Taking to the paths of south west France, wandering from village to village with the prospect of lunch in shirtsleeves on that predictable pavement table and perhaps a dip in the river afterwards, takes on a whole new reality when the rain is more horizontal than it it is ever feels back home and our feet are wet. Well nearly all the time anyway.

That means sketching becomes damp and blobby, very intermittent and somewhat less satisfying. But no! its fun and we had such a different time getting out the whole time walking all over the place, picking walnuts with our friends

and enjoying the higher Cele river with no tourists to be seen.








And I took to the plastic sofa in the long grasses of the ‘terrain broussailleux’ – that wonderful un-fenced unkempt low input sword that carries hundreds of seeds and bugs and smells of mint, thyme, oregano and wild carrots all at once.



Fazende at three in the afternoon in November