It has been several days since I left Paris on a speeding train to the southwestern countryside of France. I arrived in Agen on Saturday and was greeted at the station by my very distant Scottish cousin who I'd never met before. We drove through golden fields of vines and maize onward to his tiny village called Sos.
Like nearly all little fiefdoms in France, you first see the church steeple as you approach. Then you enter the square and drive pass the patisserie and the boulangerie and the little old women gossiping in the shade. The house where my distant relatives live is just outside the village proper, through a forest of trees which grow in neat straight lines and above fields which have only just been planted.
Anyone who has ever seen the film or read the novel Chocolat will know the type of place where I am. All the villagers are familiar with nearly every aspect of one another's lives and exchange lengthy greetings in the grocery store or at the post office. The sun shines brightly down here, away from the cold and rain of the north country.
What has struck me most in this pleasant area are the fields of sunflowers. I have just missed them in their full glory. After a summer of dazzling jaune, of wind dances and sweet pollenation, their petals have withered and the flowers have gone to seed. Now they stand sullen, bowing their heavy heads. Nearby a small church where medieval graves are still covered in offerings and candles, the sunflowers seem to also to mourn the dead. Or maybe they hunch their shoulders and shun the bright blue sky grieving the memory of their lost beauty.
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