At the moment, I am intrigued by painting the flamingos. I’m using watercolours when I begin to bring them to life: cadmium red and scarlet to do their feathers, with chalk white blended in to capture their softer tones, and vermillion for their legs. They are such amazing creatures with ridiculous proportions. Their long necks and bulbous beaks should make them comical, but instead, they possess a mystery and an elegance of form that fascinates me.

The hours fly past as I work. Sometimes, I even forget to eat the lunch. The sun beats down hot in the afternoon, but I keep painting and then, before I know it, the day is over. The sky at the horizon is turning the colour of warm honey, and I hear hoof beats in the distance and I know Pierre and Babette are returning for me.

Pierre will leave Babette to graze beside the tamarisk trees and he will come to look at the easel to check my progress. He always has something smart and useful to contribute. Perhaps he’ll say, “There’s not enough action happening in this corner” or even more direct, “The beak on that flamingo in the middle is oddly misshapen”. He is often right, and so in spite of the fact that he makes me cross, I do listen.

He washes my brushes out for me while I pack the rest of my things. And then he loads me on the back of Babette along with my easel and the canvas strapped so that the paint won’t smear, and we journey home. This is how my days go. Or at least it was how they went. Until yesterday. Yesterday, Pierre deposited me on the grass by the tamarisk as usual, and I was beginning a new canvas, watching the flamingos as they fluffed up their feathers and stretched their legs in that long, absurd gait they do to wade the marshes. Then, out of the blue, the birds were startled and, in an ugly flap of wings, tried to elevate themselves. Their frantic efforts made them look like they were running on the surface of the marsh.

Eventually, ungainly and ridiculous, they took to the air. And the reason for their escape became clear a moment later. There was a herd of wild Camargue horses coming our way, cantering through the water in a direct line for the place where the birds had been just a moment before.