Poster

The rather large picture on my bedroom wall to which I awake each morning, a 1935 poster by Leo Lelee, was purchased in two provençal markets: the first, wherein a scruffy facsimile is tied around the trunk of a plane tree in Place General de Gaulle during a Tuesday evening market – or the more romantic sounding marché nocturne – in St Remy de Provence. I’ve acquired souvenirs from this vendor previously over the years and he knows a potential sale when he spots my head bobbing across the jewellery and leather handbag stalls. All the Gallic charm is switched on, hands are shaken in a business rencontre that avoids all that multiple kissing, I’m welcomed back en France, and a price is negotiated. I don’t want the battered copy on the tree trunk merci beaucoup so he promises me another, complete with cardboard transportation tube, by the end of the week. Thus, on Friday, the deal is completed at the second market, this being the morning one at Eygalières: a slightly less cosmopolitan affair, and thereby not as expensive as St Remy but, nonetheless, increasingly affluent, especially with the advent of Hugh Grant’s recent residency into the village environs. Allegedly.

 Subsequently, my version of the poster is ensconced in black by a superb framer who lives just down the road from me in deepest Dorset; a craftsman who welcomes my trips to Provence with the same relish as the guy who sells the pictures. They know what I spend my holiday money on once the wine shopping has been accomplished. A black frame suits the lavender-coloured background with its black and white graphics. Of course, you can buy similar on eBay – but they’re not quite the same. I remember once meeting a woman in Arles, who claimed she worked for the estate of Lelee, telling me that it wasn’t possible to purchase the complete poster any longer. In these parts, the heat makes one disinclined to argue a point, especially one which the other side will never admit to losing. Wherever you go in the world, there’s always someone who’s got something that somebody else desires. For example, the sole original Van Gogh on show in Provence is a dull representation of a train, housed at the Musèe Angladon in Avignon. However, being a fan of all things conspiratorial, I don’t believe it’s the only one hanging around in all senses. In those infamous nine week passed at the yellow house in Arles, Vincent sold his paintings before they were even dry for the price of a beer or an hour with a woman of the southern nights. Might not be on public display but it’s difficult to believe none of these masterpieces still exist in the locale. And anyway, my pal in the market is churning them out to order.

 The poster was a piece of promotional art designed to encourage tourists, having been persuaded that patrimony was now all the rage, to traverse the conveniently emerging ancient sites of Provence; that would be all those antiquities that Johnny Onion Man had been staggering past for eons. In particular, those on the new Grand Tour were advised to visit Fontvieille. This superficially insignificant village, set in the region of what is now the Parc des Alpilles, was the literary home of Alphonse Daudet who wrote a number of seminal pieces about the area that, á la mode Dickens, were published in the capital’s press prior to comprising a small but important book entitled Letters From my Windmill. Daudet wrote his pieces from the contrasting urbanisation of Paris but, like many writers since, contrived to convince the reader that he was, in fact, living elsewhere. And he pulled off this literary trompe l’oeil with exacting veracity. Want to read about rural Provence? Read Daudet.

On the poster, places of potential interest are highlighted under a row of dancing Arlesienne ladies: Daudet’s museum, the aqueducts of Barbegal – always mentioned in the plural but I’ve only ever found one, the underground water systems which are no longer accessible and the shell altar. I must have looked at my framed version for at least a year before actually registering and translating this final piece of information. Shell? Altar? What shell altar? I’d passed many a day in Fontvieille, mostly eating very rare steak at the Bar Tabac but, on one memorable occasion, having purchased an ancient tome from some boot sale or other, traipsing around the village counting wells. I knew the place but had never come across a shell altar.

 On a hot (what else?) June morning the Kiwi and I set off in search of the shell. On the road to Arles, fields are ablaze with sunflowers waiting patiently for an artist to pass by. We’ve seen them before – who hasn’t? But they’re like a magnet even for those of us without a handy paintbrush and we spontaneously pull over in order to stand or crouch between the sturdy stems for yet another photo opportunity. Vincent painted twelve pictures of the majestic tournesol – turn to the sun – which we know of. I can understand his lack of ennui.

