To date I have two published novels to my name: The Conways at Earthsend [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conways-at-Earthsend-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B08VNQT5YC/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2ZHXO7687MYXE&keywords=the+conways+at+earthsend&qid=1673350649&sprefix=the+conways+at+earthsend%2Caps%2C79&sr=8-1 and The Year of Familiar Strangers [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Year-Familiar-Strangers-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B00EWNXIFA/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2EQHJGCF8DSSL&keywords=The+year+of+familiar+strangers&qid=1673350789&sprefix=the+year+of+familiar+strangers%2Caps%2C82&sr=8-1 Visit my writer Facebook page [https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=jane%20deans%2C%20novellist%2C%20short%20fiction%20and%20blog or my website: https://www.janedeans.com/

Hurt One or Two Living Things

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Hurt No Living Thing

Hurt no living thing:
Ladybird, nor butterfly,
Nor moth with dusty wing,
Nor cricket chirping cheerily,
Nor grasshopper so light of leap,
Nor dancing gnat, nor beetle fat,
Nor harmless worms that creep.

 

Christina Rosetti’s famous poem exhorts us all to refrain from harming tiny creatures; a lofty ideal, but one that is tricky to follow. I notice she keeps to insects that are both beautiful and/or harmless such as ladybirds or beetles and does not venture to suggest that we should preserve locusts, tsetse flies, head lice or maggots. And was Christina a vegan, I wonder?

It is easy to admire and wish to preserve ladybirds and butterflies. It is even possible to tolerate annoying wasps, who gyrate in an irritating, menacing fashion around your alfresco lunch if you adopt a laisser-faire attitude. And hornets should be given a wide berth at all times. For those of us, however who seem to be a favourite snack for mosquitoes, midges and any other blood sucking insects there is a strong desire to smash them into a pulp. Anyone who has lain awake tortured by the hot itching of myriad bites will understand this.

I’ve been attacked by most of the common, European biters. Years ago there was a local, Dorset, river dwelling blood sucker called The Blandford Fly whose bite induced ankle swelling akin to elephantiasis together with a flu-like fever. I’d had at least two of these before the little monsters were sprayed prior to hatching.

Of course in tropical climates there are some truly nasty insects-grubs that burrow into skin and eyes, wormy things that colonise the bodily systems. But here in France, in the pine woods of the south west my own, personal běte noir has to be the horsefly. If horseflies are beyond your experience consider yourself blessed.

My first real run in with them was a few years ago whilst enjoying an innocent cycle up a quiet lane in the forest of Les Landes. It was a hot afternoon, provoking sweat to erupt between my rucksack and the fabric of my T-shirt. As we passed a particular spot a swarm of horseflies erupted from the trees and up beneath the rucksack, biting as they went. The result was a constellation of itchy, angry, red, raised lumps that lasted for a couple of weeks.

Then last week, after a hot afternoon I emerged from the shower and sat to drag a brush through my wet hair, rising to glance in the mirror at the result. It looked as if two brown stickers had attached themselves to my face-one at the hairline, the other on my jaw. In my innocence I was slow to recognise the sinister, brownish, frog-with-a-touch-of spider [but without the charm of either] forms of horseflies, which had attached themselves greedily to my face and had begun feasting before I’d so much as dried off. While the itching has now subsided the scabby lumps persist. Now I am applying liberal dousing of repellent prior to each cycling jaunt, although this afternoon the little scamps were invading my helmet and ignoring the deterrent lotion by hitching a ride on my skin.

No, Christina I’m afraid exceptions must be made. Ladybirds and grasshoppers, yes-horseflies-NO.