When topography does you no favours – there were no mountains to feast upon in this part of France – the other facets of geography need to put in extra effort if they are to impress. On the morning of July 30th, they were sweating their assets hard. Within a matter of minutes of leaving the campsite at 7.30 am, I was on a dusty path, pine trees to my right and a meadow awaiting its grazing horses to my left. In the distance a few trees softened the line between land and sky and beyond them, across the vastness of space (and a just little bit of time), the yellow globe of the sun had started to glide effortlessly across the sky. Its golden influence washed across the field, its countless rays crashing and splintering as they came into contact with the cushion of mist on the ground. Above everything and beyond a transition from orange to yellow to white was a developing blue sky, unblemished by even the bravest of clouds. It was a scene that would have had J.M.W. Turner erecting his easel and mixing his paints without a moment of hesitation. Yellow ochre, raw sienna, burnt sienna, olive green, cobalt blue… This was a scene to exhaust the palette. And aside from an invisible Joseph and me, there was not another soul to witness the early morning spectacle. Beautiful.
