Sometimes, all that is left of a story of a life or a place is a tantalizing shard.
In the small, wine making village of Azillanet there was an old empty building with faded blue shutters and doors. Its front door looked out on square with a pair of blind blue eyes.
I asked about building, who had lived there and particularly the story about the eyes. What were their significance? No one could tell me.
In my travels around France, I have never seen another door like this one.