A whimsical taste of coming back!

Hey there Pondy, is it just me or have your recent posts had this mix of serenity (the kind that comes with enlightenment) and nostalgia? A sort of yin and yang thing. Just watch out with the nostalgia—don’t let it tip into melancholy, that’s no good.

Anyway, to touch on your second-to-last paragraph, I get the feeling the rungs of the well’s ladder are rusty and the stones of the mantle are smooth. Doesn’t exactly make you want to climb down, especially without the crew. It’s silly, but I really liked all the main galleries, especially the big one—we had our best enemies, we had a laugh, all that. But hey, there are other things in life, right? The clearing isn’t *just* virtual...

And sometimes, on the advice of an—*old*—comrade (I can say that, we’re well past 20 years now), you climb down anyway and stumble on a gem from the old world, the one where the service naps used to tell us wild stories (like that guy who decided to hitchhike to Vladivostok: 11,000 km in 10 days! I’ve forgotten his username, forgive me). Anyway. Thanks for sending me to read Olive842—it was great (I really should take the time to tell them and thank them too).

Always a pleasure to see you stop by, Pondy (even if every time we can’t escape *Homme*, but oh well).

Just for you, who lost—your cow—

Hey Cupda,

You seem to think I’m nostalgic for a bygone VF. No, I miss the exact same moments as you, that’s all. Today, it’s so dull that if it weren’t for those compulsive globetrotters—sometimes fascinating—sharing their travels, I could delete VF from my search bar for good.

In the "thoughts and reflections" gallery, covered in moss and smelling of humus and damp, Georges wonders about his exasperation with abbreviations. Tiny, lifeless reactions respond without real enthusiasm. What gets on my nerves is hearing or reading: *I’m going to Paris*, and if someone adds, *so, I’ll spend the weekend there*, that’s the cherry on top. People have an incredible power of levitation.

Anyway, nothing to pull your hair out over.

We’ve just returned from North Uist, and crossing the Highlands on the way back—with their purple and old-rose carpet—filled my heart with joy.

Nothing was planned, and summer was turned upside down at the last minute, much to the dismay of the kids and grandkids who, as always, set up their cheerful, chaotic camp at home.

This island of peat, black lochs under gray skies, deep blue under blue skies, its narrow roads, its low stone houses battered by the wind, isn’t unlike the Shetlands. A land of water and wind where sheep couldn’t care less about cars. And beaches so vast—even more beautiful, if possible, than those on Harris and Lewis. Wild beaches with sand so white it seems unreal.

Here, you’re at the edge of human noise.

A surprising and shivery summer in the cool air.

And for this new season, I wish everyone a beautiful life filled with light, laughter, and love.

It's really nice, thanks for the feedback

What a magnificent cow!

Thanks for your reply and for evoking the landscapes of your home—really makes me want to go there, honestly.

You know how much I love places like that. Where my beloved cow used to graze, back in 1851, there was something of that primal wildness: green grass, gray stone, russet moorland dotted with broom, the sea shifting from anthracite to turquoise as the clouds passed by, dizzying cliffs and gentle hills.

I went back last week, after 10 years—"a pilgrimage," one of my old friends teased. It’s still just as beautiful, and it breaks my heart every time. In my favorite bay, a pod of dolphins was playing just a stone’s throw from the shore.

When I look down at the Earth, my heart is crumbled with sorrow—like a little pile of parmesan grated through the fine holes.

And sometimes, I just want to wrap myself in a soft, fluffy blanket, close my eyes, and chase away the unsettling images that have been cluttering my mind these past few days.

So, when my soul feels heavy, I rewind time by a few weeks.

The grape harvest came early this year. As the one in charge of snacks and meals for the harvesters, my back didn’t take a beating like usual. We had a blast—everyone gave their all, and I laughed with that energetic young crew. We ended the harvest with a lovely *paulée* (um, I’d cooked everything, and it was delicious—eggs in red wine sauce and parsley ham were definitely on the menu). And just like that, September slipped away, quietly making room for October. October and autumn, finally bringing the rain we’d been waiting for.

The rain tap-dances * in the alley, and in the meadow, the first to celebrate are the thistles, bristling their victorious spines.

I shook off my laziness to check the well in the clearing. Some stones have come loose, and I’m worried about someone taking a nasty fall. The dry leaves of summer tangle with the autumn ones.

Can you say a clearing purrs? Well, we say it about a fridge, so why not! Under the chestnut trees, where people are having fun, Paga is exhausted from explaining how serious the snitching he fell victim to really is. Under the pretense that it’s just a game with no stakes, people couldn’t care less. I agree with him—no matter where it happens, snitching is serious. It says a lot about our society. It’s the ruin of trust, everywhere and in every way.

The same travelers gather around mint teas, sharing stories from their back-to-back trips in successive travel journals. A whirlwind of adventures, and this spot by the picnic table is the liveliest in the clearing. I read Vilabel’s Chinese travel journal. She doesn’t have many followers because you’ve got to be part of the inner circle to get read. A sweet journal, no fancy style—just simple and packed with everyday anecdotes.

