In 1953, based on a clapped-out builder’s lorry, I had built a sort of car in which I could sleep for the nights during a Grand Tour of Europe.
After Paris I headed south toward the Loire valley to visit an artistic family whose painter and architect sons I had become friends with in their capital city.
It was to be a curtesy call on my journey toward Spain.
Except for the address that included “Manoir” in its title I did not know what to expect.
Certain items of the visit stand out in my memory.
The family had once been landowners of consequence but because of their strong religious belief and artistic abilities, their fortunes had dwindled away in good works and ambitious artistic projects.
Their Manor house had fallen into disrepair over time, compounded by the Germans, who had commandeered it during the war and had left it in a dilapidated state.
The lavatory for the main house was some way away from it which might be described as an in-convenience.
My friends’ parents were delightful and as hospitable as they could be.
I was invited to stay the night and, in the morning, their cat appeared with a small rabbit struggling in its jaws.
With a large depiction of a crucified Christ in the background, the importance in the house of that little rabbit temporarily became of greater interest to my hosts.
We ate the small creature for lunch.
