The Foam of Days

How can one love a country so much as to want to live there, then suddenly reject it and no longer appreciate what once made it so appealing? It’s the mystery of love. Perhaps?

Funny enough, I’ve run into the same issue with women for a long time 😛 It’s also the mystery of love, though not so mysterious in the end.

What struck me in the rest of your reflection was the need for delicacy demanded by our aging bodies and souls. More comfort, a better mattress, less noise, gentler food, taking a taxi instead of the bus, no harsh lights, and so on.

We used to appreciate adventurous trips in exhausting conditions, but back then, our experiences were full of blank slates, and our bodies allowed us to push limits. Damn, I’ve officially crossed into the third age...

"The leaves we tread, a train that rolls, life flows by."

Hi Joël,

You’re quite poetic today. I don’t feel like I’m tipping into old age as you put it, but rather sliding into it peacefully, far from all those travel worries that used to stress me out—ridiculous ones like:

finding a reliable guesthouse, hotel, or car rental, scoring a cheap flight ticket, avoiding long layovers, recovering from jet lag, learning a few words of the local language only to forget them as soon as I get back, forcing a smile even when I’m in a bad mood because, after all, you don’t want to ruin your vacation over a canceled flight, a flat tire, or missing tent pegs, etc., etc...

Taking the time to live life to the fullest.

Anyway, it’s sweet of you to leave a few lines. I see you do that often on dormant posts. A bit like a guardian spirit! 😛

This morning, at that strange hour when night hesitates to slip away and day trembles at the thought of lighting up, I checked if my post had been read. A fly suddenly fell onto my desk. On its back. It was frantically waving its legs. I gently picked it up between my thumb and index finger. I hate that tiny buzzing sensation between my fingers. I went to feed my spider in the bathroom. It’s been living there peacefully for months. I don’t know what it eats. I’ve forbidden everyone from chasing it away or killing it. If I blow on its delicate web, it stirs. As soon as I place the fly on the web, it calmly comes to wrap its feast in silk. To conclude this episode, it’s fair to say I don’t just have a spider on the ceiling.

Yesterday, I walked to the village. I listened to the scritch-scratch of my boots in the snow. The silence was absolute and so intense that I felt like I had earplugs in my ears. It was the earth’s contemplation, and I felt deeply at peace. I had cast aside all the sneaky worries we’re fed every day to the edges of my mind.

At the edge of the village, in the rickety little book exchange box, there were only a few books warped by moisture. I took *Le Grand Meaulnes*, which I have such fond memories of. On the title page was a name: Gudmar Johansson. The whole book was annotated in Norwegian, or maybe Swedish? How had this book ended up in that little book exchange box? Who was Gudmar? He read in French and annotated in his own language. And I continued my walk, transported to the Scandinavian countries, where winter snow seems even softer than here.

So, I believe—I’m sure—I no longer need to travel today. My memories and imagination cover thousands of kilometers in my mind, and that’s enough.

Hi Dom, I don’t drop by here too often anymore. Covid has probably changed a lot of things when it comes to communication—Instagram and other sites have altered how we express ourselves online. But today, stuck indoors because of the bad weather and feeling too lazy to read ("flemme" already means extreme fatigue), I opened my computer. Among other things, I saw a message from VF in my inbox, which I usually delete without reading. But then I saw Pondy—wow, that completely woke me up, and my chronic gloominess, fueled by the general mood, evaporated like mist hiding the Vosges forest. I rediscovered your writing, which I’ve always loved, across the years that pass—or rather, flee. I don’t write on VF anymore, but I still share tips now and then. Spiders, like you, I love them. They’re the guardians of houses, feeding on mosquitoes and other invaders. But the world is strange: since I’m not vegetarian (unlike my granddaughters), I have to fight not to kill them when one of them screams and runs away at the sight of one. Sure, I’ve come across some not-so-nice ones, especially in Argentina, and I’d zip up my tent as best I could—just like in the forests of Laos, but there it was snakes. Time passes, desires follow and fade. You have to surround yourself with old friends—"potes" and "potesses"—whose souls haven’t been as marked by time. You eagerly wait for them to shake you up and sweep you off into new adventures. While you realize that the foam (maybe not the kind Boris Vian wrote about) piles up like waves depositing layer after layer on the sand, all it takes is for others to blow on it—you, who no longer have the courage or desire—for those strong, beautiful loves to reappear beyond the chaos of the coming shipwreck. I still write for various cycling or more technical magazines. Here are two texts just for you:

A bike trip this summer 2025 with two friends:

