spiritual drought

Turner_Hannibal crossing the AlpsIt’s hard to remain spiritual in a world that seems to be veering once more into a nightmare, surrounded by systemic, institutional selfishness and acts of political and economic sabotage so monumental that it leaves me breathless, unable to sleep properly, crouching in my own helplessness. By spiritual, I don’t mean religious, or New Agey, or simpering sentimentally in the sunset. I don’t mean the feel-good memes circulating on Facebook, or their opposite, fire and brimstone and eternal judgement. I mean a total, open, vulnerable engagement with all  – humans, animals, landscapes, rivers and rocks, trees and plants, insects and bacteria, the infinitely small, and the infinitely large – space, galaxies, nascent and dying stars, stars that are so far away, we see their birth while they are dying. An engagement that goes beyond the skin, into the heart, into the soul of people, of beings. That looks at an ostensible enemy – say, a white supremacist, an armed jihadist, an industrial polluter, a kleptocrat, a bully –  and sees not a devil, but a lost sibling. A lost sibling I might have to fight, oppose with all my will, whose ideology I must denounce and defeat, but still, a person of my flesh and kind.  Yes, that’s the hardest of all. To reject hate, to reject indifference, to reject separation, to reject othering. An engagement that is both physical and emotional, because a spirituality that is not rooted is no more than pious candy floss.

I am a hypocrite, I am lazy, I distract myself from the fear, the cruelty, the poverty of others, I avert my eyes in pain or embarrassment, while bemoaning what I have turned away from. I point my finger: your fault! I curl up on the sofa in front of a gas fire, modest but warm, and erase, by deliberate action – a book, a hat I am knitting, a game I play – the shivers of my fellow humans sleeping outdoors. I watch on the news, and sometimes with my own eyes, waves of people crossing the sea to reach this Spanish shore, some barely alive, some dead, many ravenous and desperate for a better life, or life of any kind. I call them refugees, but in my heart, in my home, there is little refuge, only the indignation that circumstances they didn’t cause should drive them here. I sit and demand that someone in charge do something, something human, something right, somehow. All the while, other refugees, the gilded few, accumulate their rentier riches in small tax havens, refuges from a world they have both seduced and looted. In Gibraltar, not two hours by car from where I write, you see both types of refugees; the contrast and the interdependence between the two are striking. Gibraltar, the pillars of Hercules, a shield against Africa, a glorified casino, the last refuge of the Neanderthal. Is that an omen for our times, or a tragedy warmed up as satire?

Gericault Radeau de la Meduse

I swipe a page, and the news is of global warming, accelerated climate change, too much methane, a shortage of sweet waters, the rising of salt waters like so many floods of tears. Everywhere living things and habitats are squeezed and stressed. Seas die, species vanish, nature gasps.  I see it here. The reservoirs are catastrophically low, a serious drought is underway. Some of those refugees are fleeing not war, but drought and climactic disasters. More will arise, and arrive – from Africa, from the Middle East, and from within Europe too, because drought and climate catastrophes are borderless. I am as blind and deaf to all this as our politicians, whose leadership on this and other great issues of the day is so inadequate as to be a lampoon of itself. Oh, I know it’s happening, in theory. I even observe some of its effects. But like most people, like you perhaps, I don’t truly believe it will change my way of life, my basic level of comfort. I don’t feel the breaking point approaching.

I know I must give a spiritual response to all this. I am nothing if not a spiritual being, I need to engage fully. But what response is that? Anger? Shame? Pity? Detachment? Or more attachment? Is it political? Apolitical but humanitarian? Misanthropic? Or on the contrary, humanist? Do I pray? Do I meditate? Do I strip myself of everything and become a Sister Emmanuelle? My energies feel frittered, fragmented. There is too much to do, to feel, to change, to engage. I am being changed by it all, moulded into – what? A hedgehog, folded in on myself, prickly on the outside, soft and defenceless on the belly? A cat, supreme, indifferent, focussed on hunting for myself and mine? A reader, an observer, a frother-at-the-mouth, perhaps like you – hypocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frère – or perhaps not. Perhaps you are greater than I am, or at least, more effective. Perhaps you have more answers, or better questions.

In the absence of a grand, or even an adequate, spiritual response, rooted in the world, both immanent and able to see beyond it – that is, transcendent – I fall back on the spiritual instrument I have always wielded, more than a tool, a lifeboat:  I read and I write poetry. Perhaps that was Baudelaire’s own reason halfway through the turbulent French 19th century, though he called it ‘art for art’s sake’. I don’t believe him. Poetry was to him art for sanity’s sake, art for the sake of remaining human, engaged, able to keep up a dialogue with his fellows, even a sardonic and self-mocking one.

