One afternoon last weekend, while visiting friends in flat, damp Vendée, south of the Loire by the Atlantic coast, I abandoned them to their napping 2-year-old, their coughing 4-year-old, and their 6-year-old having a brat attack because she didn’t want to do her homework, and I borrowed their car and went to the beach, about 6 miles away.
There I took a picture of the sand:
I then walked along the dune:
The sky changed as I then drove inland. When I think of Vendée, at least southern Vendée where my friends live, I think of this flat, damp landscape.
Near the end of the afternoon I was driving back to my friends’ village when I stopped to admire this path:
By the time I returned, the 2-year-old was awake and tearing apart the dress of the doll I’d given her, the 4-year-old was sucking two fingers while watching “Les Simpson,” and the 6-year-old wanted to show me something she’d written. It went something like this: ANDndeMmleNdrEaAeasssdNrea.
Her name is Andréa.