I’ve always held a fascination for crumbling remains of a bygone era that whisper ‘I was here’. The colonial houses that the French left in their wake in Hanoi are no exception. Wandering the streets, especially in the old town, looking up beyond the pavement cafes and shops, hidden behind overgrown trees and creepers are the remnants of the once colonial city. Typical French shutters hanging from the last of their hinges, shrubs grown into trees. The imagination flourishes ‘Who lived there, were they happy making a new home in a new country, were they kind to the people whose country they occupied?’
From behind a hastily put up boarding I spot a beautiful moulded window frame now cracked and blackend with age and pollution. There are others draped with hanging washing and plant pots balancing on once grand balustraded balconies.
Meanwhile below mopeds rush around, dodging between the endless stream of tour buses and coaches that ply the narrow streets bringing me hastily back down to earth.
I spot a boulangerie with tempting croissants and baguettes…more than a hint of the French still lingers.
