Chapter 12 Chapter Twelve

The drought in Luberon weighs on farmers like overdue bills.As the crops die and the soil cracks and cracks, a gloomy air of despondency hangs over the conversations in the field.There is always a risk of fire during the days of doing this... The Thriller of the Fire in the Dry Season (1) Like our farming neighbors in the valley, we subscribed to a service provided by the Carpenters weather station.Each week, I receive two detailed mimeograph forecasts, most of the time, they accurately predict the probability of sunshine and rain, the probability of storm and northwest wind, and the temperature of the entire Vaucluse region .

As the first few weeks of 1989 passed, weather forecasts and statistics began to show that the weather was turning erratic, with severe rainfall deficits. The previous year had been a mild winter, and there had been only a little snow in the mountains, so that the spring melt was only enough to form a small trickle.Last year's winter turned out to be very dry, with just 9.5mm of rain in January, compared to the normal 60mm, and less rain in February, as well as in March.The decree "prohibition of burning in the fields" in summer is now implemented earlier, and the traditionally rainy Vaucluse spring can only be called wet, and early summer is not even "wet" at all.The rainfall in Cavillon in May is only 1 mm, compared with the average rainfall of 54.6 mm; in June, it is only 7 mm, compared with the average rainfall of 44 mm.The wells are almost bottoming out, and the water level in the Vaucluse cistern has dropped significantly.

The drought in Luberon weighs on farmers like overdue bills.As the crops die and the soil cracks and cracks, a gloomy air of despondency hangs over the conversations in the field.The idea of ​​the danger of fire at any moment while doing this was horrific to think about, but it stubbornly lingered in everyone's mind. As long as there is a little spark in the forest - a discarded cigarette butt or a burnt match, coupled with the support of the northwest wind, a small spark can suddenly become a big flame, and soon evolve into an explosive flame , devouring forests faster than humans can run.I heard that a firefighter died heroically near Murs in the spring when he was facing a fire and maybe a spark from a popping pine cone fell in the woods behind him and he... .It was only a few seconds before and after the tragedy.

It was just an accidental fire, and the result was miserable enough, but if someone set it on purpose, it would be heinous.Sadly, this is often the case.A drought would attract arsonists, and the summer of 1989 offered them their best chance to commit crimes.This spring, a man was caught setting a fire under a bush.The arsonist was a young man who wanted to be a firefighter, but was rejected by the fire brigade.So he retaliated with a box of matches. On the hot but windy evening of July 14th, we witnessed the smoke from the fire for the first time.Overhead, a cloudless blue sky was brought by a northwesterly wind, making the black smoke that hung over the village of Roussillon, a few miles across the valley, all the more alarming.We stood on the path above the house and watched the smoke billow and heard the roar of engines, a fleet of small planes flying low over the Luberon, clumsy with heavy water packs, and then helicopters.The long fire siren sounded from Benniu Village, making people flustered.Both my wife and I looked behind us nervously.The distance between our house and the woods was less than a hundred yards, and a hundred yards was not much in a fire that was raging with a strong wind behind it.

All night long, the small plane, full of water, slowly and non-stop back and forth between the fire and the sea, we had to face the danger that the fire might spread to the next forest closer to my house.The firefighters who sent us calendars at Christmas once taught emergency procedures—cut the power, close the shutters, pour water on yourself, stay inside.We used to joke about taking refuge in a wine cellar with a few glasses and a corkscrew and dying drunk rather than being roasted alive.Now that I think about it, it's not funny at all. As night came, the wind died down.The fire above Roussillon was now as bright as the searchlights on the town's pétanque field.Before going to bed, we checked the weather forecast and it wasn't good news, it was clear, hot, sunny and strong northwest wind.

The "Journal de Provence" reported this in detail the next day. The fire burned more than 100 acres of pine forest near the village. A total of 400 firefighters, 10 planes and fire trucks were dispatched to put it out.Newspapers carried pictures of horses and sheep being led to safety, and the silhouette of a lone firefighter against a wall of fire.The same report also mentioned three other smaller fires.The fire dominated the headlines, save for a piece of news that the Tour de France had arrived in Marseille. A few days later, we drove to Roussillon village. The original verdant pine forest has now become a wasteland, with charred tree stumps protruding from the ocher-red land, ugly as decayed teeth on the hillside.Some houses on the scene were miraculously unscathed, while the surroundings were burned to a mess.We guess the homeowners are still inside?Or have you escaped?And try to imagine what it would be like to sit in a darkened house and hear the fire approaching and the heat blowing through the walls.

