The rule of the three unities

Strange to settle into this section. Not much in the way of thoughts or reflections. The moderators' ways are inscrutable! __

Monday 7 AM

"Dawn ignites; The thick shadows flee; Dream and mist Go where the night goes; Eyelids and roses Open half-closed; From the awakening of things We hear the sound."*

-4°C, the car is packed: two travel bags, a water bottle, and a box of paracetamol. It still feels like yesterday we were young, yet here we are, still dreaming, still hitting the road—more cautiously now, but just as eager, with more naps and more breaks. See you soon, kids, grandkids—the celebrations are over. It was great, it was tiring, it was joyful, and *phew*, everyone left full, happy, and that’s what matters. Now we’re free! The windshield is fogged up, the AC is roaring like hell, and we’re laughing in our indestructible old banger—340,000 kilometers on the clock, Euro 3 standard, banned from big cities we hate anyway. We’re heading north. First stop: Autun. Just outside the small town, we pull over to water the brown ferns, scorched by the frost. We’re hurrying slowly, like a senator’s procession. Alba will have to wait, but here we come... *Victor Hugo

Hello moderation team, Would you be so kind as to move me and give me a nudge in the -winter- section instead of the travel journals? I’d feel more at home there than in this category. Thanks!

Tuesday 11 AM

Oh no, I’m stalling—and arriving in Calais, what a terrible pun! The clutch is shot, it smelled like burning, and my numb fingers don’t even want to touch the keyboard. We’re stuck in the car waiting for the tow truck, and it’s freezing cold.

So, it’s no longer important to talk about the road lined with fencing, barbed wire, and patrols as we approached Calais. I don’t feel like describing the stern-faced customs officer who made us empty the trunk to check if a migrant hadn’t curled up in place of the spare tire under the floor mat. I don’t want to recount the rough ferry crossing where I definitely don’t have my sea legs—my splattered shoes remember it all too well. I’ll skip the endless A1 motorway across England too.

And here we are, straight at the Writers’ Museum, housed in Lady Stair’s House on Lawnmarket along the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. It’s a private morning in honor of Robert Burns. The heavy wooden door is often left ajar. Since last year, it’s been scraping against the stone floor. We meet up with friends and belt out “Auld Lang Syne,” the ballad the poet wrote after Scotland’s annexation by the United Kingdom. This song, known worldwide, moves me every time, and I get goosebumps. If someone climbs the spiral staircase and says “Audentes Fortuna Juvat”—the password to enter the room and our clan’s motto—we’ll offer them a glass of Robert Burns Single Malt. If that someone doesn’t like whisky, they can have tea instead. If they don’t know our motto, they’ll have to come back in the afternoon when the house is open to the public. We won’t linger in Edinburgh; we’ll return for the dinner on January 25th, where haggis and whisky are celebrated, where we have fun, and where we raise toasts in honor of Robert Burns, our clan, and life itself.

Slàinte!

One Sunday, Monday, Tuesday... All in a single day? Cooking, driving, ferry... All in one place? Waking up, embracing, watching, driving, driving some more, singing, toasting... A single accomplishment? Two In the Thoughts section, they’ve slipped away, A bit of the soul of yesteryear has also flown off, Yet nothing has changed. Three Settling somewhere, ending up elsewhere, making a discreet sign in vain... Give up? Keep going anyway? Decide it doesn’t matter. Displease Boileau. Keep going!

Kola wrote "Keep going!"

Maybe then we’ll get to read the rest of your adventure in the TRAVEL JOURNALS... Because yeah, it’s an adventure worthy of a travel journal! (Or we’re back to a question asked elsewhere: what *is* a travel journal? I’m stubborn, so what?)

Hey, you know how to use the gouge like no one else—without hacking it to pieces. You sculpt, it’s delicate, precise, and so often spot-on. I’m in awe. I’m ditching Boileau.

