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The Brittany dairy farmer
Bernard the farmer has two sons. His father was a farmer; and his grandfather. But now, in his 70s, Bernard has decided to retire; hand over the herd, the livestock, the big farmhouse, barns and the land.
The Hoopoo
The April rain has blown in and with it a Hoopoe. Every afternoon he sweeps down from his nest high in the trees in Trevor’s field and into the garden, a flash of black, white and orange-fawn against a prairie of pearl-grey sky.
Bruno’s cats
Bruno’s cats stalk the grey tits and blackbirds nesting in the ivy-drenched, moss-banked ruins of the grey-stone barn. Blinking, mewing, stretching tiny claws, they shelter under the holly trees, basking in shallow ditches of dry, sun-warmed dirt. Bruno is the only Frenchman in a French hamlet that has been slowly overtaken by the English. The farmhouse, outbuildings and land were handed down to him: the only French population on the increase is in the barn where his cats live.
The Good Neighbours
“So, where’s me brew,” asks The Neighbour before swinging up and between the rails, contorting his body around the boards of the 16 foot scaffolding tower. The Neighbour is not only very tall, he is also very kind. And so is The Neighbour’s Wife. They had offered to lend us the scaffolding to paint the walls and ceiling in what will be our new living room.
Niort man
Wild haired, wild eyed, the drunk is limply staggering his way across the city square. Sliding one foot clumsily in front of the other he’s trying not to trip over the cracks in the paving stones. There’s a half-empty wine bottle in the pocket of his tattered blue jacket and the frayed, dirty ends of his grey trousers are dragging under his scruffy trainers.
The wren’s nest
I keep the wren’s nest on my desk to remind me that I will never attain perfection. We found it during a ‘wood walk’; our daily search for kindling through the woods and along the back lanes. When we reached up for a dry, broken, ivy-wrapped branch, the empty nest bounced onto the ground.
Mother's Day
The photograph shows she’s as lovely now as she was on her wedding day. Three sisters, my mother in the middle. Each of them smiles. But my mother’s smile is radiant. It is beautiful.
Monsieur Aubert’s mistress
He handles the carrots gently, smoothing their long green fronds with his soft fingers. He brushes away little specks of dust and dirt, rubs the skin a little to remove some grit. To him they are sweet, golden treasures. Little miracles of seed and soil. He tenderly holds them up to the early evening sky, smiling with delight - a magical glow against deep, heady blue.
Greengage summer
A biscuit-beige earthenware pot holds the first harvest of the old greengage trees. He takes his scythe to the abandoned orchard, working among the fruit trees planted, tended and loved by his grandfather.
The drinker
She shuffles through the small-town, ‘new generation’ supermarket on a chilly October day. The scruffy, flaccid black, red and white balloons proclaim another seasonal in-store fete du vin; cartons of Bordeaux, Burgundy, Rhone; six bottles for the price of four; five cartons for the price of two…