Industrial archaeology

Walking along the river from St Ouen towards Auvers, you come across the old 'Distillerie Haugel'. It is a rather fine building, as others have noted , but I have been able to find out very little about it. I imagine that such a building would be of some interest to Industrial Archaeologists, and, if it were in the UK, to be the subject of a preservation order.

It stands next to another interesting building, an old factory with a high chimney reaching crookedly into the sky. This was once painted by Pissarro, smoke pouring from the stack, but now stands derelict. One wonder whether the CILAC has an interest in either of the buildings.

Blogged with Flock

Storyteller

"Eight of them - no, I wasn't looking for trouble, they just jumped me. I gave them what for but there was too many of them, knocked me out cold. Came round in the hospital, been six hours in a coma. Hey, morphine they gave me, that's something, that really gives you a buzz that does. Yeah, and there was four of them in there with me - I put four of them in the hospital, then they got six months banged up inside. Me, I sued them, 60,000€, it's already in the bank. Tidy little sum that - comes in handy when you're down on your luck. What? Oh, three weeks ago. It's all very quick. They're paying for the other four."

"Then there's J-C - you know him? Eight years inside he got. Well, he got away with 800,000€ and you know where the money is? It's in Argentina, that's where. His money'll be waiting for him when he gets out. What? Hey - look at it this way. He couldn't have made that much money working for eight years. "

"Right - my stop here. See you around some time."

Pontoise

Homecoming

Pont sur l'Oise

Secularization

John Berger showed us how the commercial arts echoed their more noble colleagues. Here's a thoroughly post -modern crucifixion.

Approach to St. Lazare

Looking down from the rue de Rome

Slowdown

The trains are running late; there's a problem at a level-crossing somewhere up the line. I leave the station and purchase a bag of clementines at the fruit stall just outside the entrance. Back on the platform, I strip the peel back with a grubby thumb and swallow thirstily at the juices. Too many pips. From time to time, the tannoy bleats out a message, usually just as a fast train is passing through. The video announcements are confusing and difficult to read in the low evening sunlight.

A train pulls in, and I let it go by; according to the schedule, it's not taking my line. Ten minutes later, another one pulls in. This should be mine. As I hesitate at the door, a couple beside me call out - "Is this the train for Pontoise?" No-one answers, and we stand for a moment, bemused. Then someone inside the carriage says something that I don't catch, and the couple climb up the steps. I follow and take a seat while they hesitate at the door. As they pass me to take a seat further up the train, the woman, tall, very thin, and encased in leather, grumbles at the station staff. "With all the benefits they have! I hate them!" Her voice is oddly harsh and metallic.

They sit down, and the man slowly peels off his jacket, revealing a T-shirt with the slogan "Life is for enjoying" on it, in English. They talk for a couple of minutes, then he suddenly dives at her, pushing her back against the panelling and mashing his face into hers. Just as abruptly, he draws back. Her expression hasn't changed.

Two stations further on, they get off. The line doesn't split until another three stations have gone by. I look up from my book at the fourth station. I'm on the wrong train.

Perfume

I make my way down the broad pedestrian street that runs from the Basilic down to the station , strolling past the fruit stalls and halal butchers, munching a brownie purchased from the sandwich counter at the entrance to the metro. Uusually there's one or two street hawkers, but today there's a buzzing crowd of them, pushing packs of cigarettes or scented water under the noses of the passers-by. "Here - for your girlfriend. She'll like it. Can't get a better price anywhere." I have to walk the gauntlet between two rows of determined salesmen, pushing my way through. I emerge and continue down to the café on the square; as I walk I see a group of policemen moving towards me. There must be a dozen of them, most in uniform, but two or three in track-suits and trainers. As I draw up to them, they break into a trot, and then into a run, one of the plainclothes men drawing out his pistol. I turn to watch them as they pass me, and see them continue along the wide street, now lined with men and women whose heads, like mine, turn with the movement of the running men, a slow, silent Mexican wave.

Sniff

There's a flurry, and a small young woman, with red, spiked hair and a duffle coat, dumps herself down two seats away from me, hunching her shoulders. After a second, she turns back to the seats she's come from and speaks, sharp, clear tones. "Yes," she says, "I've changed seats. It's because you smell bad." She swivels, sits erect, draws a magazine from her pocket and begins to read.

Bubble

Entry to the Metro at St. Lazare

Wind on the rails

Taunton. Waiting for the train back to London