The rain for the whole of July was 5mm, but the wise man in the cafe told us that the firefighters could breathe a sigh of relief when the storm in August would drench the entire Luberon region.In addition, there have been reports of a downpour on August 15 that will wash away camping tents, flood roads, drench the forest, and, with luck, drown the arsonist. Day after day, we expect rain, but expect nothing but sun.The lavender planted in the spring had died, and the grass in front of the house had given up its ambition to grow into turf and had become a miserable pile of yellow straw, looking dirty.The soil shrunk dry, cracked a series of openings, exposing the invisible stones and roots inside.Luckier farmers started watering their vineyards with their powerful irrigation systems.The vines in my house are already drooping their heads.Faustain, too, was downcast after his daily tour of his vineyards.

The swimming pool was hot as soup, but at least it was still wet.One night, the smell of the water attracted a herd of wild boars.Eleven of them ran out of the forest and stopped about 50 yards from my house, and one boar took the opportunity to climb on the back of another sow.Zaizai summoned up his rare courage, danced and rushed to the happy couple, barking loudly with excitement.The couple, still clinging together like pushcart racers, chased Zaizai and tried to drive him away.Zaizai withdrew to the gate of the courtyard, brazenly playing a hero and barking wildly from a safe distance.The wild boars had changed their minds about attacking the swimming pool and lined up across the vineyard to feast on the melons from Jackie's field across the road.

On August 15th, it was the same as the previous half month.Whenever the northwest wind blows, we wait for sirens and small planes to appear.An arsonist had previously called the fire brigade, claiming that as long as the wind was strong enough, he would start the fire again, so now helicopters are patrolling the valley every day. But this time, the fire brigade didn't catch the guy when he repeated his tricks in Cabrell.Ashes fell in the yard with the wind, the sun was obscured by thick smoke, and the dog, choking on the smell of smoke, paced restlessly back and forth, howling to the strong wind.At dusk, the originally pink sky was covered with a layer of pale gray, and there was a gloomy glint of light, which was very scary.

A friend who lived in the village of Cabrel came to my house that night to take refuge.Some families on the outskirts of the village had been evacuated, and she came here with only her passport and a pair of shorts. After this incident, the arsonist made many phone calls, saying they were going to set fires in the Luberon, but we never saw any more fires. August passed, and the weather report said that there was zero rainfall here, while the normal average rainfall is 52 mm.It rained carelessly in September, and we stood in the rain, breathing in the cool, humid air.For the first time in weeks, I smelled such a fresh forest scent!

