A summer on the farm

In my daily life as a city dweller, I have never been able to lay my eyes on an area as green, agricultural, as the blue horizon, pure and free of any urban shade, seemed to be the only one that could swallow up. And when I saw this painting, I could not help but feel a beauty; a sensation that infused a great calm in my eyes and I will not be wrong in writing that I had a bucolic amenity in front of my eyes.

Studying without much conviction and drowning in the urban mass every day of the year, living the rest of my days in no less than 10m², it was during the last spring that I decided to seize an opportunity: to work as a farm worker, on my best friend's father's farm, for a little over a month; at the beginning of summer. Given that the need to find seasonal work was urgent and that I did not see myself serving a large company, working in the kitchen of a fast food restaurant or as a cashier, in light of my beliefs the choice was made as from the start.

So with a handful of clothes, a few books and a bit of tobacco, I went more than 1,000km from home, among the agricultural fields of the Ardennes, to live for five weeks in a small — very — old house.

On the night train taken to the workplace, I was pleasantly surprised to see my mobile phone stolen. This, basically, did not cause me much pain; but when you have a family that requires — very often — news, right away, I must admit that this loss is a constraint.

That's how I lived the first week without any contact, except for the handful of flies and spiders that happily populated my house as well as my best friend who came with me.

Lived that way, life was not unpleasant, no. Initially, agricultural work was not backbreaking. Every day, we spent a few hours, between five and seven, plucking rumexes from an oat field, learning and sharing what we thought was the best technique for handling our tools. After these days, naturally I went back and sat by the fire, I could not help but tell myself that seven hours of work in the field had no equivalent, that it was much more pleasant than seven hours sitting in an amphitheater.

It's true, we were all day under the sun, having brought with us something to listen to some music, letting a few laughs and a few crap punctuate our working days. A real carefree lightness captivated my heart and my actions; what was there to worry about as long as the job was well done? There was nothing to disturb the August calm that reigned in these countries. And anyway, what would you want to get upset about? What would you like to focus your anger on? By hitting the hill? By hitting the plain? The field seemed to be an immense, open-air temple, where the green and yellow of the agricultural land, decorated with the subtly darker green of the few rows of trees, blended harmoniously with the blue of the clear sky; everything went forward towards tranquility.

And in the evening... now that the day was over, the night creeping into the sky, there was nothing to do but sit back comfortably and engage in a passionate discussion, to tear your vocal cords singing Brassens, Ferré or Brel, to contemplate each light bowing out in the evening sky, being able to savor the grace of the heavens without light pollution; a modest bottle of wine never being too far away, always within reach of a wave of your hand.

Of course, though, I cursed the lack of comfort. When you had to do 4km on hilly and dangerous roads, on bikes without brakes and with very thin smooth tires. When I had to do 40 km on these same bikes, on similar paths, under a torrential storm, the mud bogged down and blocked my wheels, to do basic errands, because this store was the closest to our home. When it turned out that the house became particularly, extremely humid during the rain — in addition to the fact that it was clearly not very viable initially.

It is certain that, the first times faced with these harsh conditions, I uttered a lot of insults against God.

But what do you want to do then? Quickly, you realize that things are the way they are, as they are given to you and that you could try anything you would like, it would be in vain. Therefore, there is work to be done and it must be done today, because tomorrow it is still another part of the field, or even another field, that requires your intervention. So we stick to it. Why? Since we must be aware that maintaining the fields, on which we have worked, will allow people to eat, especially since they are fields cultivated without chemicals, then only human intervention is decisive.

Often during this stay, I found myself in front of myself; not knowing what to do. Back to urban life, I understood. I understood that it was not so much the lack of things to do — necessarily, in the middle of the Ardennes countryside, activities are not abundant — but rather my inability to have all my attention focused on myself and on the possibility of doing something. In the city, you are constantly disturbed by vain and superficial problems, by the incessant noise, by the way in which everything moves vehemently in front of your nose. In the countryside, a sanctuary of imperturbability, balance and slowness, you are rarely distracted. And it would be fair for me to say that never, in my daily life as a city dweller, have I been able to learn so much, to start reading works, to have an environment conducive to enjoying them — as well as to exchange so much humanly with others — as in this month of withdrawal and work.

It is true that, in this environment, everyone comes face to face with themselves. And for an individual who has only known the city, the distractions, the speed in everything, it can be disturbing, it can be a bad feeling. Thus cities tear the individual away from himself, it is in this way that the days follow one another in a misshapen way, that one can acquire the sensation of no longer living one's life, of being a spectator of this movement of imperatives and incessant excesses, where the only naked moment of obligation elapses in the absence of one's condition, in the midst of plastic pleasures. The countryside is not as cruel. And even though she does not easily offer the warmth of comfort, she lavishes, blindfolded, all her serenity and lets everyone marvel at life itself. She lets you learn in her open arms, she lets you mature and acquire invaluable knowledge. And very few still recognize the preciousness of such an opportunity, which life in the countryside gives you; and it seems to me that the least thing, the least return that anyone could give in return, is to cherish such a life and to embark on it with passion, pure and motivated, and essential to the survival of all. Because no plastic pleasure of these urban fortresses can match the depth and the sumptuousness of a contemplated dusk, when the whole body relaxes as it gets away from the toil of the day.