Nearer to Le Paradou than anywhere else, we spot signage for the Moulin de Coquillage which seems a bit of a clue. This being the premier area in France for olive oil, there are moulins aplenty but not too many boasting a scallop. We take a sudden and startling turn a la droit and make for the mill whereupon we locate and interrogate a pleasant gangly youth. Before we’ve even considered how one might say we’re looking for a large shell in French, the pleasant gangly youth asks whether we’re looking for a large shell and points us in a completely different direction. From this I deduce that hordes of others have travelled this way before without the slightest intention of purchasing olive oil; although, this is simultaneously contradicted by the fact that we’re in the back end of nowhere on a track that looks like nothing more mechanical than a mule has passed by in eons.

Retracing our route, we come across two provençal types lurking in the trees who look as if they may be the descendants of those who came to the aid of travellers in the 1930s. ‘Looking for the shell’, they ask? ‘Follow the track that says no entry, no cars, entry forbidden and other such welcoming signage’.

On this same holiday, some days later, I once again see my friend in the market who had sold me the original poster. On this occasion, amongst the reproductions of the only time the Tour de France passed through Les Alpilles, I find a small copy of an ancient photo of three Arlesienne ladies, in full traditional dress, posing formally by the shell altar. It seemed such a fortuitous and timely discovery. Monsieur tries to explain the image to me but I stop him in his tracks, saying I’d been there a few days previously. He is horrified and more than a little disbelieving: ‘c’est impossible’, he cries. ‘No-one knows where it is and anyway it’s a private road. One can only go by personal invitation. Well, sorry old bean, but I went, I saw and I took a photo.

Coming back from Les Baux the other day, I recount this story to my daughter and remind her of the photo of the Arlesiennes on my dressing table. From the corner of my eye, I detect a possible spark of interest. The dressing table of one’s mother is often a source of private interests and considerations. Not my mother’s any longer but in another lifetime it was where the remains of delightfully scented powder compacts and carefully used lipsticks rested: things that signified some other part of her. ‘Do you want to go’, I ask, recalling that she’s turned down a trip to the antiquities in St Remy on the basis of having no time for ‘all that Roman stuff’. But something has stirred a sense of adventure. As she’s today’s designated driver, I offer a warning reiteration of the forbidden route she’ll have to traverse. A professional, a parent and a person in her own right, she’s still not developed that nonchalant and perverse ability to ignore ‘prohibited’ that one acquires with age.

She behaves as well as one can hope for; better actually, merely counting and expounding on the number of warning signs. And being driven down this track, as opposed to being in charge of the vehicle, avoiding ruts, roots and potholes, is a totally different experience. On the far right is a wall of stone in front of which a few trees cling perilously to the cliff. From the left, there’s a sudden flash of iridescent blue as unidentifiable bird darts from the trees, across the road to the other side. Is it a blue jay, she asks? I think not – too big and, ironically, too blue. Then another five or six which must have been hiding in the trees in front of the olive mill fly past to join their leader. They are European Rollers, exotic cousins of the jay. On another day, we’ll see single ones perched in solitude on telegraph wires.

Pull in here, I suggest as we reach a suitable piece of gravel off piste, and we abandon the car to walk further down the track into nowhere. It’s the sort of place that, on a good day, there might be large professional guard dogs wandering free in a cheerful but protective provençal attitude; on a bad day, there might be wolves. It would be difficult to hear them coming for here in the Alpilles the noise of the cicadas is deafening. It’s not that pleasant chatter that accompanies other sounds of the South – this is Provence at its wildest. Overgrowth abounds.

 Where is it, she demands with more than a hint of angst-ridden urgency? Just behind these trees, I say on reaching the bend. In fact, if you didn’t know where to look you would never see it. And when you do see it, well then you wonder how it can remain so hidden and so unknown to most people. A great and perfectly formed scallop shell is carved meticulously into the rock above a plinth that can only be an altar. She’s as amazed as I was when I first saw this edifice that has quietly contemplated its surroundings for hundreds of years. In the middle ages, it was mistaken for a waymarker of St Jacques on the route that crosses the Alpilles from Italy to Arles and onwards to Santiago Compostela, and many pilgrims somehow found their way along this lonely path. Its history is older and its raison d’être somewhat different as it’s now believed to be a Gallo-Roman taurobolic place of sacrifice.

 

Wow, she says, that’s weird. And it is.

