‘To conquer fear is the beginning of wisdom.’
Bertrand Russell
I’m sitting cross-legged on a beach. It’s almost seven o’clock in the evening and the sand is already wet with dew. The huge sky above my head is purple, almost black, and the air is cool, borderline cold. I’m wearing layers, including a t-shirt, shirt and my only sweatshirt. It’s astonishing how the weather has changed, and astonishing to have become so aware of the changes by virtue of being outdoors for the past six or seven weeks. Summer has become autumn as `I’ve travelled the coast path, the passing of time has become tangible in the temperatures, visible in the changing colours of the leaves on the trees, and the shortening days.
This beach is called Plage Saumonard. The campsite is directly behind me, with even fewer campers than when I arrived two days ago, and the town of Boyardville, where the ferry departs at ten tomorrow morning for La Rochelle is just a short bike ride away.
I’m looking north towards Île de Ré, about fifteen kilometres away, vol d’oiseau, and all but invisible, though I wonder if I can just make out the pinprick of streetlights on the dark horizon. Fort Boyard, a Napoleonic monster that looks like a stadium is three kilometres to my right, isolated in the shallow sea that surrounds its twenty-metre vertical walls. Now, it’s only a silhouette against the mainland and resembles a stranded tanker. I read that in the nineties it became the location for one of those game shows where people who should know better take on silly challenges in the dungeons and the battlements of the building. I’m told it was enormously popular in France.
In front of me, a disposable barbeque is lit and smoking with the spicy fumes of Merguez sausages, first introduced to me by Phil and a staple of our time together when I was helping him build his new house. I have a small baguette, a tomato, and the inevitable bottle of rosé, together with my plastic beaker so I don’t have to drink from the bottle. Tomorrow, I’ll be on the ferry and the train and by the evening, if all goes well, I will be home. Tomorrow, Phil will go through eight hours of surgery. I won’t call tonight, because his family are with him, but I wanted to share a meal and a drink with Michel and with him, here on the beach, at night, and now with only the charcoal embers for light.
I’m conscious my environmental concern credentials would take a hammering from such meaty indulgence and the snaking smoke rising up from the barbeque, not to mention the waste of using a disposable anything. But I know someone who wouldn’t bat an eyelid. Who believed the world was eternal, as were the gods, and men all too mortal and living with the prospect of death every single day.
When Odysseus reaches the land of the Cimmerians who are said to live at the very entrance to Hades, he digs a pit two feet square to sacrifice a couple of sheep, pours in a libation of milk and honey, some sweet wine, water and white barley. We don’t get to meet any Cimmerians, who probably know better than to hang around the door to the underworld, but Odysseus will soon have company enough. The gruesome ritual is intended to summon forth the dead from the underworld and when they drink the bloody concoction, to give them the power of speech.
As things turn out, it works a treat, and pretty soon he is surrounded by what he describes as a ‘swarm’ of the dead. He has to fight off the hoards so his former shipmate, Elpenor, can find a space to plead with him for a proper burial and to allow Odysseus’ mother can see him one last time. But before she gets her slot, ever the charmer, he wants to hear the prophecies of the blind seer, Tiresias, who can tell him what the future holds in store. Tiresias assures him he will get home but once there, he will have to fight for his rights, and there will indeed be slaughtering. He goes so far as to tell Odysseus how he will die, far from the sea, after yet another journey to a land where the people, ‘ eat no salt with their food, and have never heard of crimson-painted ships, or the well-shaped oars that serve as wings.’
Only when Tireseus has laid out the whole story to come, and indeed the rest of Odysseus’ life, does his mother, Anticlea, get a chance to say what amounts to, ‘where on earth have you been?’ It’s a plea mothers everywhere are prone to make with their sons, especially if they’re late for Sunday lunch. She reminds him too, of his ageing father who grieves for him and, ‘lives alone in the fields, not travelling to the city, and owns no bed with bright rugs and cloaks for bedding, but sleeps where serfs sleep.’
Odysseus meets other great figures of the Greek myths and stories, Agamemnon and Ajax for example, the, but it’s Achilles who delivers one of the most touching scenes in The Odyssey, a story that might seem fantastical, but one that never strays far from ordinary life and very human actions.
Achilles is the greatest warrior of the age, the archetypical hero, virtually invincible, with a ruthless ability to take life and not give a damn. Odysseus, the man who came up with the devious idea of hiding heavily armed Greeks inside a wooden horse and fought alongside him at Troy is in awe of the man and the myth. Odysseus is not shy of telling him so, calling Achilles ‘the mightiest of the Archaeans,’ and adding, ‘we Argives honored thee even as the gods, and now that thou art here, thou rulest mightily among the dead.’
