A sketch becomes a Saturday afternoon while I get lost in thought.

Painting France from my little centuries old farm house in Le Lot is a meandering remembering visual of conversations while driving the back roads of The Causse.

“Oh look there’s a house for sale, back up, look at the swale of the roof, of how the building swoons to the land, of the stone and vegetation that climb, integrate, becomes a story of lives living in harmony with with this very place. Colours, texture even the sounds of distant sheep.” 

Church bells ring out the hour, I photograph then we drive on. A town in the far distance it’s spire high above the huddle of slate and clay roof tops mark out ‘CentreVille’. Winding narrow roads only a car width, with firmly clipped verges neat as could be lead us to the edge of town. Ah a ‘village fluerie’ indicates a small community that cared enough to create plantings on road ways, window sills and even boxes placed in equal spaces on railings across bridges in order to get their designation. 1,2 or 3 flowers indicate the dedication the community has to their beauty. I imagine neighbours pride in maintaining their baskets. The uplifted feeling of cared for villages energizes the buildings, the faces of the inhabitants and the care that drivers have in slowing down making a stop at the village square for a walk about or a stop for lunch. 

I love France for all of these things.