It’s late, the sun is filtering through the forest, pouring deep honey gold onto the path ahead. The quality and colour of light transforms everything. In the clearing a group of wise old trees stand in our path, disturbing the earth as their roots burrow to the surface.
Camping forces you out into nature, back to basics; the smells and sounds. There are three alternatives, wild camping, camp-sites and France Passion a network of farms and producers where you can stay free of charge for a night. We’ve been experimenting with each. Tonight we are in the yard of a mussel farmer and walking the land.
Later I’m reading poetry to himself. “I went down to the hazel wood because the fire was in my head, and I cut and peeled a hazel wand and hooked a berry to a thread” (The song of Wandering Aengus by WB Yeats) This is one of our favourites from years of early poetry study in the Irish education system. We endured a lot about poetry, Irish and religion, but the poetry was more of a gift…….
It was the old trees that reminded me of the poem and tonight somewhere in southern Brittany we are once again savouring “the silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun”