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.

He’s getting on. He’s tired of watching every cold winter dawn in the milking parlour, lighting thin, wispy roll-ups to keep his fingers warm

When he goes to market he wants to see his friends, gossip, talk about the old days, not haggle over the price of his chickens.

Georges and Jean-Yves must decide the farm’s future, although Georges is not sure if it is for him - he could make more money as a mechanic, servicing his neighbours’ tractors and machinery.

If Jean-Yves wants to continue he will have to buy out his brother. It’s a lot of money when there is little around.

Bernard understands. He knows it’s getting more difficult to turn in a profit. He has seen the accelerating changes to a landscape in which he has grown up and grown old. Seen friendly rivalry turn to competition, watched as the silent Dutchman who bought Bricaud’s place grows the herd, expanding the old buildings to increase production.

He knows supermarket suppliers would rather import cheaper milk from the south of the country. He knows they can get it cheaper still from Eastern Europe.

He understands his old world no longer exists and that the new one is driven by market forces, not tradition.

He remembers when the gendarmes stood aside as farmers attacked the shelves of the local supermarket, targeting cheese, butter - any products made of imported milk. How they washed the store’s car park white with their own milk, held up traffic with their tractors, blockaded ferry ports.

And he knew the farmers who took their own lives - the desperate sons, husbands and fathers who watched helplessly as their livelihoods slipped away, hanging themselves from the wing mirrors of their tractors.