71, 72, 73... years old, tackling the Grands Causses

Is the goal of a bike trip to cover kilometers? In reality, there are many other reasons. Often, comments—or even reproaches—arise about travel stories where, supposedly, there isn’t enough about cycling. Do we have a completely clear idea of our quest when we set off on an adventure on two wheels? Obviously, everyone moves forward with their own reasons or intuitions, sometimes poorly defined, which the road and trails gradually shape. Choosing your companions is just as crucial. Finding good company isn’t always easy, but you also have to ask yourself: "Am I a good travel companion?" Experience alone is necessary to start asking that kind of question. This short 7-day trip—450 km and 6,000 m of elevation gain—from Montpellier to Marvejols left me with memories of conversations with my two companions and a multitude of architectural, human, and natural discoveries. The big climbs, jumping from causse to causse, were sometimes the occasion for long chats. At 71, the bike gets pushed more often on 6% gradients, especially in scorching heat, headwind, or at the end of a tiring afternoon. My companions are solid. André, already a partner in beautiful cycling expeditions in high-elevation zones in France and around the world. Nicolas, with whom this is our first trip together despite a long friendship—both driven, even devoured, by the same lifelong passion: mountaineering. They say great loves can fade over time, but not this one. Our passionate exchanges ignite our memories, from the Drus and its prestigious routes to the north face of the Grandes Jorasses and its famous Walker Spur. The bonds grow stronger, and any notion of suffering disappears on the steep climbs as we reminisce. This parallel between mountaineering and bike travel comes up often, as many of my cycling buddies—men and women—previously practiced high-level mountaineering. Certainly, the notion of physical and moral commitment underlies both activities. With time, maybe we seek to shape our trips differently, with more encounters than physical effort. Some might object: "You don’t need a bike—go to the pool and the restaurant with your old friends, and with a good bottle, the snippets of past life will be grander and more beautiful." But the equation is more complex: this desire to make our muscles work for days on end to convince ourselves we still have some control over time, which inexorably slips away, is probably the biggest unknown. We left from André’s place in Montpellier. His deep knowledge of the city made it easy to escape a conurbation under construction with heavy traffic. Quickly, small deserted but steep roads opened up under our wheels. The meet-up with Nicolas was in Lamalou-les-Bains. For a warm-up, 90 km and, if that wasn’t enough, 1,000 m of elevation gain with a steady headwind. A tough baptism. By Lake Salagou, a magnificent spectacle unfolded: the ballet of Canadair planes training for water scooping captured our attention. It’s fascinating to watch, especially when there are several, the precision with which the pilots maneuver—often former naval aviators, used to landing in tight spots. Nicolas was waiting at the agreed spot. The route would take shape based on each of our inspirations. Few constraints were imposed, except two: the bad weather forecast for the following week and my burning desire to cross the Grands Causses—Larzac, Noir, Méjean, and Sauveterre. The foundations were laid. The route zigzagged between rivers and plateaus, dotted with a multitude of small towns or villages, true gems of French cultural heritage. The Caussenard habitat, recognizable by its thick walls and aesthetic curves, has long caught my attention. France remains one of the most beautiful cycling destinations due to its constant diversity. A Canadian cycle-traveler once told me he particularly appreciated our country for its multitude of towns with unique names and millennia-old churches. 36,000 municipalities—enough to fuel curiosity, even if we’re currently in a phase of regrouping. Nicolas had the first idea: the Héric gorges in the Espinouse. But they’re not bike-friendly. We headed for the Col de Fontfroide. Maybe it’s not daunting with its 12 km and 771 m of elevation gain, but the previous day’s efforts had left their mark. Under an unrelenting sun, the bike got pushed for a long time. The place holds memories of resistance actions and recounts various combat operations from World War II. A sign even lists the number of deaths by country—a rare and striking way to illustrate the losses of that terrible conflict. This second day raised questions. Is it reasonable to keep pushing ourselves with heavy panniers? The answer would come in the following days. Avoiding too brutal starts, the body—always accommodating—eventually finds its rhythm, and pleasure inevitably takes over again. This southern region offers constant changes of scenery for the traveler. In just one week, everything blends in my memory: a parade of beautiful villages, countless rivers (some unfortunately marked as polluted by warning signs along the banks), and beautiful surprises. And always, a crush for the Causse Méjean, which unfolds like a Bolivian Altiplano, but greener. These lands are steeped in history. There are places where the spirit breathes, as Maurice Barrès wrote about the hill of Sion. The richness of traveling also lies in communion with experienced adventurers who carry stories from around the world. Travel is also about confronting old hands who aren’t intimidated by any difficulty and remain endlessly curious. Never jaded, always a source of inspiration. Their practices are a rich lesson. Nicolas, close to minimalism, travels without a tent, finding shelter every evening—an old bread oven, a church awning, or any other refuge on rainy nights. No stove either, often eating raw vegetables like fresh peas, buying big handfuls of pods. What characterizes them both is their even temper in the joy of living. Crossing Sudan solo during troubled times didn’t stop him from savoring a little French ride. That’s where the traveler’s spirit lies. The tiny mishaps hold a big place in memory, like this path turning into a steep track before hitting a 100-meter cliff, making passage impossible. The village of Sylvanès offered two beautiful surprises. The first, a wooden Orthodox church transported from Russia by train and reassembled by a team of young Russian carpenters in this Aveyron commune. The second, an abbey with 9 centuries of history. A surprising feature: the nave impresses with its size because there are no side aisles to support the vault, which enhances space and light. The Grands Causses remain the striking image of this short journey. The tough climbs from the valley floors to reach them, followed by the reward when the space opens up and the immensity appears. But beware, it’s not always flat. A special spirit reigns on these highlands. Each causse has its own character: Larzac, empire of raw limestone; the Causse Noir, dotted with clusters of pines that give it a dark touch from afar; Méjean, the most airy, studded with flowers depending on the season and carrying an elusive celestial altitude sensation; and finally, Sauveterre, which transitions to more northern regions, opening toward the great Auvergne volcanoes. The small towns also leave their mark: Nans, Meyrueis, or Saint-Enimie. Despite tourism during this long-weekend period, the atmosphere remains peaceful before the summer migrations. A memorable evening in a bar, in a packed room, watching the PSG-Milan match on TV—what a rare spectacle: a crowd going wild, crescendo, with an apotheosis at the fifth goal. After seven days that flew by, our journey ended abruptly in Marvejols. The bad weather drove us from these highlands, André and I back to Montpellier, Nicolas to Paris. The latter pulled off a daring feat by crossing the Aubrac at night and in the rain to reach a train line to Clermont-Ferrand. There’s a god for bold adventurers without tents—an old communal bread oven offered him a dry shelter for the night. Wherever it starts and wherever it leads, travel remains a source of wonder, and if you’re lucky enough to have good company, the miracle happens.

