What would our childhoods be without it, which sheltered our games of hide-and-seek, offered its branches to our swings, or to our feet when we decided to climb higher and higher; without it, which populated the tales that our parents told us at night before going to sleep? It adorns parks, botanical gardens, the promenades of large estates and allotments. It seems that we only know it high and wide, so fast does it grow, majestic, protective, major despite its eternal greenness.

The larch is first and foremost a nostalgia, that of the time when petrol had to be earned. You had to climb. On foot. Up to 2000 metres, but as a child, that meant up to the sky.