A whimsical taste of coming back!

After a quarter without coming to hang out here in my slippers, even though I’d loudly declared I had no interest left in this site, here I am again!

Luckily for us: Only the foolish and the dead never change their opinions. Do they say that in Scotland too?

Hey there, border-crosser!

Should we change our minds as often as we change shirts, just for cleanliness and laundry’s sake? Your quote seems to ring true in so many countries.

In Scotland, they often say, « You may as well keep your breath to cool your porridge. » And I’ll admit, it’s a pretty funny way to say « shut up ».

That said, where we live, it’s very often Gaelic, and to me, it’s completely incomprehensible and totally impenetrable. I can say: « Chan eil mi 'gad thuigsinn », which means *I don’t understand*—try pronouncing that😉)—so either the person switches to English, or they keep going in Gaelic and... I shut up!

Hi Dom

Let’s call this a pause rather than a departure 😉 VF is a lovely escape between Scotland and the Morvan, and if you’ve found your way here, I’m thrilled to hear from you again.

There you are, Kate! I’m so surprised to see you here. No doubt about it, this is a nice surprise! :)

2)

I slipped on my new Pataugas shoes—27 €, not expensive at all—and they give me the feeling of traveling back in time, even if they’re not exactly like the ones from before. By the way, speaking of the past, there used to be a Pataugas here I really liked. She even wrote a novel, *L’Or de la mine Dundee*, based on her life experience in Australia. I wonder what became of her.

Anyway, I’m rambling again. It’s crazy how my brain goes in all directions when I type on the computer. Tap-tap-tap, and off it goes. I admire travelers who write structured travel journals, filled with one artistic photo after another. Travelers—*writers*—let’s not forget the *-trices*.

With my shoes on, I head toward this clearing that’s intrigued and drawn me for two decades. Surrounded by deciduous trees—hornbeams and oaks mixed together—it was impassable for years, so thick with brambles was its entrance. Now made accessible by the association *Tous en chemins*, bordered by hawthorn, I visit it intermittently, as if it were a show. It’s bathed in light. At dawn, the generous dew is the watering hole for the bees from the nearby hive.

In good weather, under a downpour, in the evening, on weekends, there are always walkers chatting.

While many people surround themselves with others to avoid spending a single minute alone—and I find that a little sad—in this clearing, it’s something else entirely...

I love solitude, and I’d always rather be alone than *feel* alone because someone forgot about me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my friends (oops—*and my female friends*), my big family, good food, parties, family reunions, etc.… but being alone, walking on the moor, being whipped by the wind, looking up at the sky washed clean after the rain—that’s unmatched.

When I arrive at the clearing, the sun is already high. There are already people there. A small group is sitting, paying no mind to the buttercups, and the air smells of wild garlic with its delicate little white flowers. It’s a melliferous plant, and I strongly suspect the little foragers are loading their legs with pollen after drinking the dew.

The tree stump is free—I settle in there. It’s a little off to the side but within earshot because I like to observe. To reach it, you have to tiptoe—the wild strawberries are barely in bloom, a fragile carpet.

I’ll have to bring a cushion next time. This stump is rough on the behind.

.../...

3) Many walkers I enjoyed chatting with or simply being around are no longer here, and the whisper of the wind in the leaves remembers them. I was deeply saddened when Yanguizzi succumbed to altitude sickness. Since then, I haven’t read anything as fascinating about North Korea. There was also Le Piaf and his Thai cooking recipes, and Thuan, the unforgettable dyslexic with a passion for the Khlongs. I also fondly remember the Canadian poet Declericy, and Fabricia, always so courteous in her words, along with so many others.

Note that I’m neither nostalgic nor melancholic. Life is a skein of silk that sometimes breaks. Repairing a piece of silk requires patience and finesse—a small overcast stitch along the edges, then tiny stitches to close the tear. Mending silk takes far more patience than patching up a coarse piece of fabric. What was is no more; today is different.

A short excerpt from Aldebert’s lovely poem:

« What is music? It’s sound that perfumes the air What is emotion? It’s the soul lighting up What is a compliment? An invisible kiss And nostalgia? Edible past What is carefreeness? It’s time we sow What is good times? It’s your hand in mine

What’s essential? It’s always believing in it And a memory? A drawing on memory What’s a smile? It’s wind in the sails And poetry? A net for catching stars

What’s indifference? Life without colors And what’s racism? A heart’s disability What’s friendship? A treasure island And playing hooky? A trip-up for Pythagoras

On my uncomfortable stump, I hear and see so many things—I let time flow.../...

