This door over the moat at Groombridge Place, makes me think of secret coming and goings in the middle of the night, of fairy tales, and escaping prisoners.
"The first almond trees in blossom, on the road and in front of the sea. One night suffices to produce their delicate snow. One imagines, that the flowers find it hard to survive the cold, and the rain which soaks their petals." From the notebooks of Albert Camus, written I guess, at about this time of year.
Round the corner from where I live there is a small car-repair workshop. It has been there since the early years of the last century. Passing the open door you hear hissing pneumatics, the hum of a hydraulic platform, and metal clinking against metal. There is a sharp, oily smell, not altogether unpleasing. Like the peaty smell of Islay malt whisky.
4 comments:
But don't be tempted into a tasting. Some of the fluids associated with metalworking have unforeseen and unpleasant effects. Men working in toolshops who thrust oily rags into their trouser pockets for temporary keeping later found themselves undergoing an orchidectomy - a nice enough word but not something to chat about when strolling The Grove.
Wonderful old building; beautiful photo of it, too.
Beautiful picture.
Your imagination is wide, Man! I like how you created the image of fairy tales and escaping prisoners. Maybe, it would be better if the photo you've shared would show the whole place, so that viewers could easily follow your artistry. However, you did great in here. Keep it up!
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