 

 

 

 

photos: angladon.com; ebirds.org; monumentum.fr

 

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A reading

An unexpectedly warm day sees quite a few folk gathered at the local library where I am to offer a reading of my last book, The Road That Runs. Once again, it’s set in that fruit growing area of Provence where one can expect something meteorologically consistent. So much so, in fact, that it’s easy to write against a backdrop of the seasons: the almond blossom of spring; the seemingly endless heat of high summer; the chilly winds of autumn and the sudden arrival and even more speedy departure of Christmas.

An age ago, I stayed in Provence during what passes for winter. The only thing that marks this temporary hiatus between the end of one level of warmth and the beginning of another is the somewhat fabular Mistral. Emulating the hand of Satan, it shuts down the electricity, the internet and sometimes the water supply. Depending on its strength, it closes the motorway or, at the very least, forces mad truckers to travel more slowly than they would like. It makes ladies’ hair stand on end, literally. And people seeking refuge in Avignon, where the wind reaches a climax alongside the Rhône, down which it has hurtled, are accosted by flying placards. But this is a picture of Dorset!

On that long-ago sojourn, having succumbed and adjusted to the nuances of what they like to call winter, I was appalled to wake to snow on the morning I’d planned to go home for Christmas. It won’t last, they said. And it didn’t.

Inevitably, having given a reading, folk always ask whether I have a house in Provence; and if not, would I like one. Well, no actually. Of course, if I was a rich woman, I would. Who wouldn’t? That instantly reviving warmth, the vibrant Provençal markets, the lost-in-time antiquities, the never-ending aperitif and, naturally, all those eclectic friends made over the years. It’s all so – reliable. But I wouldn’t stay all year in that hypothetical house because what’s even more reliable, and more demanding, is home. Some folk seek a warmer winter but I can understand those who hurry home to the grey dampness of England.

Global warming may have led to the English seasons being less discernible than those of childhood but, regardless of temperamental weather, they still exist. The Provençal autumn is marked by gunshot: the onset of the hunting season where anything moving is fair game. The English autumn is signalled by the sight of random berry collectors along the hedgerows. In my books, Madame Martin and Madame Lapin become entrepreneurs selling confiture and pickle made from the goods that Monsieur Martin grows. In my real world, everyone is making crumbles, jam and chutney. Those of us devoid of sterilised jars and inherited know-how, shovel their sloes and blackberries and damsons into brandy and gin.

In France, no-one talks about Yuletide until about half an hour before the Christmas Eve celebrations. In England, we’ve started purchasing gifts in October. Because, largely, we love it. In France, there are beautiful crêches to be seen in December but the nativity comprises a tiny part of the scene which depicts the year-round culture of Provence. In England, which, for me, is Dorset, there is story-telling, Dickens and the Bournemouth Symphony and Chorus performing The Messiah. As I said, it’s all so wonderfully predictable.

I read my stories of Provence aloud and they always say, ‘it’s so evocative; I must go’. Maybe I should write more about Dorset. And maybe you should stay.

French style

Ten years ago, whilst staying up in Valence, Katy took me to what was my first French car-boot sale in a nearby village. She bought a crate of melons for a very good price in response to allowing the vendeur a glimpse of her own melons; I purchased an old photograph of a group of even older men outside some sort of small factory for one euro. Madame, who was selling the photo, demanded, ‘what does she want that for?’ ‘She’s English’, said Katy with that infamous French shrug. Madame was disdainful which makes me wonder why she had the photograph there in the first place. I gave my dad that photo and he had it on his desk for some years – an unusual souvenir.

I don’t even think that sale had a name.The French have since caught up and things have moved on, although now there’s nomenclature. Largely, the difference is between Brocantes, Vide Greniers and Marchés aux Puce. In translation, they all mean much the same – flea markets. The reality, however, doesn’t really reflect this.

I would say that a Marché des Puces falls at the bottom end of the scale and might well be avoided. In Avignon, for example, you can find a Marché des Puces almost any day of the week, especially in the square nearest to Les Halles. The goods on sale are of a poor quality, at ridiculous prices, just for the prestige of being slap bang in the centre of antiquity. I’ve never seen anything that I wanted to purchase and have moved on quickly to lunch.

