Lonely in Paris, I needed some clear air.
I sped through Normandie on a silent, smooth Gallic train, heading for fresh Atlantic breezes.
As I approached Flers, I caught a glimpse of a handful of old farm buildings, boarded up and lying in a green valley that nestled beneath the shadows of large rolling hills.
In that moment I was there. The artist, snuggled away in one of those ramshackle stone buildings for the evening. Beeswax candles, a small stove to make coffee on, a thick sleeping bag, some pens and my art book. A sanctuary I had quietly inhabited. Nobody would care. A place of solitude, peace and gentle thoughts to keep me company.
I marveled as the possibilities whizzed past the window of that train and were at once processed and entertained in a matter of seconds.
Those moments haunted me in the days to follow.