Low life | 26 July 2018

Towering above this medieval French village is dun-coloured cliff of volcanic rock, dramatically floodlit at night, topped by two ancient lookout towers. A wide waterfall once flowed over this cliff and at night the floodlights pick out the grooves and caverns worn away over thousands of years. For the last couple of millennia these caverns have been the dwelling places of all sorts of refugees and paupers and one of the larger ones was turned into a hospice for old soldiers of Napoleon’s citizen army. The rock is too hard and impervious to allow for much modification of the cavern walls, but a rough stone wall with window and doorway built across a cavern opening affords a perfectly dry and secure dwelling place. I can vouch for this because since last Thursday I’ve been living and sleeping in one.

The bed is at the narrowing whitewashed point of the cave and lying there with the living rock hanging just above one’s head, it feels a bit like sleeping in a big cool vagina.