Ah, the impenetrable mysteries of life in France’s small villages.
I was pondering this exact subject when I looked out of our kitchen window this September .
A mixed bunch of village children (three to thirteen) had been playing the French version of “hopscotch” outside.
I am not sure why, above the last box (ciel) they wrote “we love uncle”(tonton) .
Answers please, from those in the know, are welcome.
The pretty house over the street is closed down for the winter, whilst other neighbours are returning from sojourns at their seaside properties and the shutters are being thrown open to let in a little fresh air-Right- a guilty looking cat!- though it’s not the even more guilty looking one that jumped in through our first floor dining room window, using Trevor’s workbench in the courtyard as a springboard (about 25 feet!!). Maybe the one in the photo was thinking of making the similar leap across the street and into our kitchen.
Even the cats here seem especially enigmatic.
I used to look at the closed shutters in little French streets like this and wonder what, if anything was happening behind ( I am insatiably curious). Of course you just cannot tell whether a house is occupied or not as some occupants rarely open their shutters fully in any season.
Old and neglected or newly finished and crisp, I longed to look in and see how these village houses were decorated and furnished. Not just for ideas for our hovel , but because I have spent a lifetime looking at other people’s rooms if the opportunity presents itself!
Be careful what you wish for, dear reader, you just might get it.