Building No 63

Transfixed, I was by this stunning shed (?) very small art studio, club house, whatever.
Especially special were the jutting out sunk pieces of stone - to hold plant pots? religious deities?
How marvellous that someone would take such care to create something so unique.
Noted and snapped on a hike up above Montazels (near Esperaza in the Aude): Bluest of blue sky, hovering birds of prey, wind rustling the pine trees and views across to the snow-covered Pyrenees.

Building 52

I have passed this ancient windmill, or rather the walls of a windmill many times while driving to Toulouse.
                                              

This morning, on a dog walk, we decided to actually walk up to it, and could instantly appreciate why it was constructed there, being completely to exposed to all species of wind - east, west, north and south.
If a building could think and recall, I wonder what its visual and audial memory of the landscape would be.
The field it sits in is currently ploughed up for winter; the residual brown stalks and seeds of sunflowers still scattered across the clods. The sounds are of an occasional car speeding along to the next village. Perhaps, when the mill was functioning the view would have been wheat and woodlands and the distant mountain chain; the sounds, millstones grinding and horses hauling grain sacks.

On the doorway's stone blocks I noticed this beautiful carved name: early graffiti? or perhaps the mill owner or worker's signature; someone who had sat enjoying the view of the grey-blue Pyrenees at the end of a day's work. The same view we appreciated this morning on a perfect, early autumn day.

time and distance

I often stand still when somewhere completely quiet and try to imagine the mayhem of, say, Oxford Street on a day leading up to Christmas. Or inversely stand still on Oxford Street - causing ardent shoppers to push past with a brief look back: mad, obviously - and try to imagine a placid and empty hill in, say, the foothills of the Pyrenees.
It seems almost impossible that these places exist when you're not actually there. Then I start thinking about members of my family and friends - what are they doing at this precise moment when I am standing gawping at a blossom-loaded tree? sorting out the cupboard under the stairs? eating a cheese sandwich? sitting with a cup of coffee and wondering what their family and friends might be doing?
Then I might start thinking about The Big Question, or one of the big questions, - what is Space exactly; what is beyond our solar system and where does it end? But it can't end; what is holding it all in place and is space a series of giant boxes or spheres; a vast set of Russian dolls - probably not best to think about it at all.
Anyway . . . I happened to notice a number of planes passing over our patch of The Earth this morning; more than usual in fact. I stood for quite a long time considering the fact that unlike the Oxford St/Pyrenees thing I could see the plane at such a huge distance, and, people on board, eating peanuts, drinking tea or trying to ignore the child kicking the seat behind them, could look out and see, not me, probably, but certainly our house.
I always spend any flight with nose pressed to the oval window looking out on the passing millions of dwellings wondering if people are looking up and thinking about who might be on board and what they might be reading/eating/ drinking. Air to land psychogeography? or just nosiness on a grand scale. Anyway, again, time to put the kettle on and stop avoiding jobs to be done.

Summer holiday

or days - three, in fact.
Every year when our lovely cousins come and visit, Mark and I leave the Hothouse compound together and holiday somewhere for a few days. This year we went down to our favourite bit of coast - many times rambled on about on this blog - Cerbère.
The sun resolutely refused to shine apart from on a half day out in Gerona, but that was fine. This odd little sea-village is atmospheric in any weather conditions and we passed a lot of time wandering around in the echoing tunnels that run under the huge railway sidings, popping up like meerkats and exclaiming: 'Oh, so that's where that comes out,' etc. We even had the pleasure of listening to the Singing Railings that perform with certain wind directions.
Mark was due to play piano on the beach for the 'Fete de Village' on the first evening, but after a couple of hours of spotting rain it was decided that the event would be cancelled. The roadies packed everything away; our friend the organiser shrugged, said sanguin things like 'c'est comme ça', and invited everyone concerned up to his café to eat mussels and chips, after which I swam alone in the grey sea and marvelled at the village/landscape of yellow and pink buildings, vast arched brick walls that support the train sidings and towering craggy hills under glowering cloud.

      Cerbère

The terrace of the re-conditioned La Vigie hotel

The next day we took the slow train to Gerona and spent a few happy hours ambling through the ancient streets, eating ice cream and trying to find a coat for Mark that would have sleeves long enough (impossible) in the rather cool clothes shops that make up quite a large part of this smart city.

                                                                     Gerona river front

My sort of restaurant where we had tea, mainly so I could snap the interior, including the wonderful old loos

Incredible, ancient general store complete with ceiling fans, a million types of paella rice, and two severe-looking old men who pointed at the No Photography sign when I gestured to my camera after we had bought afore-mentioned rice and Touron - Spanish nougat stuff

 
         Outside of lovely bistro/café

Buildings enjoying the sun at Gerona station

We returned to Cerbère, ate in our favourite restaurant and talked to a party of English cyclists about their tour of the Pyrenees which had taken four and a half days - end to end - pretty impressive; I can just about make it to the bank and back, taking in the small rising hill as one approaches the Hothouse, and, some of the team members were . . . let's say, people who obviously had a happy relationship with cake.
The next day the sky threatened thundery rain, so after a muscle-building walk up into the hills we packed up the unused electric piano and headed homewards, craning our necks to take in a last view of the lighthouse, bay and small clutch of seafront buildings that make up the last coastal town in France before the Spanish border.

                                 Cerbère palm tree with its own: 'I was born in 1974' notice

Building No 30

I'm not sure if this should be classed as a building. But rather than start a 'folly, or bizarre, seemingly useless constructions' sub-blog, I thought I'd lump it in with the buildings.
I've noticed this square shape in the hills many times while driving southwards from town, but never actually got close to it. On a dog walk yesterday, I discovered, after a wrong turning, that I was approaching afore-mentioned object.
It sits on the crest of a hill, guarded by two giant rabbit ears of cypress, facing the distant snow-covered Pyrenees. Built of various types of stone and Toulousian brick, it is topped by nothing: no statue of Christ, no bronze sculpture of famous local wine maker. It has no door, no interior,  and no plaque stating why it is there.
I might go back each week and place a different item on top, a sort of changing installation, but as no one apart from me and a few disinterested sheep will notice, perhaps not.