Good Friday morning. Bob walks with me to the end of the village. The old widow in the whitewashed cottage isn't up yet. Nor for that matter is anyone else. Not a car, tractor or van to be seen. There are however blackbirds to be chased and frogs to be barked at.
Down by the old Roman road the black shouldered kite is skimming low over the fields . As big as an eagle but as agile as a falcon. Enormous white wings with black flashes on the ends. His mate is there. I've never seen her before. One of only 28 breeding pairs in France. Could there be any more beautiful, or optimistic, sight ?
