Say what you will, the countryside is still. So still that sometimes I feel for its pulse. It’s August and it’s quiet….that is if you’re not beside the seaside where la toute France has gone on holiday. It feels like we are some the children who were left to remain at boarding school, after all the other excited pupils had left for the railway station in coaches or sped off home in their parents’ car, for all, or part of the summer holidays, because their parents lived abroad or weren’t available for child nurturing. I remember some of their faces as we lucky ones cheerfully waved them goodbye : already stoics by the age of 8, and undoubtedly bound for great things in that myriad of professions where sentiment is not to be encouraged.
There is an absence of movement throughout. Naturally, the basics of life continue, but they are reduced and seemingly hidden. Landscape becomes still life and life becomes still.