Six hectares of clay and limestone, slopes and woodland, somewhere in the Périgord.
Not a business, not a production line. A household that lives with the land and from what
the land provides.
The farm lies on the northern slope of a limestone ridge. The soil is heavy with clay
and rich in limestone. It holds water and releases it slowly. The slope determines
where the sun reaches, where the wind moves through the trees and where the water settles.
Herbs, fruit and vegetables grow here. Not despite the soil, but because of it.
The old trees provide shade when the afternoon becomes heavy. The woodland breaks the wind
before it reaches the garden.
None of this was designed by us. We have simply learned to look.
What is created on the farm stays on the farm as much as possible.
Niktos and Olympe graze the meadows. Their manure, together with garden cuttings
and kitchen waste, goes into the compost. It returns to the soil, to the vegetable garden
and the orchard, where vegetables, herbs and fruit grow.
The orchard contains seven rows of fruit trees. Between the trees, vegetables grow
in a six-year rotation that moves with the trees. Further on lies the herb garden,
where flowers and herbs are grown for infusions and for the Atelier.
The polytunnel extends the growing season. In the nursery, young trees and plants
are given time to put down roots before finding their place on the farm.
What grows, feeds. What is harvested is preserved. What remains returns to the soil.
Not a straight line, but a cycle.
N°01 Spring
The soil warms slowly.
Seeds are sown. The first herbs appear. The bees wake up.
Everything begins again, but nothing is certain yet.
First, sow. Then wait.
N°02 Summer
The light lingers late.
The garden grows, the herbs flower, the fruit takes on colour. What is ripe is harvested and preserved.
Herbs are dried. Fruit is cooked down. The first jars disappear into the pantry.
Today's work becomes tomorrow's provisions.
N°03 Autumn
The harvest comes in.
Fruit becomes jam or syrup. Grain becomes beer. The last herbs are tied and hung to dry.
What is ripe, we bring in.
The rest stays where it belongs: for the birds, the soil and the winter.
N°04 Winter
Outside, everything becomes quiet.
Inside, what the year has brought continues to mature.
Beer turns cold. Vinegar rests in oak. The pantry grows darker as the days grow shorter.
Nothing needs to grow anymore.
The year is preserved.
From the garden, the farm slowly gives way to the orchard. Between the beds,
herbs, flowers and vegetables grow, sheltered by old trees.
What is harvested here makes its way to the Atelier, where herbs are dried
and plants release their aromas into water or vinegar.
Further on stand the fruit trees: old varieties, half-standard trees and soft fruit.
They bear at their own pace. What ripens is eaten or preserved for later.
Between the trees and among the flowers, the bees move from bloom to bloom.
Much of their work remains unseen, but without them the orchard would look different.
The honey they produce is one of the harvests of the land.
At the edge of the farm, the Périgord clay emerges in places. In a ditch along the slope,
it lies there for the taking.
The same soil that holds water here and supports the garden also finds its way to
the Atelier, where it becomes part of L'Argile.
A little further on, the young trees and plants in the nursery wait. Some will
eventually find their place in the orchard, others elsewhere on the farm.
And then there is the pantry: dark, cool and quiet.
This is where much of it comes together. Beer and vinegar are given time to mature;
dried herbs, preserved fruit and honey wait for their moment.
From the first shoot in the garden to what, months later, is stored in the dark,
it is all one farm.
Nothing exists on its own.
There is no clock dictating the work, only the sun and the season.
What is not finished today becomes tomorrow's work. What the land does not provide
is sometimes simply absent - and that is fine.
What is not finished today becomes tomorrow's work. What the land does not provide
is not sought elsewhere - it is simply absent, and that is fine.
The rhythm has no deadline, only an order: first the living, then the preserved,
then the maturing.
Those who follow that order do not need to force the season.
The garden grows when it grows. The harvest comes when it comes. And once something
has been harvested, it is given time to take on another form.
That is how we live with the farm: not to control it completely, but
to keep learning how to look at it.
A farm. A workshop. A library.