A village in the south of France. Typical "maison de village" or town houses, three floors high, wall to wall structures three feet of stone per wall, six foot of stone separates neighbor from neighbor... nevertheless, I still can hear the neighbor's dog bark if it is outside under my window.
Most of the houses in our village are over four hundred years old.
The walls do talk.
A green doorway with the original iron lock leads one into a courtyard or an imaginative place of dreaming:
What is behind the door?
Who entered last?
Did the wife pick the color, did she argue with her husband when he preferred blue?
Do vegetables grow on the otherside... or are lovers stealing a kiss?
The door knocker has not been replaced by a doorbell. When someone knocks on the door let me tell you ... you hear it... you nearly jumping out of your skin when you hear the, "Boom BOOM Boom."
The classic blue grey French shutter with the hardware that keeps on working hundreds of years later.
Two doves taking a break on the tile roof top.
Red clay tiles in France are typic in the south of France. They are called "Tuiles".
A house of my dreams.
Amongst olive trees and lavender.
I wonder if they do not mind to move out and give me the keys.
I am a good housekeeper.
Where church bells tell you the time.
Where the cobblestones bear your journey.
Where the the soul of the place nestles above your heart...
Where the baker's bread's aroma wakens your taste buds,
Where the only thing that changes are the faces and the style of clothes,
Ah the famous perfume remains the same, transporting you in and out of time.
Where were you going?
What do you learn?
What says French to you? What photo can I show you next?