Janine’s House: The Final Chapter
We received photos from a traveler and compiled a historical summary.
Here we are, visiting the Janine house - or what one might call "The Eleventh Hour House." While we aren't the first to visit - which, in truth, is never desirable - this is the ultimate journey. For many reasons, we can say without detour: this is the end for this place of memory. A narrative look back at the exploration of a world buried under the past.
It is the "last" because we must use a ladder, and this one speaks unequivocally of the end of life. It is made of worm-eaten wood. At first glance, you know it’s going to be extremely tense; you don’t need to be a cabinetmaker to feel it. The wood is in a state of decay reminiscent of an archaeological relic from pre-Celtic times. Indeed, while climbing - despite taking maximum precautions - a rung snaps with an eerie crack.
The house is located in the heart of a housing estate, "happily" equipped with neighbors, including two massive hounds whose chains evoke, with a shudder of anxiety, a hellish environment. This home was completely vandalized and looted while Janine was still alive. Consequently, the rightful heirs had all the ground-floor windows walled up with cinder blocks. It was enough to stop the vandals, but the damage was done.
We had come here two years ago. Amidst a jungle-like plot and under "turbo-driving" rain, the situation led to an immediate deadlock: impossible to visit. The cause: the walling-up. We were left with one glaring question: why does the annex contain nearly a hundred high-voltage insulators? But otherwise, nothing. The file on this urban exploration was closed.
And what about today? Our greatest surprise was the grounds. While we expected to find an exuberant jungle, it was quite the opposite. All the saplings have been chainsawed, the jungle put through a woodchipper, and the land mowed. The date of the work? Yesterday, or perhaps the day before. The site is headed for a major transformation. You don’t undertake such a demanding cleanup for nothing. In a way, it’s for the best; life will return.
We are not the "final keepers" of Janine’s memory. That’s easily said, and both presumptuous and dismissive. We are, however, the last to see the place as it was in this state of abandonment. True, the grave has no flowers, but do I do any better for my own grandmother, whose burial site is 931 kilometers away? Without judgment, if there are flowers to be laid, I can do it - it’s mimosa season.
In Janine’s Footsteps
Every time we have tried, through a thousand flights of fancy, to reconstruct the life story of an urbex site, we have failed spectacularly. The truth is almost always elsewhere. That is why, with necessary caution, we will say we know nothing - the house has suffered too much vandalism for its story to be legible today. We wanted to tidy it up, but given the future construction, the idea was abandoned.
Janine was born in 1927 in the village and died in 2022 in Nîmes. She passed away at 95 - a wonderful age! The spelling of her name is not a mistake. That is how it appears on her death certificate and her grave, even though many old letters use a more flowery version. She must have been used to it.
According to what can be found on-site, she was a dental surgeon. She practiced at No. 22 Rue Pierre Semard. At first, this seems surprising, as it would have been quite a commute. Did she live on-site given the distance? Today, and for what seems like forever, the location has housed a pharmacy. If we were to build imaginary timelines: she would have been a student after the war and ceased her activities sometime in the 90s.
She is not buried with her partner; she lies in the family vault in a tiny, very well-maintained cemetery. A few photos in the house allow us to imagine her face. It’s a short step to say: of an entire life, this is all that remains. One could almost slip into imagining her, sketching her likeness. But who are we to claim that? The work will begin ; it will erase the scar of vandalism. In a way, it’s for the best - reinjecting life where there was only contempt and violence.
What remains of a whole life is sometimes just a few grams. As François Ridel says not without humor: If I were the big seagull at the end of the pier, I would one day quietly fold my sails, leaving nothing but feathers to my heirs and 200 grams of tiny white bones. No one knows what survives - somewhere unknown - of Janine’s memory (it’s possible only the trivial remains in this house). In any case, through our visit, we desired to honor her, however minimally.
The place is in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps by chance during a future trip, I will one day announce its replacement by two brand-new villas. It wouldn’t even be surprising. Let’s leave that to life; a day will come.
