Pierre is ingenious. He has taken a wicker basket, the sort that the fishermen use to store their catch when they are at sea, and he has refashioned it into a seat of sorts, then padded the wicker on both sides so that it is soft against Babette’s back and comfortable for me to ride in. He straps the seat to her saddle-back with leathers so that it sits sideways like a tiny armchair on Babette’s broad rump. Pierre lifts me up to sit in it, and then he vaults up in front of me to sit astride in the saddle, and in this way, at a steady walk, we set off through the salt marshes, bound for my destination.

So this is how I ride a horse now. In a basket on the back like I am some groceries being carried from market.

When I’m asleep at night I dream that I am riding astride like I used to do. I’m galloping hard and fast on the back of a grey horse through the waves on the beach, and I can feel the thrill of the horse moving underneath me and the wind in my face blowing back my hair from my eyes and then I’m falling and I slide down off the horse’s back and before I hit the ground … I wake up. And I feel down through the blankets with my hands and I touch my legs and they are, of course, still numb and lifeless and it was all just a dream.

Pierre tours me around the whole estate of Flamants Roses, taking me to different parts of the farm so that I can find things to paint. Right now my favourite place is in the grasslands near the salt water flats. This is where the flamingos stalk the salty estuary. Salt-water beavers swim past, and sometimes a pond turtle pops his head up. The salt-poisoned land is bare except for the hardy marsh grasses and spindly tamarisk trees.

When Pierre reaches the expanse of high ground where the marsh grass grows thick, he halts Babette and first lifts me down, then unpacks my things: the canvases and the easel and my paints, and my lunch that Mimi has packed for me. Cheeses and baguette and a peach picked from her tree. He puts it all down beside me and then mounts Babette once more.

“Work hard!” he tells me as he wheels the mare and sets off at a canter through the marsh water. And I watch him go until I can’t see him any more, and I’m all alone in the middle of nowhere. Then I set up my canvas and I begin to work.