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Memory


It’s one of those icy, biting mornings. The sun scarcely manages to break through the heavy grey clouds. The air is crisp and dry, and the wind slips beneath my clothes. The North wind whips the grass that sticks to my boots. I walk into the stable and swing open the wooden tack room doors, freeing the burning scent of leather, wood, amber and honey. Its age-old odor stands out sharply in the frozen morning air. My horse whinnies softly. It’s the smell of her freedom. The leather gathers in the wind, the grass warms with the wood. Irish Leather gallops off into the horizon.

Irish Leather

Wind of Leather

30,00€

"To what benevolent demon do I owe being thus surrounded by mystery, silence, peace and perfumes? Oh Beatitude! That which we generally name life, even in its happiest expanses, has nothing in common with this supreme life which I now I know and which I savour minute by minute, second by second."

Charles Baudelaire

Textes : Clara Molloy

Illustrations : Philippe Baudelocque

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