The gardener

The main road takes you past the pineau vines, the farm and the feed mill towards the town. A narrower road, to the right, takes you into the village. In between is a triangle of long and lovingly tended garden – rows of late leeks, beans and onions; stalks and stems of verdant green among April’s fields of rape blossom.

The gardener visits every day. Elderly, frail and barely five feet tall, a large black beret pulled flat on his small head, he pulls his heavy handcart with the wooden wheels past the Mairie’s office; then past the boulangerie and on down the main road until he gets to the rusty gate in the garden wall.

Raincoat buttoned to his neck, his grey trousers neatly rolled over his old rubber boots, he will slowly work his way up and then back down the rows.

His cart carries all he ever needs to hoe, sow, and harvest spring’s emerald greens, summer’s fruits and flowers and October’s berry-bright gourds.

The metal bucket holds a baguette from the boulangerie and three inches of wine in a bottle for his lunch.