Dolma, you're back! Yep, it’s a travel journal. I’ve gotta go along with the mods’ choice. « Who am I What can I do In this world in dispute »

Since I feel compelled to stay in this part of the forum, I’m making sure to use the iconic line from Bacri’s film *The Sense of Festival*: "So, what do we do? We adapt." .../...

Here we are back in Edinburgh at Steve’s for Burns Night. Steve’s place smells a bit like a dirty sock or an old mop—I can’t decide. I think it’s the lingering scent of whisky floating through his lovely house, almost at the foot of Arthur’s Seat, the city’s proud hill. I have an aversion to whisky and its peculiar taste. Is it the peat, the smoke? I swear it smells like a dirty sock. The flavor reminds me of mop juice. Okay, fine, I’ve never actually drunk mop juice. Do you like whisky? Do you drink local when you travel?

We were about twenty guests—Clan Ramsey, Clan MacKinnon, Clan MacDonald, and Clan Campbell—all gathered to cheerfully celebrate Robert Burns. Steve read the famous Burns Night poem *Address to a Haggis*, we raised a toast, and dug into the haggis. It was warm and fun. I’m making the best of a bad situation because Steve’s haggis doesn’t resemble Mary’s (his late wife) at all. His looks vaguely like shepherd’s pie from Picard. Do you like haggis, and do you think it’s important for countries to have their own culinary treasures?

After the party, we tidied up, stacked the garden chairs, and put the leftover bottles in the cupboard. The next morning, I was in the dew-damp garden. The first joggers, elbows sharp in rhythm and headphones on, were already climbing the hill. What a shame about the headphones—they can’t hear the slightly squishy sound of their steps on the soggy path. Back home, young women who run say it’s part of their *health routine*. Oh, how that new terminology annoys me. *Health routine*, *self-care routine*, *cleaning routine*. It’s like the phrase "just use this app!" The word *application* is probably too long. And also, while I’m at it, the "as of today, this afternoon" thing. I’m really out of step with this world now. What are your thoughts on this? Do you have a *travel routine*?

We left Steve—he hugged me, and my nose ended up between his two... well, let’s just say he’s so enormous he must measure a 110C in chest circumference. We’re heading to Aberdeen, *not* *over* Aberdeen. Those people who say, "I work *in* Paris," "I’m going *to* Lille"—they must have good parachutes. Does that annoy you too?

We’re going *to* Aberdeen. As usual, we’ll stop in the charming little village of Invergarry. That way, we can take the overnight ferry to the Shetland Islands and reach our cottage on the moor for three months. I’ll probably talk about it here. You’ll have to be patient, though—we don’t have internet, and *of course* no Wi-Fi. When we go to Frankie’s for fish and chips, I’ll connect.

PS: No need for photos in this section, and that suits me just fine. Too clumsy to insert images, too lazy to relearn, and honestly, I don’t feel the need to reshape my world or reframe my life. PS2: I hope you noticed I included some reflections to stay on topic in this section.

Slàinte! (don’t know how to put the acute accent on the *a*)

I read your post while sipping water, but to answer you, I’ve got a Scotch in hand. Since you don’t like peaty whiskies, after changing my socks, I poured a Bruichladdich with an iodine nose and salty flavors. The downside of this whisky is that by the second glass, its name becomes unpronounceable.

Do you like whisky?

An Ardbeg—peaty, of course—preferably.

Do you like haggis?

No offense, but I’d rather have an Irish stew.

For other thoughts, I’ll need to think about it.

Sláinte! !

Good evening Dom,

Thoughts

Would a floor washed with whisky be sticky... because what’s certain is that the house would suddenly smell intoxicating. By the way, would it be possible to put it in essential oil diffusers? Whisky (preferably an old Talisker) on the palate, wrapped in jazz—moments of perfection in winter.

Multiple routines on this side of the Alps, just a skincare routine on this side. Polyglot influencers* go all out with *tutto tuto* so no routine or path leaves a mark on their faces.

