"In the autumn of 1989 I had returned from two weeks work in India. It was my first trip there, because, unlike my contemporaries in the late sixties and seventies, I had chosen (now with some regret) not to travel in pursuit of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi or to the ashrams of Rajasthan for meditation. This first visit to India had a disturbing effect on me. I had not been prepared to see humanity on such a vast scale, nor in such contrast to my known world. On my return, I found that I was unable to settle down and so, in search of some autumn colours, I crossed the channel bound for Épernay, the champagne grape-growing area of France. 

The picking had taken place in the third week of October and, within a few days, I realized that once again I had misjudged the moment when the leaves would change. On the third day, despite fair and unseasonably warm weather, I chose to head home. With the car packed and feeling mildly despondent, I drove towards Le Havre, leaving Épernay and its bubbly behind me. Within fifteen minutes, about a kilometre beyond me, I noticed a double line of fine plane trees, the lower half of their trunks half-hidden by the stubbled slope of a nearby hill. After some dead ends and a chain barrier deftly lifted out of the way, I was able to find what remains one of the most glorious plane tree avenues I have seen.

What is it about a tree-lined avenue that holds so much appeal? Surely, it is the uncertainty and mystery of what lies beyond. This avenue near Épernay needed light to introduce a sparkle and to enliven the trees with some speckled highlights. That afternoon there seemed little prospect of light, but I still set up the tripod.

As I was preparing to refine things, I heard the familiar sound of a 2CV. I had hoped that I might be alone that early afternoon, but alas, the flimsy door of the car slammed shut followed by the falling latch of the same gate that I had walked through. Within a minute or two a middle-aged man dressed incongruously in a tailored suit was standing by my side. 'You are photographing my trees', he said in perfect English. I launched into all sorts of explanations as to why I was here, none of them necessary. I apologized for trespassing (which I had felt I was not), and with a grin he explained that he lived 20 miles from this spot. 'I am an enthusiastic amateur photographer, and for the last twenty years I have been passing these trees on my way to work, and every time I pass them, I say to myself that I must make a photograph of these trees'. Now I was beginning to understand. With a hint of feigned resentment, he went on: 'So, now I see that a bloody Englishman is photographing my trees!' We laughed together, he walked back to his car, the sun shone, I made my photograph and we both left the trees to themselves."  Charlie Waite