Because apparently it can’t always be about pie

The soil warms up, the first asparagus arrives in the market, and the village gets busy. There is also a cat who says “maman”, if that’s your sort of thing.

In the fields, the hi-vis jacketed hunters have been replaced by men – it seems it’s mostly men – in gloves, secateurs in hand, clipping the whippy, wild growth from the vines, tying back the leading tendrils into the wire supports to encourage new growth. The old wood looks like rows and rows of arthritic fingers.

At this time of year, from a distance, …