I remember the grave sense of purpose when faced with a several tennis fields worth of lawn to cross. The smell of the grass and the warmth of the sun on my back, as I caught grasshoppers with my cousins. The elation of pulling up potatoes with my Pépé, the glee of sneaking off with strawberries when my Mémé wasn't looking. The mindblowing excitement, and also the tiny nugget of fear in my stomach, as we carted our pillows and teddies and torches to the tent at the very back of the garden.
The Bean is still very young, but I think if I could explain my grandparents' garden to him in all its colours, images and sensations, he would understand its significance. He only has to venture into his own Opa's garden (for the garden is my father's domain) to see for himself.