Text about my professional memories at the request of a classmate who wants to make a book where each of us, classmates, would let ourselves go to a certain frankness or even immodesty. Text limited to 5,000 characters including spaces—difficult exercise to recount a life, but we spend our existence being trained to write reports where conciseness and brevity are demanded:

I thought I was someone because I had just passed the exam. Shock—arriving at the Air School with my suitcase still in hand, my first contact was: "Drop everything and start running." For the country bumpkin I was, a bit wild, not used to constraints and orders, adaptation was tough. After three years of prep school, the BDE (student office) was the lethal overdose. A school for learning cohesion, a few guardian angels like Teysson or Grosse Baffe (aka Zuzu) saved me, as did Condus, who had a soft spot for me. From that period, I remember a mountain training course with the alpine hunters. Early morning wake-up to climb the north face of the Tsanteleina in Vanoise. Very early, the commanding officer gets up from the table, and everyone follows. Banga (P...) no, he tells me, "I’m not done," and we stay to finish our breakfasts before joining them. The instructor sergeant wasn’t a firebrand. I knew the route, and we reached the summit breaking trail. Another time, he was too lazy to get up, so I ended up in the brig for leaving with Pinky and Zuzu to the Aiguille Noire de Pramécou above Tignes. And then there’s the day Condus intercepts me as I’m sneaking off with my climbing gear and announces as a "reward": D..., change into uniform and on the plane to Paris for the Ailes ball. Not my thing. I was really bored. SLT, I roomed with two future top pilots, Z... and G.... But we’re not always wired the same as our friends. Flying wasn’t for me—I was more into the outdoors, nature. When I was doing basic aerobatics solo in a Fouga above Sainte-Victoire, I thought, "I’d be so much happier climbing." Clearly not up to what was expected of a future pilot, the DV (flight director) kicked me out of the PN (navigator-pilot) program, accusing me of doing it on purpose. Even today, I’m not really sure. So I became a commando. One school replaces another. Salon, Nîmes. Again, not my cup of tea. I started living as an EP (platoon) commander. I met great leaders like Colonel Guéniot, or later as MSP (mission support) chief, Colonel Paloméros. Very strict but true leaders, and leaders who have your back. These two great generals deserve at least a chapter, but 5,000 characters... On OPEX (overseas operations), Sarajevo marked me because I was in the thick of it—the real war. Sometimes scared, but I loved it. Maybe because I was young and found it thrilling, or maybe because of the taste for risk and toughness that accompanies my life. My room slowly collapsed after a shell hit the foot of the facade. The Serbs weren’t happy, French journalists were spouting nonsense. The F14s buzzing my TACP (Tactical Air Control Party) point on the mountaintop at dawn. When I got back, a text I wrote with a bit too much enthusiasm earned me the wrath of the general commanding the commandos. But the most extraordinary posting was Albania as defense attaché. The ambassador and the first secretary, both homosexual, formed an as extravagant as unexpected duo—a drag ball in the hushed temple of diplomacy. Their little squabbles set the daily rhythm. I’d laugh despite my consternation. I lived in this very endearing country where you can say anything and its opposite—unbelievable stories like election days when, at the polling station entrance, a half-uniformed man decides who gets to vote with a silencer peeking out of his pocket, where ballot boxes disappear for hours, where a Greek MP comes to throw punches. A different logic, far from our way of thinking, but we’re still in Europe. And above all, I made friendships there that last to this day. A final posting as zone defense EM (staff) chief with the impression of being a pawn in a crumbling state where ministries constantly trip each other up—enough said... And then comes the aftermath. End of the game at 52. Another job awaits me: taking care of my parents. There’s no question of not giving them everything, no matter how hard the mission. I put the uniform back on for a few months by joining the reserve, despite my initial refusal, at the insistence of one of my former chiefs. Attached to the CDAOA (Air Defense and Air Operations Command), I reconnected with beautiful international maneuver experiences, including a final 12-day stint deep in Norway.

My parents are no longer here. With time regained, I’ve plunged into the world of bike travel and discovered many places around the planet at the rhythm of wheel turns, especially the great deserts—the Gobi and especially the Atacama, which I’ve returned to three times to explore for many months. Even today, it’s the terrain and nature that call me.