*influenza: the flu.

Catherine

In Scotland, I drank local water (well, not always just local water), didn’t like haggis, preferred fish and chips, routines bore me to death, and expressions like "in Paris" or "I’ve done the Amazon" really get on my nerves.

There, I’ve done my part of reflections since this travel journal is "left" in this space!

Loved your words—they made me smile and even laugh. Simply delighted to read you. And can’t wait for you to visit Frankie’s so you can tell us all about your cottage on the Shetland moors...

Do you like whisky? What are your thoughts on this topic? Does it annoy you too?

I don’t like whisky, but I’m thinking about it, and yeah, some things do annoy me... can I play along?

When we go to Frankie’s to eat fish and chips

So we’re going for a Land and Sea flavor, the chef’s signature dish here, breaded with panko crumbs whose crispiness enhances the lightness. The chef, who brought back exotic influences from his many travels to reinvent the classics, offers a bold deconstruction of this great classic: The Fich and Ships. Here, the Fish is half-raw fried, and the chips are half-breaded in an airy tempura.

A rough crossing, and the whole thing will splatter your shoes with infinite class.

Thanks for this excellent choice, and enjoy your meal—I’ll leave you with the sommelier for the rest. (See with the enthusiasts above.)

That way, we can take the overnight ferry to the Shetland Islands and reach our cottage on the moor for three months.

Scotland, whiskey (whisky?), mists, and moors, *Doric, Lallans, and Scotch*... If you feel nostalgic on the way back... The Angels' Share

...

in winter—failing travel journals, I’d feel more at home in this section.

And if nostalgia ever strikes, You can always try to make sure That ideas open wide the doors with your hands, with your hands...

...

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Darn, I wrote a weird sentence and I can't edit it anymore... I meant to say: So happy with your words that make me smile and even laugh.

There, it's fixed [:)]

What’s the difference between a reflection and a travel journal? Here, it’s all about the image. Since it’s rare to have any in this section—other than mental ones—here’s one that, I hope, won’t distort your point (photo taken tonight with an ancient phone, no tripod or lighting, but we’re not in the aesthetic/cosmetic section ).

It’s a vintage peat, bought twelve years ago at the Comptoir Irlandais in Lorient. It traveled around Europe in a secret stash in the Defender to make up for any lack of firewood at the campsite. Paradoxically, the stock was only used once during a very boozy evening (and not for whisky) in Norway. And here, it’s competing with the oaks—so it’s yours.

@Dolma

Flûte, I wrote an odd sentence

No flute here—but why not a retort? Tumblers or, better yet, tulip glasses. [;)]

I love this precious gift. It’s so cozy at your place. When I saw the photo, I didn’t have my glasses on and it was blurry—I thought I saw the worn vamp of “Van Gogh’s shoes,” if that tells you how sharp my eyesight is! After putting on my glasses (not the shoes), I saw cobblestones like those collectible ones from Vieux Lyon during the May 1968 protests that my older brother had smuggled home in his schoolbag without our parents knowing. And finally, I saw the peat bricks perfectly. Beautiful, elegant bricks that don’t look anything like our rectangular briquettes we use for heating and cooking. Your photo is a melancholic and romantic tableau filled with serenity. Thanks

___

Hi there, it's a pleasure to see you here.

As a Talisker fan, a gentleman kindly filled me in. It's a lightly peated and fruity whisky from the Isle of Skye. And when I told him you pair it with jazz, he insisted you must be a... voluptuous woman. Mmmmm!

As for essential oils with whisky—help, it exists!

Kola, this is absolutely perfect—you have a real talent for observation, a food critique right on trend. It’s funny and so spot-on! Whiskey is the name used in Ireland, I think. You mention Doric, which is the language around Aberdeen, and I know nothing about it. And for "scotch," are you talking about the Scotch (whisky) or the adhesive tape? As for Lalland, are you referring to Scottish wool? You’ve got me intrigued! Or is it simply a quote since it’s in italics?