On the other hand, the Brocantes are well worth a visit. These are more up-market and are the haunts of those UK programmes that centre on the benefits of buying abroad. However, the French have caught on. In my humble opinion, one of the most famous – Ilse sur la Sorgue – is to be avoided at all costs on a Sunday if you’re from the UK. There are permanent antique businesses here which predominately target Americans. They even arrange for goods to be shipped which says something about the price. Ok: the town is really pretty but it’s a crush. Far better, after church, to head on over to Carpentras. Settled just underneath the Ventoux, it means you have the opportunity to drive through vine-ridden villages and seek a more authentic venue for your Sunday lunch. Further, the sale doesn’t commence until 10am so there’s no anxiety-inducing need to get up at stupid-o-clock after Saturday night exertions.

Even so, the stall-holders in Carpentras are increasingly canny and you have to be prepared to barter; and for them to know the game. Along with a variety of friends, I’ve found good deals on things ranging from ostrich feather fans to model wooden horse-driven carts. But my very favourite Brocante is the Saturday morning show at Villeneuve-les-Avignon. The English programmes, such as French Collection, will tell you that this is the best in the South.

What makes it particularly interesting is the buvette in the far corner. A buvette is a small establishment, such as a shed or a caravan, selling liquid refreshment. Options are generally limited: tiny paper cups of the strongest expresso you’re ever likely to taste aimed, presumably, at the stall-holders who’ve arrived at une bonne heure; Pastis for the next stage; beer to keep them going and Orangina for the lightweight tourists. If you go to the counter to purchase a drink, etiquette is maintained and one is told brusquely to find a table and wait to be served. And photographs are frowned upon.

The other week, Elle and I came across a bunch of really interesting looking stuff laid out on the ground. A youth of indeterminate description sat in the back of a nearby truck studying his phone. ‘Monsieur’, I ventured, ‘how much for this?’ He looked up and tried to focus but, having forgotten how to speak, stumbled away to return with an older man in a very sad state of affairs. Stumbling is a good word. The new ‘monsieur’ was having trouble standing, although seemed adept at keeping his beer in the glass. He mentioned a price and I mentioned one lower. Evidently, he’d forgotten how the game works as he then gave an even lower price. Reader, this isn’t normal but who cares? We got some fine bargains and he seemed delighted. Much winking and shaking of hands ensued.

The brocante is done and dusted by 1pm in Villeneuve which enables us to wander up into the little town for lunch in the square. This isn’t a piece on where to eat – however, you could do worse than Aubergine which has tables inside and out, a clean toilet and great food at very reasonable prices. Just saying.

Vide Greniers have come a long way in the last ten years. There’s even a website to tell you when and where but, in practice, it’s easy to find them in the summer as advertising signs are placed on nearby roadsides. Inevitably, as in the UK, they’re held on a Sunday but, unlike the UK, they last all day. Close to the Bricomarché in Tarasçon, you’ll find a weekly one which is still quite unusual. Tarasçon is, unfairly, a much derided town. Sadly, I feel that part of the reason is the preponderance of Arabs… France is a pretty racist type of place. Up in Pierrelatte, there’s a predominately Arab market every Friday and it’s vibrant with colour, high quality material being prime stock in trade. I thoroughly recommend a jaunt north just for the experience.

However, Tarasçon on a Sunday isn’t a market: it’s a boot sale. Nonetheless, it’s interesting as all things Provençal are sold alongside old and new goods of Arab origin… a veritable mix of cultures. But if you want French goods, go to a village vide grenier. I’d say pick a wealthy village such as Mausanne but even the lesser known places have good finds. Don’t go for traditional stuff such as French lace or so-called ‘shabby-chic’ furniture because prices are extortionate; look for the things that the sellers haven’t yet cottoned on to. Happy bargain hunting.

Flying in style

So, another sojourn in Provence is over. Leaving is always difficult but this morning it’s particularly tricky. My billet is fifteen minutes’ drive from the tiny airport: generally, one rocks up about half an hour before the plane leaves. Today, however, it’s Avignon Air Show and I receive a text saying I must be there two and a half hours before the flight. Et pourquoi?

Friends advise me traffic may be heavy so I’m duty bound. There is absolutely no traffic on the road but, on arrival, the way is barred by copious numbers of gendarmes and security folk. No entry. I have a rental car to dispose of, I explain. Sorry, says the first officer, no idea what you’re talking about. The second gendarme says I may enter but the third, in charge of the barrier, is not in agreement. If Paul Russell was here, he’d be in a state of ragged disrepair by now. Anyway, he’s not so I press on and eventually gates are temporarily dragged aside.

