French husband and I went for a drive on Sunday afternoon. We stopped at this cafe because it look like a picture postcard, and seemed all alone.
Cobbled stone steps made me wish I had worn flat shoes.
French husband with his thoughts in the clouds dreaming of the flying machine.
Silence extends a hand in the canyons of the little streets.
The terre cuite tiles form the rooftop which reminds me of an Easter bonnet. My imagination starts to see the clothes hanging as the hat’s ribbons.
Noticing many vacant maisons de village (houses in town,) French husband points out that the real estate market might be interesting.
It just goes to show you who is the imaginative one in this group.
photos: From a village in the south of France.
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