I learn this week that the entire Bastide Saint Louis has a preservation order placed on it, which at first hearing comes as a welcome relief as I won't have the daily diet of destruction to witness on houses and sacred land. I loathe white plastic replacement windows and the soulless front doors that accompany them, the culture difference between myself and certain French opinion on home improvement is a difficult pill to swallow, but it's neither my country or my heritage so I've come to the conclusion that it is none of my business.
The Mairee of Carcassonne however seems to have grasped the importance of preservation so we are at least singing from the same hymn sheet which is a source of happiness to me. I had a meeting with a representative this week who was a font of interesting information and passionate about stopping the recent pointless destruction. I'm pouring over plans of the block where the house sits dating back to the consensus of 1624 stating the names of the people that lived there and their profession. Next door Anthoine Malacoste simply describes himself as noble whilst others are simply Bourgeois. Later on in 1729 there appears a smattering of grain merchants and drapers but in 1809 the time of Napolean names and occupations seem to be omitted. I'm in my element, a house bursting with character, characters and waiting to be loved once again.
Meanwhile the move looms on the horizon and a most unlikely calm seems to have settled on me which whilst most pleasant is worrying in itself if you get my drift. This is simply not the time to be gazing out of the windows and observing the first settling of snow on the Pyrenees or watching the dawn rise and admiring the sliver of moon in the clear sky. Equally naughty is participating in glasses of chilled Viognier at midday whilst I lift my face towards the warmth of the sun and idly prop my feet up.
Shouldn't I be doing my Christmas shopping or something ?
