There’s something about the return train journey that feels different from the one going to the destination. I spent a few days in Romilly, a rural town north of Paris, with a 90-year-old aunt. To return to Paris, I walked the familiar 40-minute countryside route from her house to the remote train station. Walking through the fields felt different from arriving – it felt more like a decompression walk – and space to process the days that had just passed. The days in rural France had their own rhythm: mopping up a small flood from a washing machine that didn’t work; resetting the telephone and internet after an electrical blackout; cooking hot meals for her and feeding the two cats; ensuring she was ready for her pickup to go to hospital for her regular check-up, reminding her to take her papers; assisting her to fill in her domicile paperwork; and updating the mayor’s wife when she made a courtesy visit. Throughout the comings and goings of people and electricity, it was tiring for her. It was the kind of visit that was messy and meaningful, tiring and tender. Cleaning. Connecting. Calming. Making sure she was steady again before I left. As I boarded the local train from Romilly to Évreux, and transferring to the Paris-bound train, I felt the emotion of it all. The train to Paris hummed along gently. I stared out at the patchwork of fields and stone cottages. I thought about the quiet resilience of aging. The rituals we create when things fall out of order. And how a simple train ride can feel like a reflective place to pause. As Paris grew closer, so did the pace. The demonstrations, shouts of protest, and honking horns in the traffic jam exploded outside the station in the night air – and in stark contrast to the countryside and the high-pitched mewing of two hungry cats. Photographer: Martina Nicolls
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