We haven’t seen Ken Loach’s film, but we’ll fix that when we get back—thanks for the recommendation. And thanks again for Léo Ferré. "And if ever nostalgia takes hold You can always believe it works And that love makes ideas better After tomorrow, after tomorrow"

Dolma, it makes me happy to make you smile, and don’t listen to Voyajou with his lab flasks—don’t serve whisky in a tumbler. You know, those big glasses with a beveled base, like Maille mustard jars. The tulip glass, though, he’s right—it’s the best. It’s called a dram, and the aromas don’t escape, so you can sniff them real elegantly. You’re so polite—I can promise you that when I’m wrong, I don’t just say ‘darn’.

Before reaching our island—or Yell, Unst, or the main island of Mainland—we spend a few hours in Lerwick to do laundry and stock up on groceries for a few days. We take a quick detour to Brae to visit Frankie’s and fill our stomachs with fish and chips so hearty I have to undo the button on my pants.

We send updates, read about the latest arrivals, and head back to the ferry dock.

Lerwick has a bit of an Edinburgh vibe—grey stones, slate roofs, cobbled alleys—and under the leaden sky, I inexplicably feel like I’m in *Wuthering Heights*. Thirty minutes on a small ferry later, we finally set down our bags. We’re in Whalsay.

And surprise—the fiber internet is installed in our cottage. We’re happy and unhappy about it. A paradox. The Shetlands had been cut off from the world two years ago after the undersea cables broke, but since Enea’s place had no internet anyway, it didn’t change much for us. For the locals, though, it was a whole different story.

Jules (one of my fourteen grandchildren) insists AI is the future. ChatGPT already helps him with homework, and his teacher didn’t even notice!!! He claims AI will save him from having to learn *anything* because all you have to do is ask. Before leaving, he hands me his phone and says: "Ask whatever you want." I asked it to tell me about the Shetland Islands. In ten seconds, I had a travel guide. "See? It’s cool, right! Plus, you can talk about anything—it’s like a virtual buddy." "Isn’t it boring not to think for yourself? And doesn’t it isolate you? Don’t you think?"

Will AI replace forums and travel guides?

In the Shetlands—a vast archipelago of about a hundred islands, only sixteen of which are inhabited—you really feel like you’re at the edge of the world. Enea, the owner, has been renting us this little cottage for four years. She’s thinking of selling; we’re thinking of buying. Fully aware of our age and the years slipping away like soap down a slope, we tell ourselves the grandkids could come here to live out their romances. Out on the moor, they could love each other in peace. Will they come this far? That’s the big question. Having internet installed will surely be a draw for this younger generation.

Back to our sheep. In the Shetlands, it’s obvious—sheep and little ponies everywhere. Right in front of our place, a small black pony with a wild mane trots up to greet us, then slams on the brakes like Jolly Jumper when it realizes it doesn’t know us. It approaches my hand cautiously and delicately takes the carrot piece. Then it trots back to its friends. These stocky little ponies always have hair in their eyes, like hippies without the headband. They don’t scare me like horses do—those yellow teeth terrify me so much I’d never dare offer them even an apple.

So, our cottage. It’s all white with teal window frames, giving it a cheerful look. It’s topped with a slate roof. There are two rooms. A main room, six strides by ten, with a stove we use for heating and cooking. We go through about fifteen peat bricks a day. My partner sometimes goes with Lyle to cut peat. They use a *tushktar*, a traditional tool, and apparently, it’s exhausting. When we arrive, there’s already a mountain of ready-cut bricks. Good. At the back of the main room, there’s a sort of alcove with a big bed. Next to it, a wash area and a toilet. That’s it. Nothing more.

Is heating with peat ecological?

