Many vineyards stretch between this  hameau and Caussiniojouls. Many paths meander through this landscape offering varied experiences. All paths, verges and areas of vegetation are now filled with flowering Bupleurm – small umbels of lime green attracting butterflies and other insects with wings. Clematis flammula  –  frothy and white – is still flowering after a month – lovely to see it spread across the ground like a white lacy cloth  . . .  

 . . .  just after taking this photo, a hare appeared on the path and stopped, stricken with shock at seeing a human, before bounding away.

Beautiful, strong and now, sound stone work on the Château walls. It’s in the process of restoration . . . .

 . .  12C buildings with a 18-metre high castle keep that dominates the area.

Le chat du Château?

Some areas of the village have received the seed sown wild flower mix – decorative but nothing like the natural verges . .

 . .   the odd althea (hollyhock) seeded as village merges with the vines. Just after taking this photo another hare leapt across the path. Two hares – surely that is lucky?

At the eleventh hour he came,
But his wages were the same
As ours who all day long had trod
The wine-press of the Wrath of God.

When he shouldered through the lines
Of our cropped and mangled vines,
His unjaded eye could scan
How each hour had marked its man.

(Children of the morning-tide
With the hosts of noon died,
And our noon contingents lay
Dead with twilight’s spent array.)

Since his back had felt no load ,
Virtue still in him abode;
So he swiftly made his own
Those last spoils we had not won.

We went home delivered thence,
Grudging him no recompense
Till he portioned praise of blame
To our works before he came.

Till he showed us for our good–
Deaf to mirth, and blind to scorn–
How we might have best withstood
Burdens that he had not born!  Rudyard Kipling The Vineyard

Le guide vert refers to Pézanas  as the Versailles of the Languedoc in terms of the town being a royal court for Amand de Bouron, Prince de Conti. In 17c terms, he was a Prince du Sang and son-in-law of Louis XIV. Much of the old town remains unchanged from this time.  The Hôtel de Lacoste is of an earlier construction and was built and used as a mansion. The staircases and Gothic arches are remarkable. This little group was brought along with their teachers to ‘get into the feel of the period’.

 The inlaid pebble pattern on the entrance ground floor level is also quite lovely . . . .

 . .   streetscapes around Place Gambetta. The tone of green on doors and shutters  is fairly appealing – sort of soft apple green – and fits in well with the stone and general ambiance of countryside town. The colour and the town remind me of the Cotswolds and, Pézanas is described by some, as ‘where Languedoc meets the Cotswolds’.

The Ilôt des Prisons and one of the watch towers . . . and parthenocissus, delicately and respectfully, caressing a building.

Doorways are a great feature in the town. In Rue du Château, at  Hôtel de Graves, an ogee doorway.  The door museum is fascinating – the guardian insistent that you should enter and enjoy – and he’s right!

More soft green and, below, an intriguing set up for sheltering cats from the sun!

Finally in Rue Alfred-Saatier at no 12, stands the Maison des Pauvres (almshouse) with another stunning staircase and 18C wrought iron work. The poem is about, for me anyway, the restlessness of the journey of  life – if you let it happen that way of course!

This life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the desire to

change beds; one man would like to
suffer in front of the stove, and another believes that he would recover his health

 beside the window.
It always seems to me that I should feel well in the place where I am not, and

this question of removal is one
which I discuss incessantly with my soul.
‘Tell me, my soul, poor chilled soul, what do you think of going to live in

Lisbon? It must be warm there, and there
you would invigorate yourself like a lizard. This city is on the sea-shore; they

say that it is built of marble
and that the people there have such a hatred of vegetation that they uproot all

the trees. There you have a landscape
that corresponds to your taste! a landscape made of light and mineral, and

liquid to reflect them!’

My soul does not reply.
‘Since you are so fond of stillness, coupled with the show of movement, would

 you like to settle in Holland,
that beatifying country? Perhaps you would find some diversion in that land

whose image you have so often admired
in the art galleries. What do you think of Rotterdam, you who love forests of

masts, and ships moored at the foot of
My soul remains silent.
‘Perhaps Batavia attracts you more? There we should find, amongst other

things, the spirit of Europe
married to tropical beauty.’
Not a word. Could my soul be dead?
‘Is it then that you have reached such a degree of lethargy that you acquiesce in your sickness? If so,

let us
flee to lands that are analogues of death. I see how it is, poor soul! We shall pack our trunks for Tornio.

Let us go
farther still to the extreme end of the Baltic; or farther still from life, if that is possible; let us settle at the

Pole. There
the sun only grazes the earth obliquely, and the slow alternation of light and darkness suppresses

variety and
increases monotony, that half-nothingness. There we shall be able to take long baths of darkness,

while for our
amusement the aurora borealis shall send us its rose-coloured rays that are like the reflection of Hell’s

own fireworks!’
At last my soul explodes, and wisely cries out to me: ‘No matter where! No matter where! As long as

 it’s out of the world!’  Charles Baudelaire  Anywhere Out of the World

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