The shapes between the trees, resembling the shell of some mythical animal are just the roof tiles of the village.

And 1947 was a legendary vintage, especially in the right bank of Bordeaux.

Thirty years ago a paladin of progress, scion of a family to which history meted out more than its share of suffering, was slaughtered.

It has floated away, down a dark, mythological river, whose name begins with an 'L' as far as you can recall, well on your own way to oblivion, where you will join those who have forgotten even how to swim, and how to ride a bicycle.