No fences here—the sheep roam free and never let you get close. I move slowly and gently, but *whoosh!* If one gets spooked, it bolts and takes all the others with it. Panurge is highly responsible. On windy days—and it’s *very* windy *very* often—the salty sea spray dampens your face. There are no trees, just a few bushes, and the wind races and leaps across the moor, whistling as it goes. The ocean is right at our feet. My partner is beside me, and I can’t resist giving him a kiss—I love the salty taste on his chapped lips.

Steve always says: "What are you even going to do up there? It’s so far, and there’s nothing." That’s exactly why we go.

Sheep, ponies, seals, orcas hunting the seals, gannets, and puffins that birdwatchers come to observe with binoculars, cliffs, beaches, trails, and locals as welcoming as those in our Morvan. Many speak Shetlandic—even more incomprehensible than Gaelic, and that’s saying something. The days stretch long in spring at this latitude, offering cozy evenings under a rough but warm blanket.

This deep peace that fills me here sometimes leaves me dizzy, as if for a moment I’d lived in another dimension.

What more could you ask for?

It's beautiful and poetic. And yet, you've just described my absolute nightmare.

Is it eco-friendly to heat with peat?

Certainly, as long as it’s not extracted faster than it forms. (There’s hardly an "ecological problem" that wouldn’t naturally resolve itself if Earth had fewer people, after all.)

I just sent my varnished peat briquettes to Amazon (you’ll have noticed they’ve replaced horses with drones). They should be near Whalsay by tomorrow. However, even though the drone runs on Amazon’s AI, the fact that it’s solar-powered makes me worry it might drop them on a sheep instead of gently placing them in your hearth when it reaches your area. You’ll then have to make do with the meat (1), while Man fashions straps from the hide to turn those briquettes into rather stylish geta. No doubt he’ll find you voluptuous then, even as you suffer from the lack of uppers (2).

(1) I recommend Kola, a home chef who’s had an age-old recipe for leg of lamb tenderized under a pony saddle, her mint emulsion, and her cucumber reduction. (2) If the wind blows just right, Dolma will come knit you some slippers—one stitch right, one stitch wrong.

Will AI do away with forums and travel guides?

Probably, but more seriously, Jules won’t get his humanities education.

Hey (I would’ve tried Shetlandic, but Google’s silent)

It’s beautiful and poetic. And yet, you’ve just described my absolute nightmare.

A thoughtful reflection: one person’s dream is another’s nightmare.

“It’s because there’s nothing that we go there.” Exactly.

Dom, the reading experience conjured up pleasant images, but it’s morning, the coffee—corrected with whisky—is sipped in the alcove, and the urge to wander the moors is ravenous. No trees, sure, a few shrubs, okay, but what about the heather? Is it there or not? And if it is, if the mood struck to confide in it, would it tickle the skin or scratch it? I have no idea.

Catherine

Good morning Unamilanese, The heather is soft—you can lie down on it when it hasn’t rained. And in summer, it’s so breathtakingly beautiful that you could cry with happiness at the sight of the hills where every shade of violet, pink, and white intertwines.

Originally, in the Highlands, it’s called *calluna*, and it’s the result of deforestation. Ten thousand years ago, these were forests.

Heather is said to be magical, and when a young woman marries, she carries a sprig of white heather in her bouquet.

Today, heather is a source of pride for the Scots, but their true emblem is the blue thistle—and yes, that *does* prick!

On the islands, especially in the Shetlands where the subarctic climate is harsh, the moorland has adapted to the salinity of the soil. You’ll find plantain, mosses, heather in the land, buttercups, gentians, and just plain grass. Right now, everything looks a bit russet, but it’ll all change with spring.

Hello Voyajou, Are you sure you paid the right rate for your briquettes? Nothing arrived. Do you have a package tracking number? Drones sometimes malfunction. For commerce, it’s a bit annoying, but for war, it’s horrifying. Imagine a drone pilot leaving home in the morning, kissing his kids and wife. He settles into his office, follows orders to strike a facility, misses, and hits a school instead. That evening, he goes home, kisses his kids and wife again. Will he be able to sleep?

