The small village where I grew up, about 40 miles west of Paris, was nestled in the countryside, surrounded by fields, mostly of wheat and rapeseed.
This was the closest place to the capital where my parents could afford a plot of land as a young couple in the 1970s.
The house was still being built when I was born, and we moved there when I was one year old.
The isolation of the place wasn’t a lot of fun.
No trains or traffic to watch. No shops to walk to and get a sense of community. No easy access to the small river than ran through the village.
Just fields as far as the eye could see, a few houses and farms guarded by snarling dogs, and a few cows here and there. Not much to keep a child occupied!
But the horizon and the wind quickly became my most faithful companions.
My bedroom window faced west, and this part of France being fairly flat, the wind came straight from the ocean, albeit after traveling a couple hundred miles.
Most nights, its gentle whistling through my wooden shutters lulled me to sleep.
Sometimes, it would pick up and create more upbeat or even chaotic songs. But even when they were too loud to let me sleep, I really enjoyed them. They make me feel alive!
During the day, the breeze was usually quieter. Yet, I loved staring straight ahead at the horizon – and watching the small woods in the distance change shape and colour with the wind’s imperceptible currents.
And to my right, the neighbour’s poplars danced and swayed their leaves gracefully.
Who needs entertainment when so much is happening right here, in front of us, if we only pay attention and connect with it?!
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