Perpignan wears its early twentieth century well. Away from the monuments it is a city of coloured facades, and if you keep your eyes up you get a slow parade of them: bold render, ceramic panels, wrought iron with a florist's imagination.
The best of it is unforced. An orange cube of a villa with a cactus over the wall. A yellow house with its windows drawn in bright blue, like a child given one good pencil. The old Caisse d'Epargne with three Art Nouveau canopies of glass and iron curling over the doors, still doing their job of keeping the rain off the queue.
None of it is grand. It is the everyday decoration of a confident town, and it holds up frame by frame.