There you go, I’ve had a pleasant moment—thanks, Dom

Hello Luc,

Your life has truly been abundant, rich with discoveries and adventures. I’ve been reading your long posts for years. These texts that some have criticized for their length in a world of instant gratification and immediacy. It’s worth taking the time to read you slowly, and I now enjoy savoring your words—you describe with such care those “places where the spirit breathes.”

I’ve often been captivated by the intensity of your spiritual life in certain discussions, by the energy you put into your bike trips, and by the strength of your friendships.

Thank you for adding a few “steps” to this unassuming post where I’m simply pondering the meaning of travel.

Before diving into the heart of the matter, let me share this with you.

No!!! It wasn’t the Karni Mata temple.

I was reading in my comfy armchair that hugs your back, in front of the cold fireplace. The house was silent. I hear scratching in the wall—really loud scratching. Not the squeak-squeak of a mouse at all. It was a full-on racket. I slap the wall with my hand, but it keeps going. So, since it’s inside the wall and I can’t see anything, I go back to my reading. Then... total silence. Phew, the animal’s gone. About ten minutes later: plop, plop, plop. Water dripping between the beams, right at the top of the ceiling. I’ll spare you my cursing. The plumber came, the pipe was chewed up, and he fixed it.

My husband put a small camera in the barn next to that wall. The next day, we saw a huge black rat—really big and plump. A field rat, much nicer than sewer rats. We set out rat poison and a trap with sunflower seeds, which these rodents love... Snap! Ouch, we see it caught in the trap, shaking and managing to break free. Darn! That was in November.

Why am I telling this story? Because since the repair, it had been quiet in the barn—just the bats—but last night... a geyser in the barn. We turned off the water. It doesn’t smell bad yet.

Back to our sheep—not the black-headed ones, though I’ll see them soon.

--

It was during the Christmas holidays. When the house is filled with laughter and shouts, when the older teens thunder down the stairs risking the house’s collapse, the adults passionately discuss summer vacations.

Oldest son: "We’ve decided—we’re doing the great Alpine crossing." Oldest daughter: "We’re going back to Crete." Youngest son: "No change for us—Mauritius again."

I catch snippets of their questions, words, enthusiasm, and their fervor.

I just listen and no longer feel like getting involved, telling them about Crete’s beauty, that February when snow had made tiny white hats on the oranges in the orchards. I don’t feel like saying I’ve never wanted to go to Mauritius or that I admire the idea of hiking that long distance in the Alps.

I’m simply happy they still have this burning desire to explore, test their limits, and relax in the sun.

And if it’s true that traveling helps you learn about yourself, and if, as a result, I no longer feel like traveling, I conclude that I know myself well enough—or more likely, I’m turning into a homebody.

Your writing sparks a brainstorm (sorry for the English word) in me—"a brainstorm" sounds a little odd in French. English has expressions that require some mental gymnastics in French. The two that resonate with me most, especially when it comes to sports, mountaineering, and cycling, are dry tooling and bikepacking.

So, your writing brings past experiences that left their mark bubbling to the surface—moments from the present, particularly about relationships with my kids and grandkids—and also projects me into future desires, maybe even fantasies, that my wife calls "nonsense that’s no longer appropriate for your age." I’ll take the time to reflect and probably get back to you.

In the meantime, I’m copying the short promotional text for the Itinérance 2026 festival. The first edition in 2025 was apparently a great success, and the Mayor strongly encouraged me to do it again. I really love the last line:

Festival Itinérance Cornimont 24–26 April 2026 Polyactivity Center

In 2026, the Itinérance Festival in Cornimont, in the Vosges, will return from 24 to 26 April. The success of the 2025 edition confirmed the desire to continue the adventure. Dedicated to non-motorized travel, this year’s festival will feature a smaller but more diverse lineup of speakers, each with rich and complementary experiences. A single guest might discuss bike or foot travel, long-distance hiking across major European or remote mountain ranges, or even mountaineering. The sea will also be celebrated.

Most of the speakers are travel writers; storytelling and narrative will take center stage, particularly with Pierre Herant, an author in high demand by publishers. Among the key themes, resilience in the face of illness will be explored through Alexandra Husta’s epic cycling journeys. Extreme travel conditions will also be featured, highlighted by Blandine Dupuis’s physical and moral commitment. Luc Devors will delve into his relationships with companions during demanding projects, while Julien Humbert will discuss the challenges of leaving and being away for several years. Sailors Gilles Jaulet will share his sailing experiences, and Guy Lecointre will take us on a journey to Cape Horn in a sea kayak, fully self-sufficient. All speakers will also have the opportunity to share their solo adventures.

A special session for families will be held on Friday afternoon: children will be able to ask questions and chat freely with the speakers. Photographic exhibitions will round out the program, including one on the wildlife of the Vosges mountains, presented by a native of Cornimont whose connection with wild animals is striking.

True to the 2025 edition, sunrise hikes will return on Saturday 25 and Sunday 26 April, taking participants to the highest points in the area. These special moments will combine landscape discovery—guided by a local expert—with readings from the works of the attending travel writers.

The Cornimont town hall will provide its spacious polyactivity center, and as in 2025, entry will be free. The association Cook’ Events Services, led by Nadège Perrier, will run the bar and catering, with profits supporting initiatives for people with disabilities.

