Hands up in the air, who’s been to St Emilion in France? If not, every fibre in my body exults you to get there. Nestled in the South-West of France-ish, in the middle of the most divine scenes of mile upon mile of winding, green, squat vines that play host to some of the most exquisite and painfully expensive wines known to livers around the world, it is wonderful.
St. Emilion has history by the Wimple-full, from the religious, cloistered world of the abbey and a fully formed underground/monolithic church, to bullet marks in the walls from the second world war. And yet…..
You can ignore the wagon-trains of overweight and garishly coloured tourists(yes, I realise that technically I was also a tourist, but I distance myself from the crowds in that I do not feel the need to dress like somebody poke out my eyes with a knitting needle the previous night, nor do I feel the need to shout my conversations. And breathe….) simply by looking up and outwards. There is always something gorgeous to look at.
And yet, on my brief sojourn there this week, it was none of these things that truly caught my eye. The beauty was beautiful and the tourists still looked like overgrown school children following a reddened woman carrying a pink umbrella. But, all of this paled in to insignificance as I turned down a precipitous and pebble/boulder lined street.
There, in a delicate, raised courtyard that overlooked the world of wine, stood what can only be described as Disco Cows. Two full-sized casts of cows met my full on gaze, but turned quite coquettishly away from my lens. In their glorious technicolor they stole my prize for the most acest thing of the day.
And do you know what the strangest thing was? They looked liked they belonged there and that made all the more fantastic.