The little Camargue, Aiges Mortes, is more inland. We climbed a tower to get a nice overview. A black bull stood in a field nearby, and I remember a mix of dread as well as intrigue for such an animal, famous for the fight, the red flag and its horns. Meanwhile my father pointed out the flamingoes that flew across. I gazed and gazed, and pretended I saw them. But I didn't, even though I really wanted to; I was too engrossed with the bull.