I live near a château in a building which used to be occupied by their farm manager.
The chateau has extensive grounds, which they use to raise game birds for the hunters who pay to use this area. The local hunting associations lurk on the borders of the chateau grounds, often in my hedge, where they ambush birds that stray out of the chateau’s domain, for free..
This is, as you can imagine, quite annoying, especially when the gun fire really gets going.
On the other hand, it is quite nice not to have through roads near our house, because everyone must go round the chateau estate.
To the north of the chateau, where I rarely need to go, is a magnificent avenue of massive old oaks, a couple of kilometres long. It must be hundreds of years old, judging by the size of the tree trunks. Yesterday, with the weather turning icy, I took this route, trying to find a way to get into town that didn’t involve steep slippery hills and bends in the road.
I came around a corner and gasped. To my right was an enormous bonfire in the middle of a field, sparks flying up into the darkening sky. A funeral pyre.
As far as the eye could see the road was lined with enormous stumps, palely glistening as newly cut wood does…
I admit it.
I cried when I saw it.
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