Henri Lartigue - Hydroglyder
(The Photographer of The Lost Times)

Childwood Memory's Casted Away

The road to my grandfather’s farm is made of dirt. The farm itself used to sit lonely on top of the village, right before the beginning of the woods, the only people who crossed it being the ones coming or going from there. When I was a child Sundays used to be the days when the entire family visited. Lunch company consisted of my great grandmother, grandparents, father, mother and my grandmother’s sister. At the end of the afternoon all my cousins used to come and visit and also the brother of my grandmother. He used to arrive every day in is old motorcycle, the noise of that thing could be heard from a distance announcing his arrival. His visits would usually last for two hours until dinner time. Just enough time for me to travel a bit, with the help of my imagination. At the end of his visit my uncle would start his motorcycle, smoke would spread in the air, and he would drive down the old dirt road of my grandfather's farm. I... I would run down the path trying to grab the back of his sit and go for a ride with him. Here is for the trip I've never took, and for all the others he let me do has a child.