Beyond the living room, the large windows opened upon a scattering of trees, a kind of hedging in the undergrowth, or a road.

Ahead, a little to the right, a cyclist pedaling downhill, holding his chain in his hand, with his foot dragging in the middle of the road. Shortly, he turns left onto a wide stretch of grass lined with poplars, toward the only human habitation he knew. A little village, a few acres away from an oil-mill, with a grazing cow, a little creek, and a low house with a sign, alluding to the direction where he grew up.