There are not enough rolls of film in all the world for me to photograph all the things that I want to. Lone trees, waterlogged fields, rows of power pylons leading off into the distant fog. I am on the Eurostar from Paris travelling through some truly beautiful French countryside, wishing the train would stop a million times so I could get out with my Hasselblad.
There is a mystique about this country when it is under a veil of mist that I cannot put into words. The best I can do is to compare it to a trip back in time as so much of looks completely devoid of the signs of modern life. I see old farmhouses and country churches nestled amongst groves of trees, flat plains with distant obscure shapes silhouetted in the mist, their identities unknown to me.
The wide open beauty of the countryside is in contrast to the congestion and hustle of the capital. Paris is a city that had changed since I last visited. There has been a visible increase in security on the streets and a visible increase in the number of homeless people on the avenues and boulevards of the city. This was particularly visible outside the Gare du Nord where it seemed there were teams of women and children working their way through the crowds with their hands cupped in front of them.
I wonder what the solution to this is.
I watched a group of these women stop and congregate for a cigarette break before they started working the crowds again. It appeared to me that this was an organised effort which coloured my view a little. Then a young girl, who appeared no older than my eldest son, approached me asking if I spoke English. Given my internal conflict at this moment I am not surprised that in Europe we seem unable to agree on how to start to solve this issue.
The truth, which is never far away in my mind, is that I am (perhaps) part of the Irish diaspora, having decided to leave Ireland in 2001 to work and live elsewhere. I have been recently referred to as an immigrant which, I admit, grated a little. There was an implied suggestion in that comment that I am less worthy than a local person which I can't pretend to understand. My reaction was a useful reminder that being too judgemental can be a cause of conflict in itself.
I have included here a link to Dorothea Lange's 'Migrant Mother', an iconic image that reminds me that migration and displacement of people has been around for a long time.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Lange-MigrantMother02.jpg
We live in an imperfect world. Should we try to address the imperfections or should we ignore them with the view that the world will always be this way?
As I leave France and we make our way under the Channel, I am left with these thoughts and not many answers. I love France but it is a country with many conflicts.
Onwards to England.
Solitude