|La cathedrale Saint Pierre|
On a beautifully warm and still November day I wandered around the town of Saintes in Charente-Maritime France. It is only a few kilometres from my home. It is a place with a dignified charm and timeless sense of calm.
|You can’t help but look up|
The Charente river flows on through. In the summer folks on pleasure cruises wave as they pass. As I strolled along I kinda felt that the river itself was waving as it trailed a languid wistful hand along the banks on the way to the Atlantic.
|Creating this much calm must have taken a lot of work|
The day was perfect. The same sort of day must have warmed the Romans when they were the masters here. It would never surprise me to see a senator proclaiming a new decree by the Arch of Germanicus. In a novel this would be a place to let my characters fall in love. As always I had my camera and send you my little post card. There are many monuments and buildings in the town. I want only to convey a flavour of the place – it’s emotional quarter. As I got in the car to drive there I paused at my fig tree. There in the mellow kiss of the sun were ripened fruit. My heart and senses tacked on to the long queue that led from
|My figurative baton|
history to this very moment. Other eyes, other lovers, other hands had held such fruit as these for centuries. They are a baton in the relay race of life. Me – I won’t let go to waiting runners – I need more laps while there is such fruit to gather and to love.
Emma Thinx: There is no history of true love. Not one has yet died.