Under darkened skies, clouds of thick grey and brown, and built on damp, muddy land, a hotel in France’s industrial north. A place of transition, of a hundred thousand journeys, each unique, each a beginning and an ending, an Alpha and an Omega. Rooms where floorboards once creaked and windows rattled against lashing rain. Bakelite switches and tired wall paper, and the aroma and the promise of chips, mussels and beer from downstairs, an oasis of warmth and human friendship. In the shadow of the station, where the gentle purr of electric trains was once the loud, angry belching of steam and fire and sulphur. A land that is not quite France, not quite Belgium. So here is my painting, the Hotel Flandre, a work of rich colour and realism. What tales are wrapped in its walls? An ideal gift for oneself, a perfect and reasonably priced start to an art collection. A wedding gift? A house warming offering?