Whether it’s scaling rocky cliffs, thriving along trails and paths, hitting the open road, or sailing the seas—and whatever form it takes—the nomadic spirit celebrated by the festival reminds us that age is never a barrier to setting off and discovering our world.

No way am I going to interrupt this conversation I’m enjoying so much, stretched out on the couch, lulled by the steady creak of the fan struggling to stir the hot air that built up during the day. As for spiders, they’re absolutely forbidden from coming inside the house (Madame’s orders). The eaves are the only place they’re allowed—apparently, that’s where the best mosquitoes are, or so they’ve assured me.

In Colin and Chloé’s house, a kindly gray mouse does the windows. She could give your domestic field-mouse—a pipe-munching pest—a run for his money. On the other hand, I don’t recall a spider in *Froth on the Daydream*. Not even on the ceiling. Unless you think Boris Vian was a bit unhinged. (Hope your story won’t involve a water lily. That’d be heartbreaking.)

How can you love a country enough to want to live there, then suddenly reject it and no longer appreciate what made it lovable in the first place? That’s the mystery of love, I guess.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CyccSgYAW84

As for spiders, they’re absolutely forbidden from entering the house (Madame’s orders), only the eaves are allowed for them

R. is cruel because that’s also where the geckos hang out hunting mosquitoes, and they’re not picky about their menu. Sometimes, even at the risk of its back, a toad will leap from its chair and give it a try. 😉

Age isn’t a barrier to travel, and yes, I completely agree, but Luc, I’ve been trying to explain to you that my only efforts—and they aren’t really efforts, by the way—are to marvel at time passing so calmly and peacefully. It’s not age that limits me, like the meadows of Morvan, I’m still very ‘lush.’ It’s simply that the desire isn’t there anymore.

Xavier, you can tell your wife that I don’t have an overwhelming passion for spiders, but I’ve grown attached to the one in my bathroom because she’s been living there for months, and to me, that’s a great mystery.

Jean-Luc, I think Boris Vian was a bit crazy, but in a charming way, like lace. Did you know he chose the name Chloé as a tribute to Duke Ellington?

One day There will be something other than day A franker thing, which we’ll call the Yodel Another, translucent like galipot That we’ll set into the eye with an elegant gesture There will be the auraille, crueler The volutin, more carefree The height, less eternal The baouf, always snowy There will be the chalamondre The ivrunini, the baroïque And a whole planting of analognes The hours will be different Not the same, without result No use fixing now The precise detail of all that One certainty remains: one day

There will be something other than day. __ To me, this poem by Boris Vian is a little—okay, a lot—unhinged! !

Writing trivialities to distract myself, for a while, from the world's torments...

Feeling down? Not even, and yet the plumber still isn’t available.

Ugh, I went to buy some bottles of water. The man put the pump in the well, and after a few muddy gurgles, the water is now clear. We heat the water in the big pot—the one that’s seen so many stews, carbonnade, vegetable soups, Provençal daube, all that slow-cooked food for our big gatherings. But it’s also seen our greatest fear as grandparents, that terror that makes you tremble and cry with anguish. It was when little Félix decided to disappear. We searched the whole house, everyone calling out, screaming Fééééélixxxx. The pot was stored in the shed, and that tiny boy was silent, the lid tightly closed, his mouth shut too. When his cousin, barely older, said: "I know where he is." A heavy silence from all of us, then "Tell us, tell us!" "In the pot!"

And to tie this back to the travel theme—at the risk of getting kicked out of this serious reflection section—this culinary epic reminds me of the taste discoveries during our trips. Sometimes delicious, sometimes disgusting (for me). I’ll mention seaweed and raw fish—*ugh*, definitely off my list of foreign cuisine I now love to cook, now that the urge to travel has left my life.

Phew, I’m back on topic! !

I was just browsing VF to see if there was any activity and I'm delighted to discover Pondy here! Even if some topics don’t get many comments, they’re still interesting—yours included.

Losing the urge to travel? Yeah, it’s hitting me too. It happened quite recently—I wanted to visit Easter Island, the last place I was dreaming about. And then, poof! I just don’t feel like it anymore. Is it a desire to stop struggling, to seek comfort and ease? I see I’m not the only one feeling this way. Plus, I had a real shock when I saw what’s become of the Trevi Fountain. That really cooled my travel enthusiasm.

Traveling with my grandson I had a wonderful trip with my 5-year-old grandson—not so much in distance (just a few RER stops), but in time! At that age, kids go through their dinosaur phase, so I suggested a visit to the Natural History Museum. Beforehand, we revisited a classic: *The Sceptre of Ottokar*, where Snowy swipes a dinosaur bone. After the inevitable McDonald’s (luckily right across the street), we stepped into the venerable institution and both dove into a dream that’s stayed with me ever since. We saw the skeleton of a gigantic, endlessly long, and beautifully graceful creature. I don’t have a rat at home, but I can picture it striding over my garden in three steps. A vegetarian, thankfully. We also saw a fully intact mammoth—not just a skeleton, but complete. It was less dreamy than the other massive, slender creature.

