Water had always held a fascination for Francine, it had a gravitational pull there was no escaping. Today it was beautifully crafted water, water at the behest of mankind in his built environment. However, just the slightest hint of that tinkle had the power to transport Francine way back; back to the rickety wooden bridge on that last curve before the farm.
In those immediate post-war years everything seemed instantly aged, and weary and in a state of dishabille. When her mother’s silent weeping threatened to overwhelm her, Francine would drift to this bridge and its stepped pathway to the meandering stream below. Lined with she-oaks, and littered with skimming rocks, this was a refuge, a shed in the great outdoors. As the wind set to its whistling, and the sun glinted and dappled on the slowly moving waters, Francine reached her own silent accommodation with emotions beyond her comprehension.