The presbytère

....has been sold, ending 20 years of occupancy by Stephanie and Patrick who filled it with books and treasures from a lifetime of living and working abroad.

When Patrick died a few years back he'd just published his translation of Machado's poetry.  I chose a verse from El crimen fué a Granada which my pupils read (in Patrick's version) at Machado's grave in Collioure, almost a year to this day.

I stood in the graveyard beside the surreal letterbox attached to the tomb, keeping one eye on the kids, ensuring they were respectful and the other on the gates of the cemetery, hoping to see James Hogan arrive on his bicycle.  Our timing was bad.  James arrived half an hour after we left, by which time we were on a guided tour of the chateau royal. 

I missed seeing James.  Patrick had died and James seemed my link back to him. A maverick poet from Cork who had made his home in Port Vendres and whose Scottish wife had reinforced Rennie Macintosh's presence there by creating  museum in his memory.  

Patrick had gone, I failed to meet up with James and my own father was dying.  It was a forlorn bus journey back through the Fenouillet.

A year later Stéphanie is clearing out the presbytère.  She unloads a cupboard with pottery plates and cups from her County Mayo and says she wants me to have them.  She fills my boot with bags of books.  We sit on the warm stone wall above old Claire's allotment and drink a bottle of Blanquette to the future of the presbytère and she tells me that James has been in touch with her (despite her hating his habit of smoking a 'filthy' pipe and pissing behind trees).  That he has cancer and is dying.  That he's angry with her for selling because he still hadn't had the chance to visit.  That I should contact him sharpish.  Worlds collide and then disappear.   I've learnt that you can't waste time.