I might be worrying for nothing. One or several of the looming catastrophes of our age will happen. They will force all of us but the most tone deaf into a spiritual response, because at the heart of tragedy, that’s all that remains, and all that’s necessary. Adrift on that raft, surrounded by other refugees from our collective hubris, I’ll be writing poetry in blood, on my own skin if I must, offering it up as a final act of love.

Soul of the rose

When Eros, the god of passion and sexual love, wed Psyche, a maiden whose name means ‘soul’, the daughters of Zeus, the Hours and the Graces, scattered roses about the land and made all glow with the beauty of the rose. The soul of the rose is the marriage of the erotic and the spiritual, the alliance of the physical scent, silk velvet and intricate folds of the rose with its intangible powers of seduction and compassion.

Waterhouse, The Soul of the Rose

The other day, as I smelled one of the late roses growing in my parents’ garden, and later, my small bottle of precious rose otto oil, I caught a powerful  scent of pepper.  One of the chemotypes of the rose, eugenol, is  also found in peppercorns, cloves, cardamom and many spices, as well as in carnations.  But chemistry will only bring us so far into the soul of the rose. That whiff of pepper carried me, as on the Poniente wind, from a small rocky garden on a hillside in Andalusia across the seas to ‘a land of spices’, the island of Sri Lanka, which I explored with my parents when I was ten years old, just before the war.  There I saw my first black pepper vine. From Sri Lanka, I flew to a small coffee stall in Basra souk, where an ancient man served me a coffee laced with cardamom and sugar, right next to a spice shop overflowing with wares from all over the Arabian Peninsula, the Horn of Africa, India and beyond. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man hold a rose to his nostrils, breathing in deeply. It 2003, in the middle of the war, and Basra had just fallen to the British Army.  In that small gesture, in that strong-scented rose, there was not a whiff of war.

rose in our garden, Andalusia.  Photograph: SN

After that war, and after another, I settled in my home city of Geneva for a while, in a flat on the 9th floor overlooking Mont-Blanc. I grew herbs, tomatoes and roses.  Below is one of my favourite roses –  one of most fragrant in the world,  with a voluptuous  scent of Rose de Mai with a hint of lemon,  the Bolshoï, a hardy hybrid tea rose named after the famed Russian ballet company.  I grew several bushes of it and they thrived for many years, filling my home with their powerful smell of love, dance, sex and spices.

Bolchoi rose, grown by me.

 

in the garden of the Generalife, Alhambra, Granada.

Then there were canals with does planted by them,
does that were hollow, pouring water,
sprinkling the plants planted in the garden-beds,
casting pure water upon them,
watering the myrtle-garden
treetops fresh and sprinkling,
and everything was fragrant as spices,
everything as if it were perfumed with myrrh.
Birds were singing in the boughs,
peering through the palm-fronds,
and there were fresh and lovely blossoms–
rose, narcissus, and saffron —
each one boasting that he was the best,
(though we thought every one was beautiful).

from The Palace and The Garden, Solomon Ibn Gabirol, Al-Andalus, 11th Century.

I came to Andalusia by twisted pathways, but once here, I fell in love. With the land, with the people, with all the living things here, and with the stunning Alhambra palace and its gardens, poems of fountains and damask roses set in geometrical shapes and, in the North-east of the gardens,  against a semi-wilderness.

Pink-gold Damascene roses_Alhambra

The Alhambra, for all its beauty and majesty, was the dying glory of a brilliant transplanted civilisation, al-Andalus, known to us as Moorish Spain. Knowing that makes its roses all the more poignant. We can’t know the Soul of the Rose without accepting, loving even, the heartbreaking transience of roses, which reminds us of our own. No sooner do they bloom than they start to fade, their scent wafting away in the breeze. After the most beautiful rose has died, its soul remains, a memory of its  smell – soft or powerful – of the satin touch of its petals against our fingers and cheek, of its delicate architecture, a love that refuses to die, a sadness that will not be consoled, a vibrancy that gives fully of itself in attar of roses and all the great perfumes created from it, and fills the land with roses.

We are so very little, as my friend the rose
Told me this morning.
“At dawn I was born, baptised with dew-drops
I blossomed, happy, in love.
In the ray of the sun, I closed for the night and woke up old. 
And yet I was beautiful, yes, the most beautiful
rose in your garden.”