The threat of fire was suddenly reduced, and the residents finally breathed a sigh of relief, and began to complain about how much damage the drought had caused to their stomachs.This year, except for the "Castel New Pope wine" which is said to be particularly mellow, other food-related news is all bleak.The lack of rain in July means that the winter truffle harvest will be poor, with fewer numbers and smaller sizes.Due to the drought, the animals left the Luberon to find water in the north, and the prey could no longer return. The only sporting pastime for the hunters was probably to shoot each other.The dining table in autumn will not be as rich as before, completely abnormal. Our food class is also greatly affected.Mr. Manigucci knows many things, one of which is finding and identifying wild shiitake mushrooms in the forest.He promised to take me on an expedition, "A few kilograms of shiitake mushrooms are waiting for you to pick!" He promised that as long as a bottle of Cairanne (Cairanne) will make us return with a full load, we can still be in the kitchen when we come back. Teach us a hand. But October came and the shiitake trip was canceled.For the first time, as far as Manigucci could remember, there was nothing in the forest.He came to my house one morning fully armed, with a knife, walking stick, basket, and tight-fitting snake-proof boots.He spent hours rummaging through the woods before giving up.We'll have to try again next year.His wife must have been very disappointed, as was his friend's cat, which is said to be an expert on wild mushrooms. The Thriller of the Fire in the Dry Season (2) "Cat?" "Yes! It's just a cat with a special nose that can pick out poisonous mushrooms." Manigucci said, "Nature is very mysterious and magical, and often cannot be explained in a scientific way." I asked those edible shiitake mushrooms, what do cats do with them?Manigucci said, eat it, but it is not eaten raw, it must be fried in olive oil and sprinkled with chopped parsley.This is its only small drawback.Weird, isn't it? ＊＊＊ In November, the National Forest Administration moved in, and the forest officially entered martial law.I was two miles from the house one overcast and cloudy morning when I saw a puff of smoke and heard the creak of a sawmill.In the clearing at the end of the trail, there are military trucks parked next to a huge yellow machine, about 10 feet tall, that looks somewhere between a bulldozer and a large tractor.Men in pale grass-green uniforms, vicious in goggles and helmets, are clearing undergrowth under trees and throwing them into fires, sap dripping from green trunks and flames hissing, in and out of the woods Hissing sound. A stern, lanky police officer looked at me like I was a trespasser.I said "hello" to him and he barely nodded.I guess he was probably thinking in his heart, a hateful common people, cut!Still a foreigner. I turned and went home and stopped again to look at the big yellow guy.Judging from the driver's ripped leather coat and substandard hat, he should be a commoner.He was trying to unscrew a tight nut, cursing.The screw wouldn't move, so he substituted the wrench for a wooden stick, the Provençal almighty remedy for mechanical headaches, which made me even more sure he wasn't a soldier.I tried saying "hello" to him, and this time the response was kinder. He looked almost like Santa Claus's brother, except that he didn't have a big white beard, but he had a round rosy face, bright eyes and a curled mustache, covered with sawdust flying from the tree.He waved his stick and pointed in the direction of the squad in the woods, "It's like fighting, isn't it?" He called it, in precise military terms, "Operation Bush Sweep."20 meters of bush on either side of the path leading to Mena village had to be cleared to reduce the risk of fire.It was his job to drive the machine behind the squad and chop up anything that wasn't burned.He patted the side of the yellow machine with his palm. "It can eat an entire tree trunk, chew it into small pieces and spit it out." It took a week for the team to reach my door.The edges of the woods were trimmed, and the clearings were filled with ashes.Followed by the big yellow monster, it advances hundreds of meters every day, chewing, spitting, chewing, and spitting unceremoniously along the way. One night, the driver came to visit and asked us for a glass of water.We easily persuaded him to down a glass of anisette.He was sorry for parking the machine above the garden.Parking plagued him every day, and he said he couldn't drive his so-called "little toy" back to his home in Aipu every night at speeds of up to 10km/h. He took off his hat, drank his second glass of anisette and said, it's good to have someone to talk to. After a day's work alone, the ears are full of noisy machines.But this work must be done by someone. The forest has been neglected for too long, and there are dead trees everywhere. If there is another drought next year... Alas! We asked the arsonist if he had caught it, and he shook his head. "The Match Maniac", as he calls him, let's hope he holidays in the Cevennes next year! The driver came back the next evening with a Camembert cheese and gave us instructions on how to cook it, as he did in winter in the woods. "Build a fire," he said, arranging the imaginary branches on the table in front of him, "and then take the cheese out, remove the wrapper, and put the cheese back in, understand?" To make sure we understood, he picked up Cheese, patted thin wooden box. "Okay, now you put the box in the fire, the box burns, the hard rind of the cheese will turn black, and the cheese inside will melt, but," he held up his finger emphatically, "it's sealed in the rind, it won't into the fire." He took a swig of the anisette and wiped his beard with the back of his hand. "Okay, now cut your bread in half vertically. By the way, be careful with your hands, take the cheese out of the heat, make a hole in the rind, and pour the melted cheese inside over the bread, that's so." He grinned and patted his belly, his red cheeks huddled under his eyes.Predictably, sooner or later all conversation in Provence returns to food and wine. In early 1990, we received statistics on the weather for the previous year.Despite an uncharacteristically rainy November that year, the average annual rainfall was less than half the usual amount.Then came another mild winter, with water levels still lower than normal, an estimated 30 percent of the undergrowth in the forest dead, and the first fires of the summer that burned more than 6,000 acres near Marseilles and shut down highways. In two, the stick maniac is still at large, perhaps as interested in weather forecasting as we are. We bought a heavy tin box to hold all our papers, passports, certificates, birth certificates, contracts, licenses, old phone bills, anything that would prove our identity in France.In France, these documents are crucial.It is unfortunate that the house was lost in the fire, but if these things are gone, there is no way to survive in this country.The box turned out to be hidden in the farthest corner of the cellar, next to the Châteauneuf du Pope. We get extra excited every time it rains, which Faustain thinks is a good sign that we are becoming less and less British.