But Achilles is having none of it. Death is grim, he says, he’d rather be alive and work as a slave than be dead and worshipped as a demigod. Odysseus is stumped. He can’t understand how the great Achilles could even contemplate life as a serf back on earth, and he’s relieved when Achilles changes the subject and asks for hews of his aged father and his son. Delighted by what he hears, Achilles ‘skips away’ from his encounter with Odysseus, but the awful truth is his life is over and he can never return home. Family matters, not fame, is the takeaway, and having spent his days killing pretty much anyone who even looked at him askance, it’s affecting and rather poignant that Achilles misses his family so acutely. I’m fortunate, I can go home.
Nietzsche and Camus, among others, suggest we learn to love our fate – amor fati – as a way to meet the challenges of life and death head-on. It’s a noble ideal, and we can try our best, but like Achilles it’s not easy for us to love what happens to us in life. But we can fall back on acceptance. We, the living, go on. We go on because we must and because we can. We go on because it’s the right thing to do, and the only thing to do. And because we’re a long time dead.
Who would I summon if my delicious sausage and tomato sandwich and wine could work the same trick for me as for Odysseus?
I think I’ve done enough summoning for one trip. Those philosophical guides who joined me on the dune satisfied my craving for post-mortem wisdom and I’m content to grant the dead their rest in peace. They had the same struggles we do. Some they overcame, and some overcame them. Death, they say, is the great leveller. My father was held fast in the grip of his own anxiety in his later years. I grew impatient and frustrated that I couldn’t reach him and he couldn’t help himself. I know now, fixing yourself is not a simple affair and it’s a good lesson to learn, albeit so late in the day. So, if anyone on the other side is listening, especially you Dad, forgive me.
There is one more ancient Greek word that is useful in thinking about how to live in a chaotic world where nothing is certain. The word is epochē, and it means the suspension of judgement, or as the Merriam-Webster dictionary defines it, ‘the act of refraining from any conclusion for or against anything as the decisive step for the attainment of ataraxia.’ It is an idea often associated with the Skeptics and a philosopher called Pyhrro of Elis, who claimed it was the shortest route to ataraxia because it held all certainty to be beyond the grasp of our minds and suggested it might be better by far to live with uncertainty as the natural state of things. It is a school of thought that together with Epicureanism and Stoicism, makes up the third leg of the Hellenistic philosophies, with apologies to the Cynics.
In 1576 or thereabouts, roughly half way through the writing of his Essais, Michel de Montaigne had a personal medal struck, a relatively common vanity for his time, one that it’s said he wore around his neck to remind him of his limitations as a man. On one side, was his ‘catchphrase’ in old French, “Que sçay je?” or ‘What do I know?’ On the other, the one word, ‘Epecho’.
Epochē has one marvellous advantage over the Epicureans and the Stoics. It’s tricky to question a philosophy that questions everything, and I’ve no doubt that was an important draw for Michel in composing the Essais. He lived his life in an age of uncertainty, but also censorship. There was a charged debate in his times that falls under the term ‘fideism’, a belief that all knowledge derives from faith or revelation,’ and threatened to engulf anyone bold enough to write down his innermost thoughts and feelings. Michel was fleet of foot, and stuck to a conservative conformity in all matters religious, partly by claiming to know nothing for certain.
Not a bad strategy, and one that allowed him the freedom to question almost everything, and useful too to a man like me who questions things and seeks answers. Rather than make a fool of myself by passing judgement on the world around me, better by far, to fall silent, to go gently, and I will, but as no one is listening, let me take advantage of being alone on a beach at night, my stomach deliciously full and the bottle of wine down to the last beaker. Because there are things I’d like to say…
In the little I have read and tried to grasp as best I can, I am always surprised to find such confluence in ideas, from east to west, north to south, and amongst so may different cultures and traditions. In the end, all pursue a form of ataraxia amidst the challenges of living, loving, and losing. And though the words change and the perspective alters, the fundamentals remain. Michel de Montaigne, and this is perhaps what makes him so remarkable, was able to use his own common sense to encompass much of both Eastern and Western wisdom in his Essais.
Pay attention. It’s the Zen credo. The simplest and most challenging guide to living well. It means pay attention to things as they are, not things as they might be, might have been, or things as you might wish they were. ‘Anxiety, desire, and hope drive us toward the future and rob us of the sensation and the awareness of what is to entice us into what will be,’ says Michel.
The philosophy of non-attachment is central to Buddhism, Hinduism, Stoicism, and many other schools of thought. ‘I have freed myself from everything,’ says Michel. ‘My goodbyes are said to all but to myself. No one has ever been ready to leave the world more simply and fully…’ And as for acceptance, he writes: ‘I want death to find me planting my cabbages, indifferent to it, with my garden still a work in progress.’
Heraclitus writes about impermanence when he says, ‘ No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.’ Michel agrees:
‘There is no constant existence, neither of the objects’ being nor our own… and if, perhaps, you fix your thought to apprehend your being, it would be but like grasping water; for the more you clutch your hand to squeeze and hold what is in its own nature flowing, so much more you lose of what you would grasp and hold.’
Apology for Raymond Sebond
Is it any wonder I chose Michel as my travelling companion? Though even with him by my side, it’s easy to lose one’s way.