…. We are so very little, and my friend the rose
Died this morning. 
The moon in darkness kept a vigil for my friend,
But I saw her in my dream, lighting up the nights
Her soul was dancing well above the clouds,

She smiled at me.
Believe me if you wish
But I need to hope, or I am nothing,
Or else so very little. 

Never Again

A true story

Lake Malawi
Lake Malawi

Even from the air Malawi is a lush country, especially now in the rainy season, when it thickens with growth, undergrowth, and mirages of plenty. As far as I can see, small fields laid out like patchwork cover the land. Trees grow densely, in every shade of green – cassava, pumpkin, banana, baobab.

I think of the children I would meet tomorrow, all refugees, and the endless questions they would cast at me, desperate challenges for which I would have no answer. The modest would ask for more food, medecine, pencils. The bold would want visas for the developed world. The frantic, a passage for “anywhere outside this accursed continent”. I could only offer them messages to a faraway relative, leading, perhaps, to a reunion, perhaps – miracles do happen – in Paris, London or Montreal.

The next day I drive to a small refugee camp called Dzaleka with Anthony, an NGO official. He is easy-going, sings as he drives, and recounts stories of his grandfather, the witch doctor, who would fly from Nyasaland to South Africa in a minute. Like all of Malawi in this season, the camp is half hidden by solid stalks of maize and banana groves that hide the concrete administrative buildings and mud houses. Have I come to a garden, where I expected a refugee camp? But here is the Malawian administrator in his bare dusty office. Here are the UNHCR posters on the cracked wall – so they do visit here from time to time! – and the Red Cross table calendar on a plywood desk overflowing with yellow papers.

Dzaleka is considered a small, back-water, forgotten camp, for most refugees a way-station or a hiding place. The camp population has grown steadily to accommodate the flow of Congolese refugees. The administrator says that the Congolese are the first to go back. “As soon as there is a lull in the fighting, they rush back, unless they have personal reasons not to, or they are waiting for resettlement abroad. We have great trouble persuading them to stay while danger persists. The Congolese are crazy. They are not allowed to work here, but they still do business. Some have come with bicycles and cycle to Blantyre every week to sell goods!” There are older refugees in Dzaleka, too Rwandans, Burundians, even Somalis, each with their own desolate memories.

Anthony tells me that in the old days, under the dictator Dr Hastings Banda, Dzaleka had another name and was used as a political labour camp. It was a place so notorious that those people who emerged alive used to swear, upon leaving, “dzaleka!”, which means, “never again!” in Chichewa. Now the camp hosts people who have fled other horrors and have in turn sighed, or screamed, “never again!” in Lingala, Kiswahili, Kinyarwanda, Kirundi.

I spend the day speaking to children and young men. We sit together in a small school room. No class today, it seems: they have morning or afternoon school twice a week. French and English pratice sentences decorate the classroom. “La porte est fermée. The door is closed”, “The bird is flying. L’oiseau vole”, with drawings of a blue door, a sparrowhawk soaring. The benches creak under the weight of so many people. The arrival of a Red Cross musungu kazi, white woman, is news that has spread throughout the camp as fast as Anthony’s grandfather. I haven’t been in a schoolroom for 15 years. I crunch myself on on one of the tiny desks – they didn’t used to be so small, did they? Anthony sits at the back. He does not understand the conversations in French, but smiles gently, unperturbed by the waves of passion that overtake the classroom periodically. Only once does he intervene, when a row erupts between several boys vying for attention. I don’t know if they understand his scolding Chichewa, but his tone calms them.

Men and boys have gathered around me, with only three girls amongst them. I am told the other girls and the women are cooking and working their small vegetable patches. I ask the assembled refugees a few questions to which many answers fuse all at once. What energy is there! The energy of survival, of anger, but also a life-force that not even war has dimmed.

Il ne fait pas bon être nègre” , Papy says, a thin twenty-five year old, who still bears signs of Congolese panache – la Sape – in his swagger and his well-kept purple jacket, a size too large for him.

“How can you say this? how can call yourself that? ” I ask, the brutal colonial word screeching against my nice liberal mind.

“But it’s true, isn’t it?”, he answered, “isn’t Africa called le continent nègre? Who cares about it? There’s a generation of young growing up illiterate in the Great Lakes because of the war, we live in insecurity at home, the girls are raped, and if we leave, we are corralled in camps, underfed, just kept alive. A kilo of beans a month! And for what?”

“Everyone wants you to go home.”

