To get to the converted barn, we drive through the usual empty country roads of France, passing scatterings of hamlets where the only signs of life are smoking chimneys and busy hens.
We're in the Limousin, four-and-a-half hours north of my house, so it's noticeably cooler, though still mild, the forests winter-stripped in contrast to the bud-tipped trees I've left behind.
Being accustomed to the broad river crossings of the Tarn et Garonne and their equally thrusting tributaries, there is something quite refreshing to being so close to the faster, smaller burns which race beside the road.
The talk is no longer of hospitals. All now rests on selling the house – and here the hope falters
To get to the converted barn, we drive through the usual empty country roads of France, passing scatterings of hamlets where the only signs of life are smoking chimneys and busy hens.
We're in the Limousin, four-and-a-half hours north of my house, so it's noticeably cooler, though still mild, the forests winter-stripped in contrast to the bud-tipped trees I've left behind.
Being accustomed to the broad river crossings of the Tarn et Garonne and their equally thrusting tributaries, there is something quite refreshing to being so close to the faster, smaller burns which race beside the road.
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Don't show me this again.