Somewhere Outside Cherbourg

I’d completely messed up. My plan was to drive up from Arles through the night and arrive around seven in the morning. Finding a restaurant or a café near Le Hague should be easy. Get some breakfast and head up to Maison Natale. Pay my respects in the morning, then get to Cherbourg in time for the Portsmouth ferry

Two things went wrong. First I’d forgotten how empty the roads would be. Even avoiding péages and sticking religiously to the French speed limits (“les radas” still work in the middle of the bloody night!) I arrived four hours early – fifteen hours before loading time. Second and the most diabolically stupid, I forgot to check on Maison Natale opening times. Stopping the car in the centre of Grénville-Hague to look it up on Google I was horrified when I found out it didn’t open until 14.00 except on Mondays when they don’t open at all.

Suddenly I felt very tired. I decided on an otiose drive along the tiny road that led to the hamlet where Jean-François Millet grew up. About half-way I saw a gap in the hedgerow big enough to park the car. It seemed a good place to rest awhile. I fell asleep almost instantly.

Sometime later I woke up dying for a wee. I had no idea of the time, but dawn was breaking. Behind strips of low purple cloud a red sunrise was brewing. Stepping out the car I trudged through a gap into a field. It was totally silent, I couldn’t even hear my footsteps in the long grass. In the low light shadows were very deep and everything was tinged with a reddish burnt umbra halo. The mood it created seemed somewhat familiar. Finding a suitable space in the hedgerow I exhaled deeply as I relieved the pain forming in my bladder.

‘Monsieur, this is my father’s land.’

Zipping up I turned around. A large man with an enormous black beard dressed in a long coat stood looking at me, curiosity written on his face. He had a thick sketch pad in one hand.

‘I’m very sorry I will leave I hope your father will forgive me.’

‘He will not mind, Monsieur. He died a long time ago.’

‘So this is your land.’

‘No, it is my family’s farm. I do not live here. I work in Barbizon, near Paris.

‘Oh you must be, Jean-François Millet.’ I struggled to stop myself from bowing.

‘You recognise me?

‘Yes, I’m a great admirer of your work.’

His face brightened. ‘Are you interested in purchasing a piece, Monsieur?’

‘Sadly such a thing is beyond my means.’

‘Which of my paintings are you familiar with? Maybe we can arrange something.’

‘There are many. I’m particularly fond of The Angelus . . . also, The Gleaners.’

‘A poor choice monsieur,’ he chuckled. ‘both sold. There was a time when I would have been happy to give The Gleaner to you. Ces snobs du Salon. I had to sell for a pittance. And The Angelus? Mon Dieu. Cet américain. Such a low price after he didn’t take his commission. Now both have sold several times. They are not worth much to me.’

‘That is such a disaster. Did you have more luck with another of my favourites, The Potato Planters.’

‘In time it was recognised as art, but like the others you mentioned I made little profit from them. A few months ago a strange young man from Holland wrote to me about The Potato Planters asking to discuss technique. I didn’t meet him. A few other young artists also say they like my work. I do not speak with them. I’m afraid I do not like this new, so called, impressionism. I prefer to paint what I see, not what it appears to be.’

‘It’s very popular now.’

‘Ah oui. I can see the attraction. Maybe I’m too old to move with the times. I have my commissions now the Salon have finally accepted me. That is why I’m here to make some sketches. The morning light.’ He looked around, more or less indicating he wanted to get on with his task.

‘It’s been an honour to speak with you, Sir.’

‘And it’s an honour to be recognised so far from home. Merci, Monsieur.’

I returned to the car. When I looked around the great man was gone. I sat for a while thinking about our conversation when I was shaken by the sound of a car horn. Looking around I was confronted by the radiator of a well-used John Deer tractor. Realising I’d parked on a farm entrance I lowered the window and called out an apology, motioning I was about to leave. The driver seemed amused rather than angry and shrugged open handed – the French way.

Continuing along the lane I noticed the colours had changed to a bright May dawn full of lush greens and blues. I left the car in the Maison Natale visitor’s park and wandered around the hamlet, deserted so early in the day until I arrive at Jean-François’ old home, now a tastefully presented tourist attraction.

When I’d seen all I could, I walked back to my car half hoping to meet Jean-François returning from his morning’s sketching. Something in the back of my mind was refusing to believe I’d been dreaming.

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Jean-Fran%C3%A7ois_Millet_-_Pota...

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean-Fran%C3%A7ois_Millet