“I have no home left, he says bitterly. The Rwandan army burnt it down, and occupied my town, they’ll pick me up if I go home because I took part in student protests. And now, we are kept away from your countries. You can visit Malawi, Zimbabwe or Congo. But can we visit England, France, Canada? You have studied, haven’t you, to get this job? Can we go to university, buy books, earn a decent living in an interesting job? Or any job? Can we even eat a decent meal? What have you come for today? Africa is dying and we les nègres are dying with it. But you did not come for that. ”

He is deliberately baiting me now, using that word as a weapon, daring me to resist him, to place my reason in the way of his anger. I search for words, and see myself, instead. My clothes are new, I ate breakfast this morning, I use a reasonable voice which keeps a proper distance between the refugees and me, the way I was taught when I took this job. Then as fast as the storm erupts, it shifts, whirling me along: “How do I get some books? We are setting up adult classes with some refugees that are teachers – we have no paper, but we can always write in the dirt, Africa has plenty of that.” “I want to join my brother in Spain, my uncle in Brussels. I want to go back to Goma, to Kisangani” (How did someone from Kisangani land here? I wonder). “I want to find my wife before I forget what she looks like.” In another change of tone, they cajole me: “Are you married? how old are you? Will you ever marry? But not a refugee. We know that! None of us have anything to offer you.” They are daring me again.

I talk, I laugh, I battle with them for what I will and won’t do – “just give us the means and we’ll do it for ourselves”. These are not the aid degenerates dear to the armchair critics, nor are they victimised losers. These are gifted, truculent young men who would be an asset to any country, in bright curiosity, in bravado, in impudent sexiness, now intense and rimmed with sadness, because it’s practically all they have left. Perhaps it’s true that hardship concentrates the mind, sharpens the talents. In European and African towns, Congolese refugees prosper in many ways. Some become law professors, writers or musicians. Some sell Prada bags – fake and genuine, as long as it has a label – or set up smart scams. None sit down and weep about their fate for longer than a Koffi Olomide love song.

And the children? After all, I came for them. There are still many Rwandan children, left over from the great flight of ‘96, when the refugee camps in Zaïre and Tanzania were dispersed by the Rwandan Pariotic Army (RPA). A few refugees ended up here, in Dzaleka, after thousands of miles of walking, from forest to forest, bush to bush, camp to camp. Dzaleka is just a stage on an endless journey. Some still limp. I can hardly imagine what they must have seen, the memories they heave silently about like bundles on their heads.

DSC_9014
Dzaleka Refugee Camp

These Rwandan children in Dzaleka have had no real carers for years. Most can’t read or write, because they haven’t received any regular schooling. How can there be education where there is no continuity or discipline? Somehow they are surviving. They are hard, unripe fruit. I give a handful of sweets and receive a smile. A few words in kinyarwanda, and it is a laugh. But I have no idea how they live, nor what future there is for them. They live without any sense of time. There are those whose parents we have traced and whom I’d like to send home. Suddenly thrown back in time, they take fright and refuse to look beyond Dzaleka, prefering the safety of the half-life they know to the uncertainty of going home and settling down with a family they have forgotten. Several children do not believe that their parents are really alive. They remember seing them killed. “But look at the photo. Do you recognise your mother here?” Twelve-year old Ephrem looks on silently. He nods, tears pour down his cheeks. Embarrassed to be crying in front of me, he moves to a corner to compose himself. He murmurs something to his cousin, who speaks some French. “He has recognised his mother. But he is still not sure it is safe to return.”

Many of the other children and teenagers are traumatised. Congolese war, Burundian war, Somali war, all have left scars. Jean-Pierre from Bukavu in Eastern Congo can barely see, he closes his eyes downwards and refuses to look at the world. I learn that two months ago, he saw his family sliced up by the rebels, because his father wrote a letter of support for the government in Kinshasa. He was outside the house when they came, and hid in the hen coop. Calliste, a thin young Burundian, streams sweat and shakes like a blade of grass. His mother is Tutsi, he says, and his father Hutu, and both communities want his blood, even here in Dzaleka.

Some should be traumatised and are not, another mystery. There is a calm, slightly worried-looking seventeen year-old Congolese boy who has been father and mother to his four little brothers and sisters since the age of fifteen. Two years ago, their parents were killed by the Mayi-Mayi, naked hunter-warriors who started off as resistance fighters and ended up perpetrating massacres, like most participants in that dirty war. He and his siblings fled their home town, Uvira by Lake Tanganyika, returning after three months. As they grew older, the Mayi-Mayi renewed their threats. One day, six weeks ago, he came home and found the death-sign of the Mayi-Mayi daubed on the front door. He picked up the children and ran, this time from the country. “I am worried, because I have no money for the little ones. My elder brother is in Canada and could help care for us. We can’t go back, the Mayi-Mayi want to wipe out our family”.

