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On the outskirts of Arles, the Alyscamps estate bears the same name as the adjoining cemetery. It is a labyrinth of ochre-toned buildings, caught between an empty lot and a railroad, and characterized by a striking calmness. Only the regular gusts of wind disturb the peace, blowing along the walls and ruffling the linen that hangs out the windows. Feathers flit freely on the ground. They seem to be dancing to the rhythm of the southern wind, the mistral.
Ten kilometres south lies the Camargue, an infinitely poetic space, where the warm colours of nature lit up by the golden sun blend in with the pale skies. Tiny clouds drift a few hundred metres from the ground, chasing their shadows. The cold of a December night invades my entire body.
Thus goes the tale of an afternoon between the arms of the Rhône.

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