I was really sad when Yanguizzi succumbed to altitude sickness. Since then, I haven’t read anything as fascinating about North Korea. There was also Le Piaf and those Thai recipes, and Thuan—the unforgettable dyslexic who was so passionate about the Khlongs. I also fondly remember the Canadian poet Declericy, and Fabricia, always so courteous in her words, and so many, many others.

And François… without whom none of these people would have ever met.

4)

This morning, I quickly down my coffee and, cushion under my arm, I dash to the clearing already dappled with sunlight. I rush to My Stump and let out a huge sigh of relief. My words are still neatly stacked, and no one has disturbed their order. Kate pointed out that I forgot to write down François, and I thanked her for that.

A chilly little breeze makes me shiver and sends my daily sheet of paper flying. A fit, bald man—no contradiction there—picks it up, crumples it, and puts it in his pocket. On that now-lost sheet was written this (always keep copies):

- Today, I don’t know many people anymore; I have to say, I’m not much of a talker.

Labels are pinned to light jackets—the spring is still a bit cold. They’re labels with names paired with numbers. For years, I’ve wondered what the numbers after the names mean. You read: Solène40, Rouquine38, Valmiche86, Montagnard74—I imagine those are their home departments. Stranger still, Aleph240758? Not a phone number, maybe a birthdate. And Jojoone1? Why 1?

People are sitting in a circle on the soft grass. If you ask me, they’re going to get wet bottoms.

It’s almost always the same group. They get along well, congratulate each other often, and pass the conversation back and forth, especially during retrospectives of their many trips. As proof of their good vibes, they usually call each other by their first names: Pascale, Jean-Michel, Xavier (though his real name is xctcn—hard to pronounce), Agnès, Thierry, Joël, Carmen, Murielle, and Muriel, Catherine. Some of them travel constantly—just a few days off, and *poof*, they’re gone; *poof*, they’re back; *poof*, they’re sharing stories; and *poof*, they’re off again. It’s dizzying.

On my stump, I love listening to two travelers in particular: SimonL—Loïc and Puma2A—Alain, probably from Corsica. I’m intrigued by their knowledge of wildlife—how do they spot that little yellow bird with the red beak and name it? Do they have training as ornithologists?

Here, the clearing is alive with birdsong. Birds whose names I don’t know. I easily recognize wild boar tracks. Last night must have seen a whole group pass through, because the ground is completely churned up near the oak trees at the back of the clearing. It can’t be a scuffle between Attila and Tatra—they never go that far!

There’s also a woman, Ticapi, who tells amazing stories about Peru and Bolivia, just like Un marati—Guillaume. And then there’s young Mathilde for Namibia, or Holigirl for South Africa (Holi makes me think of India and its Festival of Colors).

Namibia, Tanzania, and South Africa are really popular right now, and I love listening to stories about these countries I’ll never visit.

I also read with great interest Olive842’s unique journey (that number is odd) using public transport—by bus, train, and ferry—with some truly wonderful encounters.

A little off to the side, there are people who stay incognito! Some passersby who just pass through—that’s what passersby do. Sometimes they dare to ask a question, then slip away under the trees as soon as the answer is given.

Darn, I have to head home—the 1st of May is just around the corner, and my little world will be arriving tonight. Lily of the valley carpets the undergrowth—a fragrant harvest awaits.

(in real life it’s xctcn, hard to pronounce)

and sometimes hard to write! PS Thanks for the sprig of lily of the valley—I’ll rush to send it to C (for Candice), our eldest daughter who’s celebrating her birthday on May 1st.

On my stump, I delight in listening to two travelers in particular, SimonL-Loïc and Puma2A-Alain, probably from Corsica. I’m intrigued by their knowledge of wildlife—how do they spot that little yellow bird with the red beak and know its name? Do they have training as ornithologists?

First off, THANK YOU for the lily of the valley; we don’t have any here.

Thanks for "delighting" in my story (or stories). That’s the goal, in my opinion—to bring pleasure to those who won’t be able to take the same trip through a travel journal.

Yes, I’m a Gascon now living in southern Corsica.

No, I’m not an ornithologist, but with practice, you end up learning the names of some birds. For the others, you just listen to what the guide says, jot it down, and then look up the French name online... I’m even a little at odds with the real ornithologists, actually!!

But birds are a big part of African safaris...

Thanks again, and happy holidays!

No wild lily of the valley in Corsica (or very rare), but there are lots of flowers in the maquis right now.



Cheers.

...