I dump the car. Of course, there’s no-one to take the keys so I dump them also. I’m shocked to find the check-in open. Normally, they also appear at the last moment. The bag is given over, a seat number is allocated, and it’s back outside in the sunshine with Northanger Abbey. And a prime bench from which to watch the aerial activities. Is this the best thing to see when one is about to take to the skies?

Jane Austen is rudely interrupted by two jets from the French air force doing inexplicable things directly in front of me. Over the loudspeaker comes a pre-recorded speech relating to how they won WW2 and every other thing since, even if, like the Brits, no-one asked them to. Then, the band plays La Marseillaise and two people on the next bench down dutifully stand up. I return to the Bath Pump Rooms but Madame from the check-in ventures outside with news for folk travelling to Southampton: you must go to ‘departures’ toute de suite because the customs people are going home.

We trundle inside dispiritedly but it’s not too bad. The transport has arrived early and the crowds have flocked to the perimeter to watch the idiots who intend to fly away on a prop plane in the middle of the loop de loops.

 

When I arose this morning, I put my coffee on and went down to the village to purchase croissants. Now, I’m back in Blighty looking at my overgrown grass and, having visited my parents, I’m contemplating a proper curry. A couple of hours on the plane and another life. But, if you look closely, you might see one of my dream catchers hanging in the summer house at Mas Sainte Antoine conjoining my two homes.

 

 

Le déluge

I took this photo eight or nine years ago in Vaison la Romaine, up in the Vauclause. I was a little worried about the darkness under his eyes and the potential poverty he depicts. Vaison is an attractive, quite ‘up-market’ place, famous for its Roman remains.

 

Another picture of the same place which I didn’t take ( source:’Watts up with that’). Down in my village today, my attention was drawn to a special edition of the local newspaper commemorating twenty five years since the devastating flood in Vaison that killed forty two people and destroyed huge parts of the town.

By 22 September, 1992, Provence had witnessed four years of virtual drought but  it had been raining for days, although there was no sense of impending doom. In the afternoon of this catastrophic day, an alert was issued warning of rare violent pluvio-orageux, rain storms, and the security forces were put on alert. However, the campsite upstream from the Roman bridge, situated next to a normally small stream, wasn’t evacuated because no-one realised the  impending danger. Similarly, inhabitants of a small housing estate on the opposite bank of the river remained oblivious.

Nonetheless, by mid-afternoon, the town was cut off from all communications with the outside world. Just after 4pm, the rain stopped but too late in the day to forestall tragedy. An enormous wave, more than 15 metres high, swept onto the campsite causing death and devastation. As it proceeded towards the Roman bridge, it grew in height and speed. The 2000 years old bridge had, uniquely, withstood German bombardment in WW2 and somehow managed to survive this onslaught.

In Vaison, however, not everything was as strong or fortified. The security forces rescued hundreds of people trapped on roofs or struggling in the waves. Bodies were discovered for the next fifteen days and it took years to remove all traces of the deluge.

This link should take you to extraordinary footage of the river in full force on the 22nd September: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a9o3tvuN5pQ

On this current sojourn, the weather has been, as we say in England, ‘up and down’, and often ‘unseasonable’. Nonetheless, today I’ve been swimming in the open air and I write this on my terrace in the late sunshine. Over in Vaison, they’re holding a service to remember the lost of another 22 September.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Over the hills and far away

There’s a prevalent view that the English always talk (and moan) about nothing except the weather. I’m here to tell you that it’s no different in Provence: I remember one spring-time when I was told ‘this is the wettest May on record’. This June, they said ‘it’s never been as hot’. Now it’s September and all are agreed ‘it’s unseasonably cold’. One thing is as certain as death and taxes: the wind! Today, however, despite the ravages of the mistral, we three set off in glorious sunshine to walk in the hills behind Aramon.

