Potters Market

The Potter

The elements of nature and literature inspire me. I am compelled to perpetual study of attitude and movement in life forms. My imagination extends through my fingers, or the tool in my hand, which molds the medium. Tints of tree bark, lost feathers and lichen, colour and deepen my mood. And my spirit breathes life into my creation. My universe takes shape and gives birth. I am the Potter.

Castelmoron d’Albret is the prettiest village for a Potters Market each June.

Pottery next door to the Pottery shop.

Pottery in the Park.

Pottery workshop for children.

Pottery under the Market hall.

Poterie d’Albret is the only business in this small village, and the Potter is the man responsible for organising Le Marché des Potiers, bringing ceramists together to expose, and customers to enjoy and buy.

Where the Roses grow

Everyone must love Roses, for they grow everywhere; in villages, gardens and even vineyards..

Our very own Rose bush is tall and round. She has a thick trunk and a broken branch, but she produces a spectacular show of thousands of pink Roses every summer. Maybe it has something to do with the old pigsty nearby..

Bringing colour in the village..

Rambling in a back garden..

Blooming alongside the river Dropt, where the old watermill stands..

And there are still a few old vineyards where we see evidence of a former custom, which was to plant a Rose bush at the end of each row of vines. It looks very pretty, but in fact served an essential cause. Being susceptible to mildew, the Rose gave an early warning of the disease in the vineyard, so prompting the viticulturer to act quickly, and protect the vine with a copper treatment.

Rose sonnet

 I wander aimlessly
through monochrome
when suddenly I glimpse
a fiery glow,

Your light penetrates
in burning stimuli
your warming rays to me
a path is drawn,

To touch compels me
closer to your satin petals
feels like soft skin,

My face bends o’r yours
nuances of fruit orchards
inhaled pleasures mine.

Cornflowers, Daisies and Poppies

Rippling grasses tickle,
A breath of air caresses,
Unseen crickets call,
In swaying white daisies,
And I’m chasing meadow butterflies,
Just to catch a dream.

Gather poppy petals,
Cloth of scarlet silk,
Delicately stitched,
Black threaded garment,
To wrap in love,
Remembered.

Once upon a time Cornflowers, Daisies and Poppies fluttered in the fields like the tricolours of France. But the Cornflowers have all gone.

Old postcard.

‘Les Bleuets’ was the nickname given to the young soldiers conscripted in the lead up to the Second Battle of Ainse, World War 1, who were wearing the new blue uniform. It became a name used frequently in propaganda songs and poems, and conjured images of blue cornflowers, that continued to grow and bloom in devastated battlefields.

“These here, these little ‘Bleuets’
these Bleuets the colour of the sky,
Are beautiful, gay, stylish,
Because they are not afraid.

Merrily, go forward,
Go on, my friends, so long!
Good luck for you, little ‘blues’
Little ‘bleuets’, you are our heros.
(Alphonse Bourgoin 1916)

Head nurse Lenhardt created a blue cornflower badge in tissue paper, to raise income for the rehabilitating soldiers she cared for, and by the 1920s, ‘Les Bleuets’ badge had became a national symbol.

Referenced Wikipedia for information and poem.