So, I took a trip close to home with my little buddy. It could’ve been 10,000 km away—it wouldn’t have changed a thing. Every time I see this kid, I feel energized. I want to show him wonders, to see his amazement and catch his enthusiasm. And then there are those precious moments shared between grandfather and grandson—something I never got to experience myself! Next time? A royal ship raised from the waters in Stockholm? A royal boat at the foot of the Pyramids? A bit far-fetched? It’s all just a dream. And there’s no guarantee his parents will let me take him or that I’ll manage to keep him still.

Our descendants will live our experiences differently, but sometimes we can join them along the way.

Where Pondy’s breeze revives two dinos... oh no, that was later, toward the end of protohistory. Let’s say two pillars of VF. 🙂

I wanted to visit Easter Island, the last object of my fantasies. And then—splash!

Speaking of pillars, the latest Tesson (*The Pillars of the Sea*) recounts his global climbing tour of sea stacks. The fifth one takes place off Easter Island. He teams up with Pétéro, a 70-year-old Rapa Nui man, son of the Birdman, who’ll protect him from the gods’ wrath. Pétéro’s never set foot on Kao Kao; he’ll climb naked, covered in ashes, and in tears. So, splash—are you diving in? 😉



(In my previous message, the video that won’t display is Boris Vian playing "What Remains of Our Love?" on trumpet.)

Ahhhhh François, it’s such a pleasure to see you here.

You open the starry skylight of childhood onto a mist of happiness.

"Grandchildren fill the empty space in your heart that you didn’t even know you had."

With them, the youngest ones, I soar even higher than in an airplane and journey to unexplored lands where words become arabesques.

"Mamido, it’s raining today, I want to go with you to Nowhere." "Alright, you explain to me where Nowhere is, and off we go." "It’s when you take my hand on the path to the little bridge, and when we shout, we find my friend Echo." And little Nathan, three years old, tracing a feather-light finger across my face: "You’ve got more lines than Mom’s car because you’ve driven more."

Savor your grandson’s early years—the time of dinosaurs flies by so quickly.

All our grown-up teens still travel with their parents except for one of them.

"I’d rather come to your place, so I can take my time, split wood, bring in the logs, drive the tractor, and just hang out (his favorite term)." The only grandson who can’t stand the world moving too fast. And he adds, now that he’s in Lyon, if he wants to travel, he can go on immersive 3D expeditions, like to Egypt and visit the Pyramid of Khufu—you see, it’s cool and cheaper than actually going to Egypt. And you can even explore lost worlds from the origins of the Earth, still in immersive expeditions.

In the end, here’s the time of dinosaurs again—it makes me smile.

"And yet I knew how to sing the sun The whole sun, the one that breathes In every chest and in every eye The drop of innocence that shines after tears." Eluard

Cherish your grandson’s early years—dinosaur time flies by so fast.

Hi Dom and everyone, I really loved your message, Zorba. Yes, Dom, we must savor those early years, whether it’s with children or grandchildren. Before you know it, time slips away. For my son Bertrand, it happened in an instant: he was around 14, preparing for a regional cross-country race. I suggested he wear spikes. He was hesitant, so I proposed we go to Lac de la Ramée, south of Toulouse, to show him the advantages of spikes in competition. Off we went, starting slow so he could get used to them and feel the grip. He seemed to adapt, though it was less comfortable than sneakers. We picked up the pace, and naturally, a son tests his father. The rhythm quickened, and with 300 meters left in our lap around the lake, he said, "First one to the finish!" I took off—I was in good shape back then, maybe even better. He hung on, then quickly overtook me and left me in the dust, sprinting to the finish. That’s when I realized my son could outrun me in a sprint.

For grandchildren, too, a sudden moment made us realize how time flies. Two of our granddaughters, whose mother worked nights, often stayed with us when we babysat. One evening, my wife left around 7 PM to spend the night with them—I stayed home. Around 8 PM, she came back, looking upset. She told me about her conversation with the older one: "You know, Granny, we’re not little anymore, and we don’t need you at night." Boom—it hit me like a ton of bricks. But in this case, it was just a false alarm. Half an hour later, the phone rang: "Granny, can you come back? My little sister is scared." I saw my wife’s face light up with a big smile as she rushed back to them.

Your story about Félix hiding in your big multi-purpose pot brought back some nerve-wracking memories. Like a flash, five came flooding back. I’ll tell you at least one of them. These experiences leave a mark because of the intense anxiety they create, which only grows until you find the child or adult. I also want to talk to you about the taste for travel over time—everyone has their own experiences, feelings, and ways of trying to anticipate the future, without forgetting that the journey has an end. Ignoring that can lead to a breaking point, like a friend of mine who couldn’t accept he could no longer climb at a high level. Be careful!

Reading you, I understand that poetry in children flourishes in an atmosphere of love for poetry; your grandchildren are lucky to have a grandmother who’s so immersed in it.

At our place, no poetry—we’re not poetry lovers. But like everyone, we’re charmed by their innocence and candor, by how they fumble to name things. Still, I do have one memory of my daughter: *"When you picked Mom, did you tell her, ‘You’re beautiful?’"*

My grandson, though, is obsessed with mechanics. He rushes into the street whenever the garbage truck roars by. The sanitation workers, who know him well, greet him and let him honk the horn. When school started, he picked a backpack with a garbage truck on it—only to be told to switch to something more "glamorous."

