I live in the center of a very old French village, which isn't saying much because most French villages are old.
Our house is documented four hundred years old. But so are most in the center of town.
Thank God the walls don't talk, I would never sleep again.
The village is older. It burnt down in the year 1000 or 1200 thereof, give or take a few hundred years. It was rebuilt.
Wish I had a thing or two from that period.
They, the church historians, say that the Blessed Mother lost her shoe in our village. Our church has it. I have yet to see it. Yet it has been seen by many. I keep missing the once a year procession. I cannot imagine how one loses her shoe, given that the Blessed Mother wasn't known for being a fashion queen with a passion for shoes, thank God.
A sea foam green painted wooden door with hand forged handle. Only a couple of hundred years old. The other day I took photos of door handles in my village. I wish I had taken photos of the shutters and windows when I first moved here. Nearly all of them have been replaced with energy efficient windows. Now the doors are being replaced.
I suppose the villagers don't see the value to hang on to old things like I do. Picturesque, comes with a certain obligation, which for some isn't easy to live with. Not everyone likes old things.
I cringe when I see old things being ripped out. It feels like the soul is being ripped out too.
A home around that corner that I have long admired was repainted the other day. Bright goldish yellow. Ugly as sin. But what was far worse is it was made of stone! They painted the stone. And they took the 1700s greyish blue shutters down, and replaced the wooden pane windows with plastic double glass ones. I imagine the shutters are in the dump heap.
So sad.
I cannot walk by it without saying, "Ugly as sin."
French Husband says, "You cannot save everything." He doesn't even know which building I am talking about. Ah to be like that, it would be easier I think. Not to notice history disappearing.
The door to the chapel next to the church.
Eeny meeny miny moe which key hole is a go?
The largest one is the oldest.
Imagine carrying that key in your pocket.
My favorite door knockers are Fatima's Hand, as they are called.
Another rosette handle.
You either push it to open, or pull it to shut the door.
Or maybe tie your horse to it.
When taking photos of old doors in my neighborhood I realized that was nearly impossible to line the angles up. Very few were in line.
I love these.
Got a thing for them. The other day at the brocante a man was selling fifty or so of them. I nearly peed my pants with crazy happiness. I spent half my life begging him for his best price for all of them. In the end I bought them. Some for me, some to put on my online shop. Some for gifts.
From these photos I can see the burnt orange is the "in" color.
This is an old photo I took… the shutter is long gone, so is the moustache hinge. The facade has be fixed, beige in color, and smooth as butter.
Not photo worthy as it was before.
Obviously didn't receive the color chart memo.
Love the arrow indicating which way to turn the door handle to open the door.
Our door is solid wood.
When my Mother saw it she said, "Paint it."
I agreed.
We talked many happy moments about what color.
French Husband nearly gave birth when he heard our idea. "Paint the wooden door?! Paint the wooden door? What? We don't paint wooden doors." he repeated it over and over like a negative mantra.
I didn't daresay, "Yeah you do." Nor did I say, "Most the doors around here are wooden."
Eight years later the door is unpainted wood, French Husband's nerves are important to keep calm.
You might say:
"Keep Calm
&
Don't Paint
the
Wooden Doors."
Worn from welcome.
Did it turn to gold?
What type of door and handle do you have?
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