Two weeks in lockdown

Day 9
Here in rural Brittany people are calm and daily life is orderly, with no shortages or panic buying, and most people observing a distance from others. The lake path and waterside parks have been forbidden to all of us trying to exercise and walk our dogs. There has been no edict issued about the forest, and as I live on the edge, I have made short excursions out and back, keeping to the regulations of remaining within one kilometre of home. A few days ago I was stopped by the police a few metres from my house and asked to produce the form of attestation. I only had the old one and with the wrong date, but was let off with a warning to print out a new form every day. Honestly and surprisingly, I don't enjoy the dog-walk, feeling it a daily pressure and stress without solidly clear guidance of where one can go.
Mentally I am starting to struggle a little. Unable to concentrate well and lacking any urgent current project, it is hard to structure the day and I fritter away time, unsettled and frustrated with myself. So far I have baked a lot and watched the 1967 version of the Forsyte Saga. I do some basic stretching exercises and a short Tai Chi routine every day but my body feels torpid and full of aching joints. My arthritic hand is much worse and gives constant pain, making writing difficult, even if I could muster the concentration. The easy flow of creativity has completely departed from my life under these conditions.
Day 13
I have made a cogent effort to use my time better, at least to complete a few basic tasks every day and then not worry if nothing else is achieved. I've expanded Tai Chi and bodywork meditations to an hour and devoted the same amount of time to my new novel, so it grows at least by a few paragraphs a day. My spiritual practice remains strong since my retreat last month, which was in fact good training for the current situation. This moderate level of activity is enough for me, but the steady routine has actually made me much less anxious and more able to get things done generally. I need medication soon and am hesitating between asking someone younger and fitter than me to get it or go myself. I have not set foot in the town or any shop since this started and feel reluctant to cross that line and take the risk. My immunity is low and keeping away from people seems an imperative. On the other hand, I obviously don't want anyone else to suffer on my account. On dog walks I rarely see another person and no-one at close quarters. The healing hush of the forest is powerful at a time like this, when atmosphere is heightened by our fears and sensitivity to the unusual flow of energy that prevails in this strange suspended framework of changed life.

Bretons: Vefa de Saint-Pierre

This extraordinary woman was born in 1872 in the Goëlo region of Brittany, although she is most closely associated with Spezet and the Montagnes Noires in Finistère for her later activities.
As a child she wanted to dress like a boy and harboured ambitions of running away to sea. Hunting was a real passion from an early age and throughout her life, guns were never far away.
At 18 she joined a nunnery, perhaps a surprising choice for one of such decidedly strong and individual character, but it did mean she got to go on her first significant journey, a mission to the Equator in 1899. This fuelled the thirst for long-distance travel which was to be another theme of her life, with a visit to America and Canada in 1906. By this time she had left the religious order definitively without taking orders or being thought suitable to take them by her superiors. She met President Roosevelt and spent a lot of time delightedly hunting caribou.
Back in Brittany in 1908 she bought the Manoir de Menez Kamm near Spézet which was to be her beloved home for many years. It was situated in prime hunting territory and she was soon well-known for fearless pursuit of the local wild boar. She learnt Breton and became an ardent (and militant) advocate of Breton history and culture, hoping for the kind of revolution in Brittany that Ireland had seen. She gave money and moral support to many Breton nationalist projects and local organisations, and was closely involved with Gorsedd bardic community. In 1930 she was given the bardic name Brug ar Menez Du (Heather of the Black Mountain).
She had a very lively intelligence, bent on constant learning throughout her life, whether languages, geography, natural sciences or theology, remaining a devout and committed Catholic. She also wrote poetry, although always very modest about her talents. A round-the-world trip in the 1920s gave her the chance to write about her travels and encounters for magazines and papers, as she visited Australia for an international Christian conference.
After the war, her beloved home was used as a centre of Breton culture, as she provided free bed and board for many writers and musicians. As old age loomed, she herself was increasingly based in Saint-Brieuc, until her death there in 1967. Claire Arlaux's engrossing biography tells the whole story of an exceptional and remarkable figure in 20th century Breton history, giving a new perspective on pre-war nationalism and subsequent cultural development.