So lovely to read you here, dear Pondy. I’m in the "incognito" category. I’m following the photo contest but not taking part because I can’t compete with the "real" photographers. But I’m really enjoying their work (especially the puffin...)

5)

This clearing, well-maintained by the association "Tous en chemin," isn’t very busy anymore. I mean, the little shop that used to serve as a restaurant is completely empty. Ever since Gabrielle63 came looking for Sardinian recipes and typical dishes, no one’s settled onto the worm-eaten benches.

For a while, some folks would bring a sound system, and we could listen to world music. Luckily, Hery dit Taamaden still drops by now and then to offer CDs. He pays tribute to musicians I’ve never heard a single note from—and that I’m discovering. The man is incredible, especially since his French is flawless.

The book box is almost empty. Only a few warped *Géo* magazines remain.

In this clearing, so well sheltered from the wind, people also love photo games. I’m thinking of Unamilanese. She’s a cultured woman, and I often feel tiny when I read her posts. I mention her here because her photos are, for me, a source of knowledge. I was peeking over Rouquine’s shoulder at a photo bathed in soft light, titled "homage to Ivo Andrić, the Drina, in Višegrad." That’s how I discovered a Yugoslav writer and found the book *The Bridge on the Drina*. And Kate, who used to share pretty photos and now offers stunning ones—what an incredible progression! Maybe she’ll exhibit one day! I don’t join their photo exchanges because, as Timouss says, I don’t feel up to their dizzying level! So when I look at the photos by Philipperb, Rouquine, Tylassin, Gaura, and so many others, I stay quiet.

That’s just how it is—no need to mope about it.

Lying in the grass with his hands behind his head, a still-young man who calls himself FamilleUS (but it’s Manu) wonders about AI. Between fascination and fear, this tool will gradually dehumanize us. AI will never clear my meadow, AI will never hold a patient’s hand at the end of their life, and while generative AI can tackle all sorts of problems, organize trips down to the last detail without (almost) any mistakes, what will be left of that delicious thrill of discovery, the unexpected, the mishap? That’s often what we remember best years later. To me, AI is just a big plagiarist regurgitating what it’s scooped up from the vastness of the internet.

I’ve often wondered about the people who come and go in this clearing. Are they married, single? Are they parents, grandparents? Are they happy, passionate, anxious, sick, healed? Do they have lots of kids? Do they live in houses, apartments, in the city or the countryside? What do they do for a living? Bricklayer, architect, nurse, doctor, cabinetmaker or carpenter, florist, mechanic, dentist. Are they self-employed, civil servants, or do they work in the private sector? Do they get a 13th month, a 14th month, are they unemployed, retired? Are they disabled? Where do they live, are they in love, have they loved, are they loved?

Because, in the end, I think that’s what really matters...

Darn, I feel a bit awkward with the poor photos from my little phone too. 🙁

You know, your semi-real stories actually got me out of my silence.

We’re on a travel site, so when I see your username, I can’t help but think of Pondy Chérie ;-)

Since there are a few crazy lovers following—thanks Tylassin, the latest one—I’ll continue my story 😊 (Oh, Xavier, I butchered your name earlier—hope it didn’t hurt too much!) __

This morning, I was half-listening to the radio: 14 dead in Ukraine, 4 in Israel, 108 drones launched, 3 dead at the Russian border, a ship bombed, people injured. And there I was, sipping my coffee calmly, watching the sun gently reveal the streaks left on the windows I’d washed yesterday.

My heart skipped a beat—not because of the still-opaque windows, but because of the calamitous news I’d been so casually absorbing. Men are dying everywhere, and this daily, horrifying litany just slides off me without shame. I’m ashamed.

I scribbled a note for Homme, still asleep: “I’m going to the clearing,” and headed out, fluorescent green garden clogs on my feet and in my pajamas. Pajamas made of *pilou-pilou*, the same kind Vincent Macaigne wears as Julien in *The Sense of Festival*—pajamas that don’t *look* like pajamas, but are pajamas all the same.

You might wonder how people end up in the clearing. It’s well-known, I know that. They get there by word of mouth—because the cousin of a friend’s neighbor, the one who went to Namibia and raved about it, recommended it to his best buddy, who told the sister of the cousin of the friend’s neighbor. Others come because they’ve searched for the coolest, most open, most enlightening place, where you can chat without worrying about the clock. These are the travelers who love the eternal “off the beaten path” and swap tips that, over time, turn those paths so well-trodden it hurts to go there.