PS: Can you picture me walking across the moors in geta? One wrong step and I’d sprain my ankle, stuck in the moss.

Is it the last bastion against worry, madness, or the absurdity of the world... in journals, in reflections, in images, love scatters its petals everywhere on VF.

Scenes of animal love (Kenya). A marriage proposal high up on the mountain (Tanzania). A four-handed travel journal (India). A loving gaze in a wild journal (Australia)... ... and then here, like a vast fire that continues to shine in the midst of autumn, at the edge of winter, old-age love, tender love that plays with gray hair and turns faded bathrobes into rainbow-colored finery.

Man is near me, I can’t resist giving him a kiss,

ChatGPT, what is love?

Love is a complex mix of emotions, feelings, and commitment [...] Romantic love is a deep connection between two people, made of attraction, complicity, and respect. [...] But beyond emotions, love is also a decision: the choice to take care of the other, to understand them, and to build something together.

Thanks, ChatGPT, that’s a bit formal—it lacks poetry, lyricism... but can you define love when you have, like you, no soul, no beating heart, no blood in your veins?

Good question. Technically, I can describe love based on philosophical, psychological, and literary definitions. But experience it? No. I have no emotions, no body, no consciousness of my own. That said, does understanding love necessarily mean feeling it? Poets and philosophers have talked about it for centuries, and each gives a different definition based on their experience or worldview. Maybe love is precisely something that escapes strict definitions and is lived more than it’s explained.

... Will AI erase the forum and travel guides?

What world will we leave to our children? To which children will we leave this world?

Jules, 14 years old, and so many others who see us perplexed in the face of their new doctrines—will they let themselves be swallowed whole, raw, by the looming shadows of the (A)I to come... or will they forge their own weapons or shields? Will they have a conscience that our fears, uselessly, imagine them, a little hastily, to lack? ... Is it ecological to heat with peat? Amazon wasn’t a great idea for sending peat bricks. They seem to have disappeared somewhere over the North Sea... or maybe they’ve already burned in a Scottish furnace? ... For long evenings under the scratchy but oh-so-warm blanket. The Scottish Trilogy

"It's because there's nothing there that we go"

Instead of writing 15 lines, here’s simply why I love reading you so much, again and again... It’s always where those who say there’s nothing that we find our little joys—those joys you know how to present so well.

Hi Kola, Did you really ask ChatGPT? You got a perfect machine response, and your words are a thousand times more eloquent.

I read the Scottish trilogy a long time ago, and while reading those books that speak so deeply to the hearts of men, I felt all that was missing was the smell of peat to reach the perfection of the Isle of Harris and Lewis. That scent of dampness, of the ocean, a hint of mushroom when it’s cut, and acrid when it’s burned.

I don’t know what the world will be like for my grandchildren and young people in general when I’m gone, but they’re full of resources, hope, and dreams, just as we all were—and that’s wonderful.

Say, Pondy, that "salty taste on chapped lips" line is a bit bold—I shuddered. [:)]

Ohhh, I’m so happy to see this here. Totally surprised too. It’s crazy how you shake the dust off old memories. Wasn’t there a black-and-white spotted cow in your profile picture? Those were such lighthearted and joyful times on the forum, at least in my memory.

Make sure the pleasure is shared! And that lightness and joy (punctuated by fierce sparring) are also missed... You’ve got a good memory—there was indeed a cow, but I think she succumbed to VF’s long Covid because I didn’t find her when I logged back in. An old neighbor, in a place akin to the moors and elements you describe so well: it’s sad.

