A couple of nights ago I had the chance to take a picture of the pink house in Auzay one last time. The house sits next to the Argenton River down in a hollow and as I approached, the rays of the evening son were catching the brilliant green vines and coral colored walls making the house glow as if lit from inside. I had my camera ready as I crossed the footbridge but then I noticed an artist standing at her easel making a painting of the house and so I put my camera away. Even the littlest noise can break a painters concentration and with daylight waning she didn't have much time left.
As it turned out, she didn't have any time left to finish the painting because the very next day, workers arrived and scurrying around the house like elves, removed the roof and with it the vines. A renovation was started and now, instead of tranquility in the little valley, there is the noise of both destruction and industry.
An argument can be made that renovation is a good thing. It preserves houses, provides shelter in something other than new developments, and keeps the past alive in a way. But though this particular project might do all those things, it still makes me deeply sad. I absolutely loved the passerelle at Auzay the way it was before. I have gone there often during the times I have spent in Argenton Chateau and it has always seemed like a secret place, empty, ancient. I loved the rundown house, its color, its vines. I loved the old mill next door and the dark jungle of growth around it. I loved the solitude of standing on the footbridge listening to the river. It seemed that if there was one spot on earth that could be called la France profonde, this was it and, silly me, I thought it would never change.
