Flooding

The Emperor’s boat pausing before my roof - a painted snapshot by Bouguereau.

I had to take Grandfather down.

His fine Spahi uniform was far better suited to riding across the Sahara than to enduring the rainy days of Tarascon. Hanging on the wall for decades, he surely never imagined being threatened by a leaking roof.

Even Napoleon III had noticed it, visiting the town by boat. That very day, William Bouguereau captured with his brush the decisive moment when the Emperor paused before my roof — a vivid snapshot in paint.

The very same roof that today gives me so much trouble. Its leaks, its tears, its surprises after every storm. Scars in the plaster, dark stains on the stone, warped beams in the attic. Silent witnesses of repairs postponed for far too long.

So, as has always been done here, I brought out the buckets. The family’s Plan B, passed down through the generations, set up like a rainy-day ritual. You place them under the drips, listening to the rain drum a mocking metronome. But the bucket solution has had its day.

Beneath the tiles, the scars of water.

Taken down in time. More at ease in the desert than under Provence rain.

It’s high time to tackle the problem at its root… or rather, at its source. For beyond the nuisance of a temperamental roof, a part of the house’s history is revealed. Each leak draws a memory, each trace tells a forgotten episode. Repairing will not just mean patching. It will mean giving the house back its dignity — and perhaps offering Grandfather the peace he deserves, safe at last from the threat of storms.