My thrice daily walk took me around the village. I never tired of the traditional Breton architecture, from the imposing church and its enclosure or “clos,” to the tiny two roomed cottage that the developers left standing on the clearing made way for new apartments.

Every house was unique in its own way. I greeted each one as a recent friend. Speaking of which, I usually passed half a dozen people on my walk, sometimes more. Their ages varied from early teens to eighties, but what they all had in common was their greeting.

An assured ” bonjour,” or, on my evening walk, “bonsoir.” These actions of cordial respect were a source of joy to me, and I looked forward to each one.

I never took my walks for granted, and I didn’t believe I ever would. They cured me of my melancholy at a low point in my life. I always found it strange how a simple walk through a simple landscape could have such a profound effect.

On the occasion of someone approaching me from the opposite direction, I always became slightly apprehensive. To interact with a stranger, albeit momentarily, was still alien to me. Following the exchange, my mood lightened, and there was a spring in my step. Then…

***

She appeared in the distance, as they always did, only she was still, unmoving; occupying a spot I sometimes did myself, usually in the summer. The bench was situated under the giant mobile phone mast, next to the tiny fenced compound which held its technical paraphernalia.

At first, I could only make out a rough human shape, dressed in dark clothes. As I drew nearer and my anticipation increased, evidence of her identity emerged. She seemed to be curled up in a ball on the bench, knees tucked under her chin, feet drawn up under her body. It was then that I noticed two things.

She was wearing red shoes, very scant, like ballet shoes. Also, her face was pale and turned up to face the morning sun. She had her eyes closed, and there was a look of quiet satisfaction on her countenance.

As I skirted the newly flooded corner of the soccer field, my anticipation abated. I realised that, unless I initiated the greeting, it wouldn’t happen. She was unaware of my presence, despite the sound of my trainers squelching in the sodden turf.

I kept my head up and faced the direction in which I was walking, towards the large white-radish field. A feeling of loss overcame me at the lack of engagement with the young woman and I turned to snatch one last look at her before cutting through the trees at the boundary of the radish field.

Her demeanor remained as it had been when I first encountered her, worshipping the warm heat of the January sun.

As I negotiated the flooded, muddy path alongside the field, I suddenly lost interest in my walk, my surroundings. I regretted not calling to her, mulling over phrases in my head that I could have used. From the basic “bonjour,” to something more engaging, such as “le soleil est chaud ce matin.”

I stopped and turned around. The row of trees on the boundary obscured my view, and my heart suddenly felt empty. Looking up, I saw a man approaching a few metres ahead.

“Bonjour! Il fait beau au jour d’hui,” he declared in a clear tone as we passed each other. I smiled, but my mouth remained closed. Muted by what had gone before. She had not only stolen my walk, but she had also helped herself to my voice. I don’t remember the rest of my “promenade,” as they say in French. Perhaps I won’t bother again.