There’s a story in that, but I’ll never know it. His eyes give nothing away but immediate concern for the future. All he wants is help in getting organised. He writes a Red Cross message for his brother in Canada, gives me the latter’s email address and takes down the address for the nearest Canadian High Commission. Some of the Congolese laugh around him, one boy drums on his desk, one gets up to dance the ndombolo. The Rwandans and Burundians look on, immobile.

Anthony and I drive back to Lilongwe exchanging impressions. Some we can help, others not. Some will find their own way, some will compromise their dreams, some will give up. Many will refuse to give up, and shout out “never again!” Dzaleka. I am angry at the neglect, the waste. The North expresses guilt about the oppression of Africa: but what is killing Africa now is not only oppression and exploitation, it is indifference. L’abandon. That’s what they call it.

Papa Wemba
Papa Wemba

Back in Lilongwe, Papa Wemba, rumba king from Congo, is singing Le Voyageur (the Traveller) on the radio:

Bolingo Lingo Eponi Ekolote

Lingo Lingo Mboka Te

Lingo Lingo Mundele Te

Lingo Lingo Moyindo Te

Love has no country

Love has no village

Love has no Whites

Love has no Blacks

When I left the camp, not one person forgot to wish me a merry Christmas and happy holidays. A year later, sitting in an office in Kinshasa, I received a letter from the young man who looked after his four brothers and sisters. They had reached Canada.

For reasons of discretion, names have been changed. 

The silent piano

I wanted to write something fun and intriguing today. After all, having just started this blog, I would like to set an attractive, upbeat tone, a beguiling Mozart sonata rather than a mournful Chopin Waltz, exploring subjects that would caress and encourage my readers. But life has a way of interrupting our plans and imposing its own.

Did I say life? I meant death.

This morning we heard that Therese had died. A close relative called to let us know. The news was not unexpected. Therese had been ill for some time with an inoperable and incurable brain cancer, associated with a number of other serious ailments : it was a violent gallbladder infection that killed her. A close friend of the whole family for 20 years, since she had become the partner, latterly wife, of our lifelong friend Michel, Therese had won me over almost immediately with her attitude – a mix of optimism, rebellion and expansive kindness that hid a vulnerable core. She was 81. She was 21. Her body had altered, her mind had become wise, her heart had never aged.

Therese, Granada coast, 2011

Yet eventually, it gave up. Not only her physical heart, through death, but her emotional heart. Shortly after receiving her diagnosis, she renounced life and prepared to leave us.

– “I’m tired, my darling”, she told me, the last time we spoke. “I’m simply waiting to go.” Of all the people I’ve met Therese was one I’d least have imagined to be resigned, to go gently into that good night. People can surprise you at life’s edge, and she knew more about it than I did.

– “I love you, I said, I’ll miss you”. I surprised myself: these were words I’d thought but never expressed before. When she told me she was dying, they came tumbling out like a rush of emotional notes from a baby grand.

Therese had no children, but she had a piano. Had her parents been more supportive, had she believed in herself in her teens, she would have made a fine concert pianist. Until a few months before her death, she still entranced social evenings in her small flat in Geneva playing a Brahms dance, a Mozart sonata, a Fauré allegro, or a melancholy Chopin Waltz. The first time I heard her play, she had been in the next room. I didn’t know her well and thought she had put on a CD of Brahms’s Hungarian Dances for piano.

– “No, no, ma petite Sophie, that’s one of the things I do well myself. You see, I cannot cook. I’m no good at sports and really quite silly sometimes. But I can play the piano.” She had played the 1st Hungarian Dance as though she were giving a recital. I was her friend from that moment on.

What would her life have been if she’d known that when she was 20? Another Moura Lympany? A professor at the conservatory?

Instead, she became an international civil servant and worked a bureaucratic job at the WHO (World Health Organisation). She had a long-standing relationship with a man with whom she could have no children. Some years after his death, in her early 60s, she met Michel and they had been together since. Did she miss out, not having children?

– “I thought so once, but no longer. I’ve had a good life!” And so she had. She had travelled widely, she had spread love and beauty wherever she went, she had stood by her strong opinions on social justice, and she had met some of the great men and women of her age, who had honoured her.

