My first introduction to the Cypress Pine (Cupressus sempervirens) was as a kid through a car window. I'm not sure what age I started to become intrigued in things, but what ever age it was I remember asking what the tree was, towards the end of a very long car ride from Le Harve to my dads friends house in a place called Moulin Degra. The area had become so rugged and white with sand stone roads and buildings that these dark green spears standing so tall above houses and shocking yellow oceans of sunflowers constantly slapped me out of the drives monotony. I think mums shouted response was, 'For Christ's Sake Don, it's a bloody tree stop asking. It's just a Cypress Pine they are everywhere.' Which didn't bother me back then. I learned its name from being shouted at, this form of learning wasn't uncommon back then. My sister Katie turned red and looked out the window, angry I had been shouted at but too afraid to retort for fear of her own counter attack.
Arriving in Moulin Degra, began, unbeknownst to me then, one of the biggest love affairs of my life, looking back over my shoulder up the hill, 10 mins drive away, I could still see the mysterious tree standing proud and unmoving.
Then the the holiday took over and the rest of the foundations of the love affair were laid. Tomatoes that still tasted like tomatoes, melons like melons, and hams that melted my heart as the we're trust into my fist in bread that felt like a spiked mace on the outside but bore a soft while middle that defied the lure of Poseidon.
We came and went several more years before someone in the same village as my dads friend died and the excitement of owning our own house in a land that had added into my list of vices, wine and soft cheese that brought tears to my eyes, suddenly became a read possibility.
Finally the house was bought and the preparations of our first year in our own house in the land of good food and wine loomed large for the summer, I was nearly 17. 'Don, Katie you might as well start asking friends to come to France, the last bloody thing I want is you two Mard-Arsing around spoiling my summer.' Mom spat again over a breakfast of burned toast and poor quality porridge with brown sugar.
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Biking Kills
Mystery / ThrillerAs a summer passion of cycling the undulating country roads of France goes sideways, Donavan finds himself being drawn into a slowly expanding nightmare that won't let go. The simply Cyprus Pine with its majestic and pristine natural "Just Manicure...
