A message from Trevor & Hannah:
In April, 2012, we loaded up our long suffering British Leyland campervan with our guitars, a few microphones and a 4-track cassette recorder, and headed for northern France. Unfurling the paper map, hastily bought at extortionate expense onboard the early morning boat from Dover, we sought out the rural Pays De La Loire and the tiny village of Saint-Pierre-Des-Landes, on the outskirts of which lay our destination. As our faithful engine defiantly coughed and rattled across the flatlands of Normandy, we whistled and hummed, jotted and scribbled through driving rain, until the fertile and fragrant plains not so long ago strewn with bodies and malicious machinery, gave way to rolling hills and swooping tarmac ribbons. The day passed like the miles beneath us. Bleary-eyed and with our accustomed forty-five mile per hour gait, steaming and in darkness the Route Nationale became a country lane, expired into a muddy track, led us along an unmade road hugging the edge of a ploughed field, and delivered us into a sleepy farmyard.
When morning rose we got our first glimpse of La Ferme De Fontenaille from a Juliet balcony. A stone ex-cowshed nestled in a luscious basin in the shadow of a crumbling Chateau. Smothered in glorious silence, but for the squirrels inhabiting the hollow between the floorboards, we would spend the next ten days rolling tape, committing to cassette our newest collection of words and melodies, bicycling into Saint-Pierre to fill our baskets with fresh bread, playing boules on the lawn, drinking red wine by the case and beer from little green bottles.
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