outside light

Sign in Subscribe

journal

brushing Andorra, Perpignan via the Pyrenees

A day car-bound, travelling from Carcassonne. Mme D. dispatched us from our top floor gite. We ended up not mentioning les blattes, or cockroaches, in the microwave, in the dishwasher, as well as everywhere else. We decided what her response would have been: Yes. They are a problem. Or:

signing the surface: aux caves Niaux, par Mirepoix et Foix, de Carcassonne – & a note on oppressive architecture

A day begun with impossible things overcome and ending with further impossible things to do before breakfast, like find accommodation in Barcelona. Eurocar repeat in various places ONE MUST CONTACT 4 WORKING DAYS BEFORE DROPPING CAR OFF. We forgot. Rang before my brain was working in English, let alone Francais,

La Cité

The whole of Carcassonne, Basse Ville, had a hangover and stayed in today, after last night’s wine fair finale – the Fete had been going since the 21st. The streets were empty apart from old men, either on their way, with irregular patterns of footfalls echoing, home, or out for

Aigues-Mortes, Montpellier, Carcassonne

… time running out on our sojourn European… Leaving Les Saintes Maries de la Mer realising how special a place it is. The commencement of the Mediterrannean coast proper with its shift in scale from hotel to resort says it. First we had to cross the Petit Rhone by wired paddle-

black mary, shirts, owls, raptors, flamingos, the quite involuntarily surreal Chateau d’Avignon & enjoying Abrivado

Abrivado, our hotel, seems to be run by a group of young(ish) couples. Relaxed atmos. Geezers in mufti. No superiority bullshit or internal hierarchy visible. Guy who brought brekky told us he’d personally included the juice in the set menu for us. Not: that’s what it comes

leaving L’Isle sur la Sorgue – with regrets, with unfinished business – to Arles – featuring J. THE ANTIPRODUCT & Van Gogh’s own pharmacie – to Les Saintes Maries de la Mer & welcome Abrivado

Leaving L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue was again difficult, because of course we’d not really got to know our hosts, C. B. and M.-C. R. And we hadn’t really got to know our town, but we spent the morning, until midday, scooting around, over the canals and

le Pont du Gard, les Arènes et les deux carrés de Nîmes with notes regarding a spectacular taxonomy or the common root of the popular degradations of pornography, acting and public victimisation in gladiatorial spectacle, in the round, while art & religio

On the way to le Pont du Gard, I sucked up a La Jaunie into my windpipe. Not a pleasant thing, since they’re pure liquorice root. It was stuck in the folds of my vocal cords, so it felt, until it dissolved. Quite hot. Pont du Gard looked from