Read Online A Smile in the Mind's Eye by Lawrence Durrell - Free Book Online

too, there were streams which had jumped their banks, roads cut off, fallen trees and broken wires – but the road itself was clear, though by now night was signalled by fading light, and quite heavy snow was falling. It was appropriate, the snow; to rediscover the ambience of my childhood by any other element would have left something lacking. Moreover when, after coasting about among the white fields and asking my way of the occasional mortal I encountered in all the whiteness, I at last saw the tall prayer-masts of the chateau with their sodden drooping flags, I realized with a pleasant pang that the place the monks had been donated was itself a piece of old Nepal, of old Bhutan. It was precisely the sort of country-house-chateau which might be inhabited even today by a hill-Rajah. We had known some who lived in just such chateaux around Kuyseong and in the hills around Darjiling. Yet despite this tinge of Oriental appropriateness the old building still insisted, by its vast stables, hangars, greniers, that it was really an overgrown farm, and typical of the Norman north. I limped up towards it upon an execrable private road made viscous by the typical farm mud of the region, and after unearthing the monk in charge of the bookings signed the book and made myself known as a visitor for the weekend. There was some accommodation, and very pleasant too, in the well-heated chateau but I elected to sleep in my little car. I was used to it and liked the feeling of independence it conferred on me at night. So they allowed me to anchor it inside the walls of the grange, just outside the kitchen and refectory, an ideal strategic point. It was rather like being back at school again; dozens of people were arriving with every kind of transport and there seemed few who knew each other. Indeed it was very much like the first day of term at a public school. People floundered about, hunting down their accommodation, examining the premises, or else encountering friends last seen in India or Katmandu. The place was beautifully heated and the shrine room delightful. The hall notice-boards were sprinkled with announcements concerning the services to be held and more urgent if more mundane appeals against taking muddy boots upstairs. The atmosphere was one of calm elation, that special joy when Dharma-crafting beings meet together. There were one or two also who had not broken the chain of tobacco as yet, and they hid themselves among the snowy trees in the park to take a last drag at a Gauloise Bleu. I was so grateful to the yoga which had liberated me (I used to be a heavy smoker) from this cruel addiction for some eight years now, without relapse. Dinner passed with friendly animation and I made a couple of contacts, one a rather grim looking man with a long nose who looked as if he were an extreme sceptic. He did not actually say anything but his way of examining wall notices and looking around at his fellow diners (and sniffing) suggested that he was thinking to himself: ‘This is all my eye and monkey’s fur!’ No need to say that the food was good; the French lamas must have cooked it for some of the dishes were very superior – cream of chestnuts was one. But I was tired after my long drive, and glad that I had opted for the privacy of the car where I could roll down my bed, light a candle for pleasure, read a few lines of Donne or Mila Repa before falling into a hushed sleep, dimly aware of movements about me in the darkness – for the dormitories in the barns were slowly filling up with sleeping-bag novices who had arrived after dark. The snow hushed and lulled all sharp sound. But the frost was heavy, and when I woke about three and crawled out to express myself in the snow, the sky was brilliant with stars – dagger-points of frosty light – and a chill crackling wind whirled down from the north bringing more snow. Incoherent and unpatterned memories and impressions of the past filled my mind. I was