for a week, with the silver pines and the marmots. Spain’s over the ridge but I lay my head in the French valleys, morning views of cloud in the hills, no hiss of cars only the church bell ringing the quarters. I like the price-set baguettes, the Irouleguy and the pace. But it takes me days to start shrugging off the UK squalls and stop fretting and I can never quite shake the feeling that all’s not well. There’s work to be found as winter steps out.
