Visitors came to buy the bread, have a drink and eat before having a good time in the evening. It was a special day with a wonderful atmosphere, and everyone was very relaxed about having their picture taken.
A different image resulted from a curious glance through a partially opened door as I made my way through the village from bread oven to pop-up boulangerie. It was slightly open and, looking around and seeing no one, I opened it further to reveal an old winery, now apparently a cross between a shrine and a place to drink wine and talk about the old days.
I opened the door wide to allow in more light, and so any passer-by could see me. I touched nothing: everything was as it should be, or as the owner wanted it to be. I just needed to pick my viewpoint, shoot, and leave discreetly.
As I closed the door I saw a middle-aged man standing at a window watching me from across the street. Putting on a bold face I walked over to talk to him, expecting some form of rebuke and ready to explain about the book.
I duly took his picture, but, as everything inanimate around him was whispering, somehow he was a distraction from the story. Harvesting Pinot Noir I resolved early on I wanted to embed myself in the life of the villages, and learn whatever I could by finding accommodation with any friendly winemaker who would offer it.
