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April 15, 2014

You can find in the old French hills old village washing places about which residents gathered in a past neither altogether forgotten nor present. As you make the round of the yellow stone basin with its multiple levels, spouts and numbered places, all of it housed beneath traditional wooden rafters and newer clay tiles, you muse on what becomes of the washing place after the washers. You pass from place 7 to 8, 8 to 9, 9 to 10, and trail a finger in the still pool and marvel at the temperature, cool and crisp. It is with no little amusement that you take note of the signage, explicitly forbidding washing in this place, and you take your leave to the sound of water escaping through the occasional hole into unseen drainage.

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