It had been about three months since I'd actually been out photographing, and lacking a real expedition in mind, I got in my car and followed the road until something hit me through the window. At around half past five, on the road we'd taken up to Christmas Eve, I passed that abandoned station again, which had slipped my mind. I went down to have a quick look around and assess the place, but as the night grew darker, I had to come back the next day. In the light of a cloudy day, I returned with my camera ready and loaded to this small station that the eye no longer caresses, encased by masses of tall grass, its windows and doors partly sealed by brick walls. I don't know how long the place has been in ruins, enough already to have been turned over by squatters and tramps... I've never really understood why all abandoned places have their floors covered with thousands of objects as if it were an imperative. It's as if as soon as a place closes, a devastation team is sent in to make sure it's as destroyed on the inside as it is on the outside. There's a house attached to the station, but I don't know whether it's part of some business that used to be next door (I think there was a bakery or a crêperie or something) or whether it was there for the station employees. I don't know if it was only freight trains that went through there either, there's a reception area for passengers but it's walled off. It's always quite scary to walk around in places like these, and most of the time I turn off my music because the slightest noise makes me stop it to look around. In fact, the hardest thing to bear are the first few moments, when you still have only the vaguest idea of the place. But as you get a mental map of the place, everything gets better. It's also a question of making sure that the place is really empty: when you know that all the rooms are harmless, it's easier to walk around than at the beginning, when you're afraid that someone might still be living there. All in all, it's a great feeling to be constantly watched. I'd forgotten to bring my flashlight, so for want of anything else, I mainly discovered the rooms by flashlight - you can imagine my startlement when I came across this room whose walls were covered in splashes of red paint. I immediately reached for my camera to take another photo and confirm what I'd seen... for a fraction of an instant I imagined the worst before seeing other blue and yellow projections. The whole thing was really dark, which makes it difficult to take photos. In fact, in most cases I pass by images, lighting or illusions that would be magnificent to capture, but that even good settings fail to capture. In fact, most of the images I keep are a little cloudy or grainy due to the high ISOs, which adds a not inconsiderable touch but is also horribly annoying. I'm sorry if enlarging some images makes them look blurry. On my way out, I continued along the Tinée road and came across a closed power station. I wanted to go in, but everything was fenced in, so I went to the right and discovered a path. Halfway up the mountain, when I realized it was a hiking trail, I went back down. On the way I saw a lot of fascinating things to take in, the problem is that on these roads there's nowhere to stop, only a few huts but in the wrong places. When I go out to take photos, I always feel like I've got a lot of them slipping through my fingers, and that's frustrating, but generally when I come back I'm always glad I went that day and had the guts to go to such and such a place. I don't know if it's just me who's fascinated by lonely places - whether it's their heavy, black atmosphere, or their intricate red arabesques of decrepit metal. The walls torn away, and the rotting water that in vast streaks darkens the wallpaper and soaks the floor. Some people like to take hundreds of images of infinite landscapes, but I love the dark corners of these defunct places where dead things welcome. Bonus: a shitty bridge like I hate them, and McDonald's all the way to your abandoned train station.