Some days are spent painting the houses of local people, whether or not they be absentee owners, and although I don't mind the hardship of it all, the white gloss painted ones are somewhat harder to do than the Lasured chalets I prefer...
So at lunchtime after a sandwich, I take a walk and here I found a wooden bridge across the edge of a pond, in the Chablais woods where ice would form in the winter and decades ago be cut and transported down to the grand hotels in the towns below and used to keep the wine chilled, the fish and meats fresh and add to the comforts of the rich guests.
All this was long, long ago. Now though the wooden bridge is used by ramblers and hikers and sometimes just has to be seen resting amongst the reeds blowing in the breeze of an autumn day.
The calm swish of the reeds the only sound.