Then, a vacationer’s question made me smile. It’s the ultimate existential question: *how to do laundry*. And lucky her, she got tons of tips to stay fresh during her trip. I also smiled when I saw the sign for the next photo game: “Come prepared.” For a nanosecond, I thought it was an HIV awareness campaign. I scrolled through the photos—no Durex box in sight!

And then...

I checked the sturdy grate we’d placed over the well a few weeks ago. A hazelnut tree has already settled in. So, with peace of mind, I headed home.

*A song by Nougaro that I love.

I smiled too when I read the sign announcing the next photo game: “Wrap it up.” For a nanosecond, I thought it was an HIV prevention campaign. I scrolled through the photos but no Durex box!

I had the same question: when was someone going to post that Durex photo?

I smiled too when I read the sign announcing the next photo game: “Wrap it up.” For a nanosecond, I thought it was an HIV awareness campaign. I scrolled through the photos but no Durex box!

I asked myself the same thing: when would someone post that Durex photo? 😏

Help! It might get flagged 🏴‍☠️😮😇

For a nanosecond, I thought it was an AIDS awareness campaign. I scrolled through the photos, but no Durex box in sight!

Please, do me a favor and post some beautiful landscape photos of the Morvan forest instead of bringing up gross stuff. It’s like surgical masks—so unappealing and totally unglamorous. 😇

When I lean over the Earth, my heart is crumbled with sorrow (...) Under the chestnut trees...

Tears flow in your heart As it rains on the wire.

@Kate

Help! She might get reported 🏴‍☠️

Especially if the photo follows the organizer’s guidelines: “Your photo must be taken in a context related to heat.” So, in situ.

Dura lex sed lex.

Crumbled with sorrow. A little pile like grated Parmesan through the small-holed grater.

Pondy, what a bizarre idea to put sorrow and Parmesan so close together!

Let me tell you. A highway—ugly as they come—four lanes, mountains of moving, irritated metal, flat-as-can-be landscape, cornfields that’ve had too much heat, gigantic warehouses, massive, closed-off farms straight out of a Bertolucci film. It’s way more boring than the Moon.

Fiorenzuola. Exit. Liberation. The brown towers of Castell’Arquato, struggling to mimic San Gimignano, stand out against the summer-fatigued green of the first hills. And just like that, the Arda Valley winds through. Its slopes are steep, covered in oaks and beeches. Here and there, on the slightest widening of the roadside, an old car waits for a basket of mushrooms. You can already hear the sizzle of chanterelles in the pan. The thought of porcini almost melted into risotto teases the palate. Bore and its conifers, the shift from Piacenza to Parma. But how vast it is! And how green—green in every shade. Hairpin turns that make your head spin, windows wide open to get drunk on the fresh, sweet air. Hardly anyone around. The huge buildings with countless windows are only populated by hams.







The Parmesan born here is so far from sorrow!

Cat😉

It’s so true, it’s so beautiful where you are. 😉 Why did I associate grief with Parmesan? Maybe because of its slightly flaky texture when grated. Parmesan is a masterpiece, just like the human heart, and it’s a shame to grate it. The rind is hard, but in small pieces, it melts—adding a touch of honey makes the duo perfect.

"It’s truly the worst pain Not knowing why Without love or hate My heart aches so much"

The beauty of the world and the danger it faces scare me. I bury my head in the sand, but there’s no sand—so the emu rhymes nicely with emotion. So, I listen to France Musique’s "Piano Zen," right now it’s Valentin Silvestrov—soft, peaceful. No more news, no more media, no more images.

My grandkids, who arrived Saturday, are stormy teens—tall, lanky kids who’ve shot up. Settled in the attic, they imagined an Halloween setup with a tripod, camera, costumes, and after writing an apocalyptic script with AI, they turned everything upside down. They’ll present "Halloween in Morvan" at the end of the holidays—their own creation, they said! "Hey, can we take two logs?" "You don’t have a powerful lamp, do you?" "You still have syringes, right?" !!!!! "Can we borrow your old cape? We promise we won’t damage it." Hmmm, I wait, perplexed, looking at the awful mask they brought from home.

The older girls are studying, headphones on—one for law, the other for her November med school exams. The younger ones arrived the next day, and I’m so busy I fall asleep without fearing insomnia by nightfall. They want to cook, go into the forest, fix their treehouse (damaged since it was built 5 years ago), fill their autumn basket, hunt for fossils in the river (which finally breathes and gurgles a little), prepare a dance show, make little ghosts on a string, whip up quince paste to take home, and, and, and.





They’re life, they’re my life, all of them. When the youngest, sitting on my lap, says, "I love you all the way to the sky because you have lots of little lines on your face—those are paths to your hair," I melt.

And I apologize if I’m far from the travels talked about on VF, but I know they’re a journey into happiness, and that’s priceless, especially right now.

As for travel with actual movement—beyond the stillness of my heart—we’re going to Slovenia in May. First for World Bee Day, then because *Homme* is building a Slovenian-style beehive, so unique and elegant, with panels painted with countryside scenes. A tiny country, champion of the Carniolan bee, just like ours.

There you go!