Cobbled Streets and Cat-wide Alleys
My broken body has forgotten sleep. Bruised lungs protest the need for rest. I want air unburdened by its city clothing of carbon monoxide and diesel fumes.
I head south. As much as landscape, it seems as if I am travelling through weather. Forests trapped by mist; encased in static silence as if every vapour droplet was composed of resin. Shoulders of mountains wet where low cloud clings to them in a tearful embrace. Fields wearing the penitent brown of sackcloth are lashed by rain. With Mont Ventoux growing in my vision, the mistral roars. Its growling gusts so forceful everything but blue sky flees from them.
The mistral chases me up Avignon’s cobbled streets and cat-wide alleys. Barely existing pavements splutter out as rues narrow and turn like dying streams. To let motorists pass, several times I have to press myself to medieval wall or ravaged plaster, scored and failing like grandfather skin. Cars here are clearly driven by owners that believe aluminium can pass through stone or flesh like a phantom when faced with a problem of width. The saints of the city must be constantly called upon to bestow the grace of millimetres.
Fording the trickle of traffic on rue des Infirmières, I finally reach my new home. Number 35 hugs the Avignon’s walls like a child sheltering beneath a parent’s coat. I have private courtyard roofed with wisteria, tiled floors and cabbalist blue shutters. It feels as if I am living in a Provençal postcard.
I head south. As much as landscape, it seems as if I am travelling through weather. Forests trapped by mist; encased in static silence as if every vapour droplet was composed of resin. Shoulders of mountains wet where low cloud clings to them in a tearful embrace. Fields wearing the penitent brown of sackcloth are lashed by rain. With Mont Ventoux growing in my vision, the mistral roars. Its growling gusts so forceful everything but blue sky flees from them.
The mistral chases me up Avignon’s cobbled streets and cat-wide alleys. Barely existing pavements splutter out as rues narrow and turn like dying streams. To let motorists pass, several times I have to press myself to medieval wall or ravaged plaster, scored and failing like grandfather skin. Cars here are clearly driven by owners that believe aluminium can pass through stone or flesh like a phantom when faced with a problem of width. The saints of the city must be constantly called upon to bestow the grace of millimetres.
Fording the trickle of traffic on rue des Infirmières, I finally reach my new home. Number 35 hugs the Avignon’s walls like a child sheltering beneath a parent’s coat. I have private courtyard roofed with wisteria, tiled floors and cabbalist blue shutters. It feels as if I am living in a Provençal postcard.
Labels: Avignon, Mistral, Provence, Walled Cities
posted by David at 6:04 PM
5 Comments:
I feel like I traveled through to Avignon with you!
That sounds so beautiful!! But I know you even manage to make cold dreary London seem utterly mystical too.
You managed to wow me again with your language. But, I say that every time I visit. :-)
cabbalist blue? Oh my.
The way you write is so beautiful "Forests trapped by mist; encased in static silence as if every vapour droplet was composed of resin. Shoulders of mountains wet where low cloud clings to them in a tearful embrace. Fields wearing the penitent brown of sackcloth are lashed by rain. With Mont Ventoux growing in my vision, the mistral roars. Its growling gusts so forceful everything but blue sky flees from them. "
You do paint pictures with words! Love the 'catwide alleys'! feels like I could recognise them!
Photos would help though!
greetings from New Zealand.
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