When I think of Caumont, I see the canal first. I imagine myself arm in arm with my mother, walking on a carpet of dead leaves. We walk along the plane trees, we observe the reflections which twist as a barge passes and the colors which change with each season. We stop, we retrace our steps. We are not going to walk further anyway.

Before crossing the bridge at the entrance of Caumont, we pass three speed bumps that my father called "the tushies". When he came to drop me off for vacation, he would speed up all three bumps and I was laughing out loud in the backseat. Years later, I can't help but smile and push on the speed when I arrive in the village.