For myself, there are some very common notions known to us all, but easily forgotten in the rush to life and with the pressures to compete and survive. I cherry pick just as Michel did, and so none are original, and all are begged, borrowed or stolen from greater minds than mine, from religions and philosophies, self-help groups, aphorisms and folk wisdom, anywhere I find a hint of something that might be useful.
- Whatever you do, do it with love, for the sheer wonder and joy of being alive
- Pay attention to things as they are, don’t waste time wanting or regretting
- Change what can be changed, accept what can’t, be wise enough to know the difference
- Showing compassion for others, and the natural world, gives your own life meaning and purpose
- Music and dancing are wonderful things, family and friendships are marvellous things, and laughter? Laughter is sublime
I once heard a professor taking about his work on the radio. He’d given his life to studying the science of happiness in a laboratory and I remember that all his experiments over many years amounted to a very simple formula: good friends and achievable challenges. I’ve been fortunate in both regards.
This bicycle trip has been an achievable challenge, enough to test my fortitude, but not enough to break me. A chance to show to myself that I can do better without having to be the best. And as for good friends, I have always been lucier than I deserve, not least because I value my friends and friendship every bit as highly as Epicurus did in his day.
So with that thought in mind, I’d like to raise my plastic beaker to thank Michel for his conversation and company on this modern odyssey, and Phil, my oldest and bravest friend in the world, thank you for a lifetime of the same. Á bientôt tous les deux.
I’m on the ferry and sitting at the back of the boat with my bicycle and trailer beside me. The throttle is wide open now we’re out of the harbour at Boyardville and we’re creating quite a wake. It’s half an hour at sea and the time passes quickly. There are not many other passengers at this time of year.
When we arrive at the harbour at La Rochelle, we pass by the three ancient towers that guard the entrance and that were built even before Michel’s time when this area was a Huguenot stronghold, always in danger of being attacked by the forces of the Catholic League. Now, they’re the centrepiece to the tourist spectacle of a pretty and rather chic port city.
I hitch the trailer and ride to the station, only a few hundred yards away, and three hours later, the train makes its final stop at Montparnasse station in Paris.
I brave the early morning Paris traffic, trailer swinging behind me like a charioteer and at the Gare du Nord, I hand the bike over to go in the baggage car and have a last coffee before boarding the train to London.
Half an hour later with the suburbs of Paris behind us, the endless plain of the Hauts-de-France is flat and featureless, like a sea. A bridge, another train, or a station beyond the thick green glass, shocks and buffets like an assault.
We approach the French coast and the concrete entrance to the tunnel that burrows under the sea. We slow to a crawl. Then black. The sound of steel wheels on steel tracks is screeching, and the train shudders as we submerge. The window glass becomes a mirror and we can all see ourselves with flashes of the tunnel lights beyond flickering like frames in a film. I feel a wave of exhaustion come over me.
I close my eyes and begin to drift away. It occurs to me that Odysseus slept all the way across the wine-dark sea to Ithaca, only to wake on a deserted beach not even knowing he was home, safe from the seas and the gods, on the island of Ithaca.
End.
That’s it, the end of the road so to speak, but only for now. There’s more to come. Much more. I just have to fit in a little living in between to gather the material. And whilst I do that, I have a treat in mind. A book I prepared earlier, so to speak, a novel based on real events, that tells the incredible story of one William Morgan, an American who fought for the revolution in Cuba in the nineteen fifties, only to pay with his life. Let me know if that sounds good, and I’ll tell you the story whilst I’m living and writing the sequel to Me and Michel. And here’s a tease, I’ve been thinking of renting a house in France in Michel’s village, right next door to his chateau. Weird, or just logical? We’ll find out…
And there’s one last thing…and I don’t expect miracles, or anything much at all, but I do want to publish Me and Michel as a book. Publishers are not going to jump at the chance because these days, you need what they call a platform. That means tens of thousands of followers on social media. And I don’t have the numbers.
But if there’s anyone out there with ambitions to become a publisher, who is possession of a very modest fortune, and is looking for a collaborator with a project, I’m your man. Just write to me. Author at shaun deeney dot com. You’ll find it all on the website contact page.
Thanks for listening, I’ll see you on down the line…very soon.
Credits:
A huge thank you to Esther Abrami, Doug Maxwell, Kevin McCleod, Huma-Huma, Aakash Ghandi, and all the wonderfrul, generous, musical artists who share their talents with the world in the form of copyright and royalty free music.
And thanks too for these sound effects from the utterly marvellous and suitably named Freesound Library. Thank you everyone who records and shares:
BG SaSc Madeira Night Crickets Cicades Heavy Waves Rolling on Shore Beach Distant.wav by Profispiesser — https://freesound.org/s/583251/ — License: Creative Commons 0
Braaing / Barbecuing Meat by Piggimon — https://freesound.org/s/366219/ — License: Attribution NonCommercial 4.0
Ambient Port Barceloneta by barcelonetasonora — https://freesound.org/s/269997/ — License: Attribution NonCommercial 4.0