Actually, the association *Tous en chemin rural* has clearly marked the way. Two options to get there: Either take the wide, grassy trail lined with hawthorn, blackthorn, and walnut trees, or head south through the forest, crossing the old uranium mine in Dun-sur-Grandry. It was an open-pit mine, now covered in vegetation, and the trail runs alongside the pond that partly submerged it. In theory, old uranium mines in the Morvan are closed and monitored, but everyone strolls through and picks the lily of the valley that grows there so abundantly.

Either way, you reach the clearing in no time. I was about to say “in one click.”

What makes this clearing unique (I really need to find a synonym—it’s bugging me to keep repeating *clearing*) is its well. They call it the *Well of Fools*—I’ll tell you about it, maybe!

Ooh! Ooh! I’m near the well. When are you coming?

The water level is so low that we had to lengthen the rope. Is this a bottomless well? Has the strange traveling people moved on to other shores? To powerful rivers whose source is in America? Will a few drops be enough to prime the pump again?

(I’m finishing *Aqua*, the excellent latest novel by Gaspard Koenig, which traces the source—from government ministries to mayors and users. While reading it, I often thought of elected friends, but I also remember that *Man* is one too—not just of your heart.)

Hello Voyajou,

Nice to have passed through this clearing. I don’t read philosophy—my culture is more present in that of radishes and tomatoes. I also read a lot, though. One of my granddaughters, she’s ten, read *The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas* by John Boyne, an Irish author (young adult literature). The story of a Jewish child and a German child—it’s heartbreaking. Left behind at home, I read it myself and, not knowing this Irish author, I went on to read and devour all his novels, discovering an Ireland far from the clichéd green landscapes and the harsh realities of people’s lives up until the 2000s. I was familiar with Nuala O’Faolain, who writes about her extreme loneliness and the difficulty of being a woman in an Ireland constrained by religion. Until then, I’d only had a postcard image of the island. Anyway, I’ve never been to Ireland, and whether I’ll go one day, I don’t know.

And since you mention *the love of my life*—who’s freed himself from all his elected duties except walking by my side with such patience—know that, unlike the surprising book I just finished, *The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat* (Oliver Sacks), he always recognizes me in a crowd and finds me when I’m lost.

But since you’re waiting without fussing or complaining by the well of fools, I’ll tell you about it. Soon.

No need to press the button!

John Boyne. [...] not knowing this Irish author, I later read and devoured all his novels.

So, among all these novels, there’s The Elements, his latest work that you should discover without knowing anything about it—nothing to soften the punch of this extraordinary, very dark but never hopeless story. Its masterful construction, the precision of the characters, the unbearable things you have to imagine because the author, avoiding any moralizing or complacency, leaves it to us to do so... and those bursts of light.

An exceptional book you’ll want to talk about to inspire others to read it... so you can then share the powerful impressions it left you with.

I second what Kola said. The Elements is a masterful book (thanks L 😉)

I haven’t read *The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas* but I saw the movie. Beautiful, simple, and cruel. But it’s not a "great" film. I should’ve started with the book…

I don’t have the energy to tell the story of the Well of Fools anymore—I’m exhausted!

No matter, the well-digger who built this well, this place where memory is a well, an open-air well with a stone curb, the well-digger is dead and took with him the desire to explore the bottom of the well.

The winch is gone; only the iron bars sealed into the stone remain.

It has nothing to do with baoris, those stepwells in India. It could resemble the qanats of Iran, though, because from the bottom of the well runs a multitude of tunnels, each bearing a name carved into the stone: -travel on foot-, -travel by horse-, -budget travel- and so many other nearly abandoned tunnels.

Once, a large tunnel called -thoughts and reflections- was fed by people who were often wells of knowledge. Ideas bubbled up as fast as a keyboard. Anyone who dared express a different idea was, I’ll say it, often humiliated. These people were true wells of wisdom. They’d answer a simple question with a hundred-line essay. Documentaries by Arte, at the very least. You’d say you liked the Romans, and boom—fatal mistake—you’d get a response about the fall of the empire, aqueducts, garum, and even the technique for lacing caligae.

The well of wisdom loves correcting others… but with a smile. « I don’t mean to nitpick, but actually… » And bam, all you can do is shut your mouth and head for safer tunnels: books, music, cooking—anything you actually enjoy.

Today, people don’t venture into this Well of Fools; they stay on the surface, in the shady clearing, a space without history other than that of travel stories where a handful of die-hards swoon, get excited, and congratulate each other. Thank goodness they’re here, because extinction would be near—vegetation always wins, and wild roses, prickly sloes, and ferns would take over everything.

Even today, it’s a blessing—the oaks protect the hornbeams, and motionless, they listen to the wind and the hooting of owls.