Yesterday I was splitting the logs of the last of our winter firewood in the warmth of the sun. The crisp sound of the logs splitting under the axe has the effect of bringing my neighbour, Fernand, out of his kitchen for a matinal “Ca va?”. This entails a welcome break in the work as well as a chance to share in secret information concerning the nefarious activities of local ne’er do wells. This information is offered under a strict bond of silence which makes the vow of Omerta take on the casual assertion of “..you know me, I wouldn’t tell a soul”. Yesterday’s revelation brought into question the trustworthiness of various “organic” producers of this parish. As the majority of my 8 neighbours are farmers as were their families for generations before, and I am not, much of what he tells means nothing at all to me, but I still nod sagely whilst leaning on my axe. In fact his eyes, as he speaks, are scrutinising the axe and all the signs that it bears of misuse by a rank amateur. I rely on him still to guide my hand as I sharpen the chain saw and the axe as I never get it quite right without his judgement. The condemnation of the local organic felon was followed by a stroll to his vegetable patch to get some of his truly organic leeks – or so he said. The rules of organic farming seem so complicated, if I have understood them correctly, that I’m not sure if I believe that any local “Bio” producer can be above suspicion. It has been said that if all the rules of Rugby Union where applied to the letter it would be nigh on impossible to play a game and I feel that organic farmers’ rule book may share the same author. I’m probably happier trusting rather than condemning. When I’m at market I’m sure that I, and everyone else, are paying more than we should for each delicious purchase. I feel this because I’m now used to being penny pinching and paying as little as possible in supermarkets, as opposed to my previous life where I would go out of my way to find the most expensive example of whatever product I felt that I needed. Markets offer me the same “Ca va” as my neighbour, Fernand. That’s why I enjoy choosing the beetroot that I want, or the exact four sardines that have caught my eye, safe in the knowledge that the stallholder expects me to be selective. Market seemed to be the right place for Easter. There is a congregation of all kinds of people, there is the arrival of the fresh and the new and above all a feeling of celebration without cant or doctrine. A good day for the humans of this little corner of a troubled world.