Sitting at the garden table, we listen to the leaves on the horse chestnut trees; bells ringing harmonies as we eat apple crumble. The fruits have been given to us and we present them as beautifully as we can, says my grandfather.

We’ve walked through the fields to the top of the buttercup meadow.

What’s your favourite colour?

He closes his eyes, turns his face to the sky and takes a deep breath. The wind that rocks the trees in the distance touches his cheek. The sun warms his skin. A painter, in love with nature, stares into the distant blue, gentle cotton on the horizon, bobbing on the rhythms of the woods.

Blue and green, he says.