This is no ordinary walk: this is the Sentier des Capitelles d’Aramon. We have crossed the mighty Rhône to be here, thus we are officially in the region known as the Gard. No big deal you might think but, the very words remind you that, until the beginning of the twentieth century, there was no such language as French. For example, the capitelles are small dry stone buildings once used for shelter by shepherds. Twenty minutes from here, they’re known as bories but we are in another country. This photo, taken by my hostess, Keryn, shows the route we’re about to take. I might have been astute enough to take my own snap but I was preoccupied with the birds. I don’t know the difference between swallows and swifts but there they all were, skirting the vivid blue skyline, contemplating a move even further south.

The French are economically sparing with paint. The sign shows the yellow path and we follow this and the subsequent yellow arrow. After this, the decorators have lost the will and we must look for yellow blobs on movable stones to ensure we might be, literally, on the right track.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It doesn’t really matter: we regularly come across capitelles in various conditions which we duly enter and inspect as we climb higher and higher. The wind is not so bad – maybe we’re sheltered by the little mountains. There was an initial plan to leave the struggler (me) behind at an appropriate spot. There isn’t an appropriate spot: the garrigue is stunningly beautiful, but relentless. Leave me here and I’ll be lost forever. But then, I look back and see the river which inspires me to climb higher.

At one point, I see something brown crossing the track. No-one else is looking and when I mention this apparition, I am, as usual, ignored. ‘Perhaps it was a boar’, some comedian comments. And the next minute, everyone sees five or six unidentifiable birds scurrying along the path. Told you so. They were too quick for the cameras but even I know they weren’t swallows.

 

Eventually, we reach the heights which is well worth the climb. From here, we can see, in a 360 degrees turn, the Ventoux, the Alpilles, the Montagnette, Tarasçon and beyond. We’re on the top of the world, under the bluest of skies and the sunshine of the South.

 

We begin our descent. ‘Here’s another capitelle’, exclaims the kiwi. Haven’t we been to this one before, I query? What I like about being with Keryn and Eleanor is, no matter where we are, we never stop talking. And I don’t mean talking about nothing, for we don’t know each other that well to engage in the quotidian. At this particular point, I am minded of the chapter in Three Men and a Boat whereby the intrepid triumvate, with a crowd of followers, deny being lost in the maze at Hampton Court. Someone says, ‘didn’t we pass that bun half an hour ago?’ This, naturally, leads on to an explanation of Longleat and a discussion about PD James and Pride and Prejudice.

And then we are back at the car. And, of course, lunch beckons. Sadly, Aramon doesn’t boast a plethora of eateries. Nonetheless, we manage to secure a spot on the terrace of an apparently non-descript joint where, as Keryn reports, we enjoy ‘a five star meal for the price of a two star restaurant’. Fish for my compatriots and mignon of porc for me… a million miles from the damp offerings in Avignon yesterday.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few holes in the ground

At yesterday’s vide grenière (empty attic =boot sale), I purchase a book about Fontvielle because it has some old pictures and news about the shell altar of which I’ve previously written. However, it also contains a lot of information about les puits which, it transpires, means wells. Apparently, Fontvielle is famous for them. So, with an hour to spare, I decide that today’s mission is to search for the wells of which, my book informs me, there are over fifty. A sort of watery treasure hunt.

 

Firstly, I look for the two oratories which are also supposed to be famous. I find the one dedicated to St Victoire easily but upset the owners of the only car that has passed this way in years by parking over the entrance to their house.

 

 

 

The second, dedicated to St Roch, is equally easy to locate but not very accessible as it’s on the side of a roundabout. I doubt whether poor old Roch gets many votive offerings.

 

 

Then it’s off to look for wells. I’d say you need about three weeks to find them all. At one point, a man comes out of his house to see what I’m up to. ‘Puits’ is quite a hard word to pronounce and I am unsuccessful. I show him my book. Oh, you mean the wells, he says in perfect English. Anyway, it turns out that he used to live in Zurich but now lives in Berne, and comes to his little house in Fontvielle every six weeks. Sorry, did I ask for your life story? He shows me a well that I’ve just walked past and would never have noticed in a month of Sundays.

 

 

 

 

 

Looking for wells is an unusual pastime: I must look over walls and sneak into people’s gardens and run away like a naughty child that’s just rang the doorbell.

 

 


It’s fun though and I got to see some bits of the village that I hadn’t seen before. I never knew LeLee was here. My dad and I have some of his pictures at home – sadly, not originals but some rare ones which we like.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a pretty village and worth a wander.