The other day, I was comfortably settled on my couch, wrapped in my bathrobe; I had a nice fire crackling in the fireplace and even a glass of Islay in hand, hidden from my wife’s view. I was about to watch *The Hanging Tree* for the umpteenth time.

Then a message from "Voyajou" popped up!

Every time, such a message poses a problem: you have to examine its form and content, guess any hidden meaning—first, second, even third degree? It reminds me of Thursday afternoon Latin translation classes, where we had to find the correct interpretation. I limit myself to the first hidden meaning, if there is one, because I don’t have the intellectual capacity to go further. As for quotes from unknown authors in the messages, they fly over my head like a volley of Iskander missiles at Mach 10. But really, why bother with such complicated messages when you could just sneak a sip of Islay and watch simple Hollywood legends on TV? These days, it’s all about ease and simplicity. Voyajou’s got wit, though—and that’s not common. That’s reason enough not to ignore the message.

After trying to understand the messages, you have to reply. Be careful what you write: a cliché, a mistranslation, or nonsense, and you’re guaranteed a backlash. If there’s a bit of style, you might even get a small compliment in return.

This message is at my level—easy enough for a comeback. It plays on the literal and figurative meaning of the word "pillar." With a semantic pirouette, it propels me onto such a pillar, the subject of Sylvain Tesson’s latest book, where he climbs it. At the end of his message, he hits me with the odd question: "So, *plouf*, you diving in?"

Diving where? Into the Pacific Ocean, at some insane latitude. "*Me frio las pelotas*" as the Rapa Nui of Easter Island would say. I refuse. I would’ve accepted being teleported into one of Sylvain Tesson’s *isbas*, in the middle of a gathering of Siberian drinkers enjoying *omul* and vodka (if I were the author, I’d have added a gentle Russian woman with endless blue eyes for a touch of poetry). But just then, my wife walks into the room, interrupting this Tessonian nightmare. "You don’t look well—what’s wrong?" "A friend just suggested I dive into freezing water." "You have weird friends with strange ideas. Besides, I never see them." "Neither do I. I just read them." "And the whisky—was that to warm you up?"

All we can do now is hope that one day one of us solves its riddles so that Thebes might be freed 😉

You're one of those people you read with your mind wide awake and a smile on your lips. That’s precious. (See how Brittany is hospitable: it’s almost time for the fire and the Islay here too; and tomorrow’s Sunday, so there’ll be croissants 😉)

But you’re giving me quite the reputation:

Be careful what you write: a banality, a misstatement, a foolishness, and the backlash is guaranteed

Luckily, JojoOne gives me a chance to practice. 😇

@JojoOne

All that’s left is to hope that one day one of us solves his riddles so that Thebes might be freed

A bout of pedantry or acute subjunctivitis, I don’t know. But what’s certain is the zero in conjugation.

I wouldn’t write the same thing about hospitality in Brittany anymore. Over the past 10 years, the welcome has changed a lot; hoteliers and restaurateurs have finally realized that tourism and its clientele have evolved. However, hotel capacity hasn’t budged, which drives up prices in season due to demand. Plus, I think there’s a climate tourism phenomenon: people from the south of France are coming to Brittany to cool off.

I’ll try to defend JojoOne because I suspect their text is a *contrepet* (a French spoonerism). This kind of wordplay sometimes requires stretching conjugations a bit. "Fusse" probably becomes "fesse" (butt), and with "soit" (so be it), the whole thing would fall apart! I haven’t managed to crack the spoonerism yet—I used to be sharper at this.

Good croissants and even buckwheat Kouign Amann—pretty great! !

Not being able to grasp the stylistic choices of some, I still enjoyed tinkering with a tense I rarely use. I didn’t realize you wouldn’t pick up on the grammatical sarcasm, and I must say I’m more disappointed than surprised. Luckily, I’ve always had a kind of lightheartedness tinged with carelessness, which makes life much easier. Highly negative people—the poor souls—have always hated me for it.

On this Sunday as gray as my hair, I’ve come to read your latest posts. I can assure you, little jabs aren’t really helpful. Being a sarcastifleur doesn’t make anyone grow. Especially at our age, when we subtly tend to shrink. Luc, could you share one of your unsettling memories? Just one—I’m longing to experience only peaceful moments. Life in our world these past few months has been rather sad. __

Anyway, this morning we were at the ceremony of the Brotherhood of Saint Sebastian. I’d been promising myself for over twenty years that I’d go. The church in this little village is only a few car rides away, but laziness always wins out.

The brotherhood was founded in the 1500s, saving the region from the plague. It’s a bit like our Lyon 8th of December, which today is called the Festival of Lights. In my younger days, it was called the Festival of Illuminations, when thousands of little candles flickered on windowsills. Very different from today’s electric, consumerist fair.

When I stepped into that simple little village church, a light scent of incense and the rich smell of bread—so comforting—drifted through the air. In front of the altar were huge wicker baskets filled with *épougnes*, those golden loaves distributed by the former and current *bâtonnier* of the brotherhood to all participants at the end of the ceremony. In the absolute silence before the brotherhood entered, I even heard the faint crackling of the cooling bread.

