One of the places on this planet I feel most at home in is on the coast generally; whether it be a windswept corner of cliffs and thundering waves, a stretch of perfect sand and calm blueness or a quiet unsung non-tourist destination such as this. This, being a spit of land bordering one of the 'etangs' or sea lakes of the Southern French coast housing a collection of small, often hand-built-over- time low rise dwellings used for fishing, relaxing and probably escaping from the nine-to-five. Named generally "Les Cabanes de . . . . " - whatever the closest town or city is, this particular group are situated somewhere on the coast near Montpellier.
I took a turning off the autoroute having spied the muddle of tin and tile roofs, and parked up at the end of a gravel track glad to be away from the thrum of traffic then walked down the small road between the houses and their opposite patches of garden.
This dwelling was particularly memorable with its vibrant turquoise paintwork worthy of a Tim Burton movie. I sat for a moment on a flaking red metal chair hoping Johnny Depp might be about to appear dressed in a pink dressing gown with a tray of tea and cakes.
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