The village of Lasserre - 200 residents - where Grothendieck lived as a recluse for over 23 years.

The house where he lived, mostly on the ground floor.

The garden, full of trees and flowers. He took loving care of the roses and other plants, bringing shoots indoors to nourish them in individual pots. He made soup from his dandelions and once, long ago, offered us a giant basket of apples that had fallen from his apple tree in a storm, recommending apple sauce.

The garden gate, over which some climbed and some did not.

The front door, which he was liable on occasion to open silently only to point the visitor straight back the way he came, or even brandish a pitchfork if sufficiently annoyed.

The mailbox where visitors who tried unsuccessfully to see Grothendieck could leave a note, and where he dropped the vast majority of the correspondence he received for immediate return to sender.

Each night Grothendieck could be glimpsed blurrily through the window as he wrote for hours.

The custom-made folders that Grothendieck stored his writings in during the 23 years he spent in Lasserre.