Springtime

I loved this spring morning, the first weekend of the year when, at last, the mildness of spring meant that the midday hatchings would undoubtedly attract the first trout of the season, hungry for protein to replenish their rinds at the end of winter.

I parked my car, a magnificent Renault 14 named La Poire for both its shape and its old-fashioned color, near the Palmas bridge and headed upstream, fishing the river banks. The sun was warming the banks, not yet protected by vegetation. The light was clear, almost dazzling. The meadow grass was a soft green, with dandelion flowers bursting out in their beautiful firecracker yellow. I was beginning to feel a bit hungry, my breakfast was far behind me. I’d already pulled out three small, black, fierce trout and it was time to break bread. I settled down on a carpet of warm green moss, the scent of undergrowth comforting me, and pulled out a formidable sandwich with homemade ham. A curious chickadee hopped in front of me, I closed my coffee thermos and lit a cigarette as I set off again.

I walked along the banks of the field to get a bird’s-eye view of the river, and there I was speechless. Lying on the stones below, enjoying the first rays of spring, Mademoiselle Prichard, the English teacher from Collège Saint Joseph, was stretched out with her skirt half up, offering her white thighs, which I imagined to be soft, to the river. I lay down on the grass and watched her in silence. She seemed to be asleep, and I could see her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of her breathing. Was it digestion, emotion or fatigue? It was only later, sweating in my neoprene waders, my head foggy, that I was awakened by the warm, noisy breath of a cow and her friends, no doubt intrigued by my presence in their vicinity, sniffing me as if I were one of them. It was nearly five o’clock, the sun was beginning to fall and Miss Prichard was no longer there.

I got back into the car, which smelled of gasoline, and headed for home. At the bakery in Bertholène, on my way to buy a chocolatine, I bumped into Miss Prichard, young and pretty, who looked me straight in the eye, smiled and said, “So, how did it go on the lawn?” with her baffling English accent and mischievous eyes.

She left the following year back to England and I never saw her again. Since then, I’ve come back to this warm-breathing cow meadow with its welcoming banks at the beginning of every season. All I come across are worm fishermen… But the memory of Miss Prichard makes my heart beat faster every time.