We are on the train, traversing northern France. Large, flat green fields—beets?—smallish, tidy, new houses like Monopoly houses, or children’s drawings of houses: a cube or a rectangle with a peaked roof, two window and a door. Then suddenly, on the horizon, slowly turning, like a clock whose arms circle incessantly, a wind farm, then another, then they are behind us, dark against the winter sunlight. It was damp in Paris, it is sunny here. Everything is tinged gold or bronze, leaves still on the trees, mostly. Here, right now, a circular village with small newish houses, a spire in the middle, scattered trees, in the middle of green fields or ploughed fields, patches of dark, a pond, some swans, or a river.
Now gently rolling hills, a line of poplars, backlit, some cattle, small roads with the odd car, like a toy car. And another wind farm on the horizon, a water tower, warehouses