The sun shines through the larch and the long grass. The woodpecker calls. A hare loops through the meadow. Henri is here to convalesce in her summerhouse home from home.
We are a couple of kilometres from where she spent her childhood holidays. Close to where her mother lived her last years. Here, we grow and garden at a different speed. Any planting is mostly of trees: two larch once only a metre tall now tower over the oak; there are groups of shimmering silver birch, assorted pines and fir. There is an old-school apple tree, a few currant bushes, mainly there for the birds and to make her mother’s favourite blackcurrant jam.
