I drive the French countryside south to south east, sliding over a patchwork of fields, forests & through medieval villages so old & beautiful they look like movie sets.
The sadness of the WW 1 Battlefields are behind me now, but still the red Poppies sway all around me in fields of wheat. We shall remember all those fallen men —- millions of graves known only to God. Drive-drive-drive my photo-eye mad along country roads. Up-up-up my arse comes another Frenchman’s car.
In everyone of them sits some Alain and a lot of Prost. Often I must seek rest from them in a village graveyard at the end the dead-end street past the Romanesque church. One day I will make a book on graveyards around the world.