She and I shared a love for literature, for music and for the underdog. Though she could have been my grandmother, though our belief systems were different (she was an avowed agnostic), I always felt her to be a kindred spirit, a spiritual sister.

This morning, we spoke to Michel on Skype. His normal upbeat teasing manner had given way to grieving bewilderment. He is lost without the companion of his old age. He spoke of her piano, which was behind him in the room where he sat, of the longing he had to hear her play again, of the sight and sound of her everywhere in the apartment. A silent piano is so sad. I caught her with my mind’s ear. I tried to conjure the lilting 1st Hungarian Dance, but heard only the last notes of a Chopin waltz.

Au revoir, Therese.

Therese, Alhambra, 2011

time machine

The heat that pushed us indoors during these dog days of the Alpine summer has placed me in front of the grandfather clock in the only cool room in the chalet, the dining-sitting room, for hours – working, socialising, keeping fresh. Every hour it strikes the hour twice, at the exact time and two minutes later – ‘in case we didn’t hear it the first time’ my mother says, and on the half-hour, once. It’s a clear chime, which carries throughout the chalet, even with the doors shut : there is no chance of not hearing it and so when we go to bed, we remove the lead weight that sets off the clock every half-hour. Then only the unrelenting pendulum swings loudly in the night.

CIMG0205

It’s long since I examined this symbol both of time fleeing and permanence. Its casing is rough, rustic, hewn together some 150 years ago from fir wood by a peasant in the mountains of Maurienne in Savoy. Over time it has been polished with beeswax until its patina darkened its colour to a deep honey.

The mechanism comes from the Jura mountains, watch country to this day, where clockmakers used to work in small workshops and sent clock and watch mechanisms throughout Europe. The tin-glazed clock face is surrounded by a detailed brass bas relief depicting a mountain huntsman brandishing a rifle, a dog at his side, on a stylised background of oak leaves, acorns and ivy.

CIMG0207

I’m wondering about the three men who made this clock. The clockmaker, unusually, did not mark his name or area on the clock face. The bas-relief artist must have worked with the clockmaker, perhaps in the same workshop or close by, to order. He and the peasant-carpenter remain as anonymous as the clockmaker (how do I know he was not a trained carpenter? Because he made an uneven, rough casing out of what looks like the ends of wood used for making other, larger furniture.) The peasant who bought the mechanism with this decorated clock face was not poor : he could afford a good quality movement that still works 150 years later and tells the right time to the minute. But he was not rich: he had to build his own case, out of cheap fir wood. He made it to last, using thick square wood pegs to hold together the strong boards.

CIMG0209

He invested in two pieces of glass: a large necessary one in front of the clock face, and a smaller one he must have chosen for his own pleasure, revealing the brass pendulum, battered by time.

CIMG0212

Was he a grandfather, assembling his clock during his well-deserved retirement from back-breaking high altitude Alpine farming and animal husbandry? Or perhaps a mountain guide who whiled away his winter evenings in a makeshift workshop in the decades before winter sports took over the Maurienne and turned his descendants into skiing instructors and ski patrollers in the resorts above Albertville. Was he a young man building a clock for his wife-to-be, to impress her parents and prove his resilience and time-worthiness?

His way of life has disappeared from the Alps. His land was sold to make ski slopes and build chalets for tourists. His great-great-grandchildren live in flats and few of them would know how to make a grandfather clock case. His family sold his clock, perhaps to buy some newly necessary household item or simply because it was old and out of fashion. In the 1960s, Alpine antique dealers went from farm to farm, buying clocks, chests, beds and tables, often for next to nothing from families who didn’t realise their value and timeless beauty.

There is still a handful of bas-relief artists and traditional clockmakers in the Jura, but most have closed their workshops, replaced by high-tech workers or cheaper mass-producing factory workers, many of them in Asia. They too have been overtaken by relentless time.

We collect these ancient rustic pieces to give ourselves a window onto a past that was never ours. The grandfather clock is a time machine to a lost world, a magical bridge to a traditional clockmaker, a brass-working artist in the valleys of the Jura and a mountain peasant-carpenter whose life left no other trace of its passage and culture. Time was slower when that clock was made. It has accelerated beyond the imaginings of its makers, faster than the skiers who whizz down those mountains in winter. Yet the clock is still there and tells the time in the way it always did. It has just struck six: the same six chimes the farmer heard in his rugged wood and stone house 150 years ago. Time has passed. Time has stood still.