To me, being out at sea looked utterly terrifying! I could see the surf roiling and churning on the coastline like an angry monster. Waves rose up like a sheer cliff face of grey-green water to toss and crash in a froth of turmoil on to the sand and then push their way higher and higher up the beach. And the estuarine tide came in around Babette’s knees now, encroaching on the marshlands, the water levels creeping higher and higher.

The Camargue horses, though, were accustomed to the sea beneath their hooves. They spent their days knee-deep in the wild surf, their whiteness merging into the white froth of the crest of the waves. They knew how to scout for dry land to stand on, and now the wild herd had found the elevated plain of the marsh grass they were content to weather out the storm.

“See?” I pointed to the horses up ahead grazing on the grasses. “It’s still dry here. I’ll be fine.”

But Pierre was not so convinced.

“I’m not leaving you,” he growled at me. “Do your sketches. I’ll wait.”

“How are you going to fetch the bulls if you have me on board?” I pointed out to him. “Pierre, it makes sense to leave me. I can draw the horses for an hour or two, you corral the bulls and then when you are done you can come back to fetch me.”

Pierre objected further, though, refusing to give in to my plan. “Where am I supposed to even put you down? This ground, the marsh grass that we stand on, it will all be under water in a matter of hours!”

“This grass is always above sea level,” I said. “I’ve never seen it underwater. And by the time you’ve mustered your bulls and returned for me I’ll be done!”

I began to unbuckle myself from my chair so that Pierre had no choice but to dismount and lift me down.

He sat me on the driest patch of grassland he could find, not far from where the horses grazed.

“I’ll be back in two hours,” he said as he mounted. I waved him farewell as he cantered off through the water then turned my focus to the horses. They were entrancing to watch. Their behaviour had been intensified by the stormy weather, and there was a wildness and drama to their movements, the way they swished their tails and shook out their manes. I took out my sketch book and captured two colts rearing up in battle, hooves flailing at each other. And then the stallions, with their powerful necks crested and arched as they trotted the perimeter of the herd, guarding their precious mares against an unknown and unstoppable danger that they sensed all around them. I did a sketch of them too.