It was mid-October and I was sitting with Debra on a bench at the top of the Hochfels, with the setting sun turning the Sûre into a quicksilver ribbon flowing between slopes of emerald green and burnished gold.
It was a beginning of the worlds; a mixing of the elements; a painter’s palette ready for the first brush strokes. The light; the unexpected heat; the colours reflected in a million leaves and needles; the buzzing of the bees; the tepid roughness of the park bench; the scent of flowers grilling in the sun; the mouth-watering chestnuts and wild berries. It felt like a sacred experience. In a gesture reminiscent of Millet’s Evening Prayer I laid my head in Debra’s lap.