Friday: 0 seals, a hundred sheep, 1 hare, 2 humans, 0 Vikings

This morning, the freshly washed sky sends me to the water’s edge on a tiny pebble-and-sand beach. Man stayed at home, sitting at the yellow Formica table pushed up against the stove. His book is so old it has to be placed carefully on the table. Man is stubborn and insisted on bringing it in his luggage. It’s the first volume, *Waverley*, of Walter Scott’s work—a Scottish writer almost unknown in France, just like the bard Robert Burns, for that matter. But if you say “Ivanhoe,” well, a few memories come to life. Anyway, Man is reading the last edition from Edinburgh, translated into French in 1839. He turns the pages, blowing on them to keep them from falling apart. The manuscript is the color of toasted barley and smells like an old sailor’s trunk. I know there’s no point telling him I’ll be back in an hour—he’s deep in the Jacobite rebellion and the Battle of Culloden.

I walk across the spongy moorland, a little green, a little russet, all soft, patiently waiting to turn green again and be covered in gentians. Enea tells me they’re gentians, even though they look like crocuses. I’ll take her word for it.

The ocean’s swell is strangely comforting. My parka is zipped up tight, and the beaver down around my hood tickles my cheek. I sit on a rock as rough as emery cloth and just stay there, thinking about nothing in a kind of absolute born from the earth, water, and wind.

Later, we’ll go get fish at the port of Symbister, the little town on the island. Then a quick stroll down the main street, and if it’s school dismissal time, we’ll see a swarm of middle-schoolers pouring out of the beautiful Georgian house where I imagine it must be nice to learn.

On Sunday, we got a video call from Young Son. And there you have it—we’ve got internet! Of course we’re happy; we’re not going to act like grumpy old folks, and of course we answer with joy. We chat for a while—the connection is perfect. Then Son says: “Here, Arthur wants to talk to you.”

Arthur’s grown now; he’s in first grade and at the age for Toto jokes!! “Mamido, do you know what you call a mean grandma?” “Uh, no—I hope it’s not me!” “No, it’s not you. So what do you call her?” “I have no idea.” He laughs, and I see the big gap where his teeth are missing. “A *granny-trailer*!” He’s so proud of his joke that I laugh with him.

That’s all for today. Tomorrow, we’re planning a trip to Unst, Viking territory and the northernmost island in the UK. See you later!

Little aside If today jewelers, florists, and chocolatiers are rubbing their hands—fair game for such a commercial holiday—on this date, an important symbolic founding event also took place. Do you know which one? I feel like I’ll be migrating to “miscellaneous” soon

Did you really ask ChatGPT?

I faithfully transcribed it.

on that date, however, a symbolic foundational event took place

Does the name of its inventor—Scottish—appear among the possible tones? And even if it has long since broken free from its tie, hasn’t it left us with quite a leash? Even on a windswept Scottish island? But sometimes, that’s a good thing. By playing with seas and mountains, time and distance, it connects the great and the small... who can then laugh together even when they’re not in the same place.

Other tragic, lighthearted, or unusual events happened on a February 14th. But without this one and its endless innovations... could you have asked the question here?

Hi Kola!

"Does the name of its inventor—Scottish—appear among the possible tones?" You’re probably thinking of Bell, since you playfully wrote “tones.” While he helped keep long-distance connections alive, I wasn’t actually referring to him. Actually, I was thinking of February 14, 842, when the Oaths of Strasbourg were signed—an event now considered the founding act of the French language. On a French-speaking forum, I thought that was a nice touch.

0 humans, 2 ponies, 20 sheep

Today, a light, freezing drizzle didn’t exactly encourage us to go out. We were supposed to take the ferry to Unst to see the kids rehearsing a play about Vikings. We already miss the Viking festival, Up Helly Aa, every year because it’s in January and we always arrive too late. Now, the desire to watch the kids practice has vanished with the rain.

Vikings—a grand history. When I was young, a Viking was a giant blond with a shaggy beard covered in breadcrumbs and bits of grass. A bloodthirsty pirate with a sword clenched between his teeth, sailing on his longship with his buddies to attack other ships.

The reality is quite different, and on Unst, you can see a reconstruction of their history and homes. It looks a bit like the blackhouses of the Highlands, with a grassy roof that’s really striking.