A journey through time: men and women, all draped in chocolate-brown robes embroidered with a red cross, children holding candles carefully, and the *bâtonnier* carrying high the banner of Saint Sebastian. They all processed up the nave with slow steps.

Truly, yes—a beautiful ceremony of sharing and brotherhood. It was luminous.

As a result of this lovely moment, I forgot to tell you about the rat and the water leak. Does it really matter, though?

Noise and fury have been a habit in France for at least four centuries. Cavalier Marin, Venice’s ambassador, reported back to the Doge in flowery terms about what he discovered in France in 1615. If you're interested in the letter, I could copy it out—I love it.

Yes, our experiences with our children, grandchildren, and others are at the heart of our concerns, there you go:

Your account of your lived experience with Félix, your grandson who disappeared hidden in your big multi-purpose pot, instantly brings back memories that are at least worrying, if not downright traumatic. Five came to mind in the first flash. I’ll tell you one, but the others aren’t any less terrifying in their outcome:

In a distant period of another life, we lived in Fontainebleau and spent a good part of our time climbing in the forest, which is unique in the world—thirty thousand hectares teeming with rocky boulders, sandstone, one of the most challenging rocks for climbing. Our son Bertrand, aged 3, had quickly gotten into the habit of wandering around at the foot of the rocks, equipped with a beautiful cowbell around his neck. He wore it proudly. That way, we could locate him by ear.

One evening, as dusk was falling, we were the last ones left, stubbornly clinging to what some consider a pointless activity—climbing up only to come back down. As we were about to leave the site, but where is he? We strain our ears—no sound, no jingling. We each head off in a different direction through the maze of rocks, calling out to him—nothing. Panic sets in quickly, accompanied by its usual train of anxiety and guilt. Darkness takes over, inevitable and heavy with vague threats. The area slopes downward, and in desperation, we head toward the steepest part, where large rocks populate the slope. Despite our increasingly frantic calls, he doesn’t answer, and not a single chime from the bell gives us a direction. The minutes feel long—no need for Einstein’s relativity to realize that time is a relative concept. After twists and turns, growing more terrified by the second, relief hits us out of nowhere. At the foot of a massive boulder, a small sandy patch—he’s there, sitting in the middle, drawing in the sand as inspiration strikes. He’s at home, one with the spirit of the forest now swallowed by darkness, clearly an object of terror only for his parents.

Some time later, we’re climbing in one of the great Meccas of climbing, the Verdon. At the Lapalud campsite, we meet a Canadian. As the conversation flows, of course, Fontainebleau comes up—its worldwide reputation known to this Canadian, just like to so many foreign climbers. As often happens, the ritual question arises: do we have kids? A photo pops out of a wallet. Our Canadian lets out a cry: “But I know that kid! I saw him passing at the foot of a rock in Franchard.” He admits he’d been very intrigued by this child alone with his big clanging bell.

Mamido, can we play a little longer? Come on, please.

Here, look, some spoonerisms for grandkids: 1/ I slipped in the pool 2/ Hi, buddies 3/ Better late than never (this one should ring a bell) 4/ A saintly cheese

@Zorba

because I suspect his text is a spoonerism, "fusse" probably becomes "butt"; with "soit" everything would fall apart!

Fine! But I haven’t found anything better than « Six barrels six crates... ». What about you?

@JojoOne Go on, without having Chimène’s eyes, I don’t hate you (that much). 🙂

Thanks Luc for this little story with a happy ending.

Incredible, these unpredictable and amazing encounters. Amazing too that your little one stayed so still that the cowbell didn’t ring.

I’ve scoured the topic.

My urge to travel has taken a leave of absence. I’m done with beds that are too soft, too hard, and pillows so flat my neck can’t nestle into them. Done with packing, unpacking, repacking, and thinking about the right adapter. Forgotten are the noisy rooms, too small, too impersonal, or those that only have charm in their name. Over are the fifteen days or three weeks of going here and there, renting a car, checking it for scratches or damage. Over is reading reviews about this or that hostel. Over is searching for tickets with or without layovers, this or that airline, this or that terminal. No more check-ins, no more lines.

Now I leave—elsewhere—for several months, and the couch of elsewhere becomes as cozy and familiar as my own. I’m probably driven by other dreams, other desires, and that’s surely why, here on this forum I’ve loved so much, today, I’m bored. Just as my urge to travel has taken a leave, I’m quietly taking my leave too and will return—who knows—later....

Life is a tale that glorifies the everyday, offering the magic of reinventing oneself, and I have a passion for tales.

I truly hope you’ll bounce back like a boomerang… until your next armchair adventures on your flying sofa.

The aspiring resident lives in Javel! !

Magic thought blew gently, and for the briefest dream, the old grimoire creaked open. Impressions of a bygone past slipped out. With wisdom, like the seasoned poet full of experience and reason, it quietly closed the little window again—for an undetermined interval, a decade, a century...

Dear Pondy,

I’m thinking of starting a new travel journal in a few months, where I’d love to share what’s inspired me to explore the Elsewhere. It’d be a bit like the flip side of your current feelings—or maybe the intro after your conclusion. Why not?

Happy are those like Alice who’ve seen a beautiful landscape While beneath Mirabel Bridge the Saône flows As our loves dissolve into the ozone Until the next thrilling and blissful journey 😎