Open Writing

An alarm has not stopped its beeping for over an hour. It cuts through my attempt to wind down and read, like a chainsaw through foie-gras.

We are in Les Landes between Bordeaux and the Pyrenees with its miles of dunes and Atlantic beaches. A stunningly beautiful place reclaimed from marsh-land a century ago primarily by the planting of several million pine trees. Each tree takes from the ground 200 litres of water per day.

I am sitting under these enormous century old pines, immersed in a Melvyn Bragg novel when the alarm begins its penetrating and relentless torment.

A car-alarm perhaps - a reversing service vehicle possibly? Either way it should soon stop. But no - beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. It stops - wonderful - but then it starts again almost immediately. It has only paused for breath. Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

The matter is now urgent I decide. A few minutes is unacceptable - over one hour, pure hell. It is imperative I find the source, my sanity depends on it. My nerves are shot. This is a holiday for goodness sake. I throw down the book and attenuate my ears. Two miniature Fylingdales swivelling around in a dense French pine-wood, a human barn owl seeking a kill.

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

Ben and his two colleagues are servicing three mobile homes for guests arriving later. A couple opposite gaze around, obviously irritated but do nothing. Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep. A scary thought comes to me- this could be a fire alarm.

The pines are packed with delicious smelling but highly inflammable resin. The earth and vegetation are warm and dry. The forest floor is covered with brown pine needles. A fire would be a disaster, hence the bbq ban and the extinguishers on every corner. But nobody seems to be taking this seriously. Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

I turn to the right - the sound is definitely louder this way. I move forward - louder still. Further down the needle strewn path, the beeping is getting louder and louder. I am on to something.

I pass a large wheeled rubbish skip on my left and then the beeping seems quieter. I move back. No - it can’t be - but it is - the beep, beep, beep, beep, beep is coming from the sector rubbish bin. As I reach for the lid, the noise is at a crescendo. But wait a minute - we were on a site just like this one on nine eleven. What if there is a terrorist’s bomb in here?

Bravely but very carefully, I lift the lid. The deafening beeps spring out like trapped birds. The rubbish bin is almost empty and I can’t reach the bottom. It stinks of decaying country pate and yesterday’s bbq’s and moules mariniere.

I see a small, yellow, cardboard box with lettering on the front - Smoke Alarm.

Someone has discarded an old smoke alarm from a mobile home or chalet and the damp in the rubbish has shorted the terminals. Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

I go back for Anne and we turn the stinking bin on its side. “I’ll smash it to pieces,” she suggests as the alarm slides out of the bin with the other mush.

I reach in and take out the battery. The beeping stops.

I can’t really believe it but the beeping stops after ninety minutes trying to do the job it was built for. I run for the shower. Heaven has returned to the Landes pine-woods.

600 words