My thrice daily walk took me around the village in which I’d laid my cap, following a broken heart.

I never tired of the traditional Breton architecture, from the imposing church and its enclosure or “Enclos Paroissial “ to the tiny two-roomed cottage that the developers left standing on the clearing made way for new apartments. The former, unique to this part of Brittany, typically consists of the church, the cavalaire, an intricately carved cross with biblical scene, the ossuary or bone house and a walled enclosure, which gives it its name.

Every house was unique and, like the local inhabitants, I greeted each one as a friend. Speaking of which, I usually passed half a dozen people on my walk, sometimes more. Their ages varied from single figures 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, gradually healing my damaged heart, 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 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. Being English, 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, particularly on a sunny day. The bench was situated under the giant mobile phone mast, next to the tiny fenced compound which held its technical paraphernalia, in the corner of the playing field.

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 the identity emerged. She, I ascertained it was a female, 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 visage, visible through the black hood, was pale and turned up to face the morning sun. Her eyes were closed, and her countenance displayed a look of quiet satisfaction.

As I skirted the newly flooded corner of the soccer field, my anticipation abated. I realised that, unless I initiated the greeting, an exchange would not occur. She seemed 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 border of the radish field. Her demeanor remained as it had been when I first encountered her, worshipping the warm heat of the March sun.

As I negotiated the flooded, muddy path alongside the field, I suddenly lost interest in my walk, my surroundings. I regretted not greeting 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 again. The row of trees on the border to the field 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. Not only had she 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.

***

The following morning, the memory of my experience had faded and was surpassed by the desire to promenade again. My night hadn’t gone well and the anxiety of losing the love of my life had reprised, as it did from time to time. I showered, dressed and took a few Euros from the bedside table. It was boulangerie day and the sarrasin baguette awaited. The buckwheat loaf was the perfect accompaniment to coffee, butter and jam. I decided to walk in the opposite direction to yesterday so that my last port of call would be the bakery. That way, the baguette, nestling under my fleece, would still be warm when I got it home. My mouth watered at the thought of buttering several small discs of the warm bread, then spreading them with strawberry confiture.

The clockwise tour of the village brought me to the playing field first. Below the mobile mast, a figure stood in an unusual pose. I recognised the young female from the day before, her pale features and red ballet shoes. On this occasion, she was standing on one leg, arms outstretched, with the other leg bent and her foot flat against her calf. Again, she was facing the sun, eyes closed. My chest tightened with the dilemma of  whether or not to greet her. As yesterday, she seemed oblivious of my presence and in a state of deep contemplation.

I hurried past, silently, the ground having dried out since my last walk. The empty feeling returned again. I completed my route and entered the kitchen of the big house – minus my loaf! As I chewed on the piece of yesterday’s stale white bread and washed it down reluctantly with cafe au lait, I made the decision to wish her a simple bonjour tomorrow.