Vignettes E-Book

Hubert Crackanthorpe

• Herausgeber: eGriffo
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

On the roof of the ruined church we lay, basking amid the hot, powdery heather; the cinder-coloured roofs of the town flattened out beneath us—a ragged patch of dead, decayed colour, burnt, as it seemed, out of the rank, luscious green of the Rhône valley. Overhead, a thick, blue sky hung heavy, and away and away, into the steamy haze of midday heat, filtered the Tarascon road, a streak of dazzling white. To the east, the sun was beating on the sandy slopes; to the west, the old Papal palace, like a great, grey, sleeping beast, lifted its long, bare back above the roofs of Avignon.
The lizards scurried from cranny to cranny across the crumbling wall. Below, in the cloister, a cat was curled by a black stack of brushwood. The little place stood empty, and stillness seemed to have fallen over all things.
The warmth lulled one to a delicious 2torpor. I was thinking of the bustling Regent Street pavement, of the rumble of Piccadilly, of newsboys yelling special editions in the Strand, drowsily conjuring up these and other commonplace contrasts.

Leseprobe

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Table of contents

AT VILLENEUVE-LÈS AVIGNON

ASCENSION DAY AT ARLES

IN THE LONG GRASS

PAU

CASTELSARRASIN

IN THE BASQUE COUNTRY

IN THE LANDES

CETTE

ON CHELSEA EMBANKMENT

PLEASANT COURT

THE FIVE SISTER PANSIES

OUR LADY OF THE LANE

ON THE COAST OF CALVADOS

IN NORMANDY

PARIS IN OCTOBER

LA CÔTE D’OR FROM THE TRAIN

LAUSANNE

OLD MARSEILLES AT MIDDAY

MONTE CARLO

AT THE CERTOSA DI VAL D’EMA

MORNING AT CASTELLO

IN THE CAMPO SANTO AT PERUGIA

NAPLES IN NOVEMBER

From Posilipo

In the Strada del Porto

Moonlight

At the Theatre Manzoni

POMPEII

IN THE BAY OF SALERNO

SEVILLE DANCING GIRLS

SUNRISE

OFF CAPE TRAFALGAR

RÊVERIE

IN RICHMOND PARK

IN ST. JAMES’S PARK

IN THE STRAND

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

RÊVERIE

ENFANTILLAGE

AT VILLENEUVE-LÈS AVIGNON

April 23

On the roof of the ruined church we lay, basking amid the hot, powdery heather; the cinder-coloured roofs of the town flattened out beneath us—a ragged patch of dead, decayed colour, burnt, as it seemed, out of the rank, luscious green of the Rhône valley. Overhead, a thick, blue sky hung heavy, and away and away, into the steamy haze of midday heat, filtered the Tarascon road, a streak of dazzling white. To the east, the sun was beating on the sandy slopes; to the west, the old Papal palace, like a great, grey, sleeping beast, lifted its long, bare back above the roofs of Avignon.

The lizards scurried from cranny to cranny across the crumbling wall. Below, in the cloister, a cat was curled by a black stack of brushwood. The little place stood empty, and stillness seemed to have fallen over all things.

The warmth lulled one to a delicious torpor. I was thinking of the bustling Regent Street pavement, of the rumble of Piccadilly, of newsboys yelling special editions in the Strand, drowsily conjuring up these and other commonplace contrasts.