The Shetlanders don’t claim any affiliation—neither Scandinavian nor Scottish. They’re first and foremost Shetlanders, though their Viking heritage has left traces, like the place names and the ruins of the old Viking capital in Scalloway.

One last fun anecdote: Vikings were fond of mead. Two years ago, our honey harvest was abundant (unlike last year, when the rain disrupted the bees so much that the harvest was tiny). My partner made mead for the first time, and honestly, it was absolutely delicious. Giving a bottle with a nice homemade label makes for a very appreciated gift. Have you, during your travels, tasted homemade alcohols?

In Russia, we drank samogon. As much as I hate vodka, this fruit-based alcohol—37% for the ladies and 45% for the men—was really good. The one we tried was distilled with fruit, not grains, because apparently, grain-based spirits are rough and responsible for many deaths. See you later...

Actually, I was thinking of February 14, 842, the signing of the Oaths of Strasbourg, which is considered today as the founding act of the French language. On a French-speaking forum, I thought that was a nice touch.

"Nithard specifies that on the day the kings, Louis the German and Charles the Bald, and the leaders (the dukes) of the Frankish tribes pronounced their pact (pactum), snow fell abundantly on the frozen earth (subsequente gelu nix multa cecidit).

Here are the first French words spoken in the cold and snow, on their frozen lips, on February 14, and immediately noted as they hung in the air: - Pro Deo amour et pro christian pi lo et nostro commun salvament si Lodhuwigs sagrament que son fradre Karlo jurat ni je ni nul qui en puissent returnar en nulle aide, contre Lodhuwigs, ne serai.

This is how the first French text ends with a sublime double negative, which is a terrible imprecation of ostracism in case of perjury. En nulle aide ne serai.

Neither I nor anyone else.

But there was no perjury. The empire was divided into three vast equal parts. Middle Francia remained in the hands of Lothair. West Francia went to Charles the Bald. East Francia remained under the domination of Louis the German. Today’s Europe can already be seen in this. And—in this strange contingency of origin, in this white breath rising from their lips, in this abundant snow (multa) falling from the sky—all the wars it has known and the competitions it still faces are written there."

Tears, Pascal Quignard.

This isn’t the most beautiful passage in the book.

You know, Catherine, I’m glad you brought up the Strasbourg Oaths. Years ago—maybe a decade or so—I read *Les Larmes* and from the very start, I felt put off. I found it so unclear that I got bored. But once poetry sweeps you away, everything flows. Still, I’m sure if I read it again today, I wouldn’t feel the same way. That’s how it goes with a lot of my reading. I let things settle and come back much later, and then I savor it all.

50 sheep, 1 whitecoat No need to linger here any longer, so I’ll wrap up this Shetland chapter. Still, I can’t help but share the magical afternoon we spent. The light was intense, and the sun was almost directly overhead. We walked along the cliff, taking it easy since neither of us is exactly a hiking fanatic. Below, the waves were fiercely slapping the rocks, and in the shelter of a small gravel cove, seals were basking in the sun. Nothing out of the ordinary—except for that little white, fluffy whitecoat. Maybe it’s called a pup? I’m no seal expert. A pup because the baby seal’s cry sounds like a bark. What I find incredible is that the female can delay embryonic development for a few months so her pup is born at the same time each year. Nature’s wild like that. I picture a young woman pregnant in October who wants her baby to arrive after the summer heat. “You, my little one, just wait before you grow!” In a few days, it’ll head into the water on its own. Amazing nature. We stood there, shoulder to shoulder, the richness and light of our bond held in our joined hands.

Navigating between the prohibitions. Bumping into arbitrariness. Assuming... but no. Smiling to avoid despair. Not giving in. And taking your leave with elegance.

Until next time, maybe...

We stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, the richness and light of our bond held in our joined hands.

Could Warner or AI have delivered a more beautiful ending *to behold*?