Near the village where I used to live in my childhood, there’s a hill with a hamlet at the top called Saint-Jean des Vignes. It is one of those many tiny secluded villages that make France so charming and pastoral.
In order to climb up the hill, you have to follow a narrow path that goes between bushes along the crest of the hill. In springtime and summertime, when the flowers blossom and the chrysalises turn into beautiful and colourful butterflies, this narrow path is one of my favourite places on earth.
I can’t recall how many hours I have spent there taking pictures of all the flowers, or waiting for a butterfly to land on a leaf and spread its wings in order to take a picture of it. Oftentimes, I would come back home in the late afternoon, exhausted by my long walk, but smiling while thinking about the wonderful pictures I would then have the pleasure to develop.
This place definitely is my secret garden. To me, it is a place out of time where I wish I could come back every year, and realise that though my life is taking unexpected turns almost every year, some things always remain the same.
Blue butterfly waiting
Un oeillet de Balbis