When I’m walking under the evening glitter, or at four in the morning when the starry vault crackles in the icy Breton air, when the madness of organising the work resurfaces in the middle of my night, I think of my dad, my little benevolent blond ghost who won’t have had time to see Kerbeleg in its new version. I hope you’ll be proud of the result and happy that the story can continue under this roof that you loved so much. A thought for the day…
