The rule of the three unities (page 1 of 2)

"In one place, in one day, a single deed accomplished, May hold the theater filled until the end."

- Sunday morning, a chilly dawn - The kitchen - Smell of coffee and toast, a jar of honey on the table.

- Tits pecking at sunflower seeds in the transparent feeder stuck to the window.

- France Musique on the radio: Brahms, violin concerto by the lovely Hilary Hahn - Characters: - An old man in a plush dark blue dressing gown - An old woman in a worn-out duck-blue dressing gown. They dance cheek to cheek, the woman’s head resting on the old man’s broad chest. The old man breathes in the tangled hair of the lady. She smiles. Happy. Tomorrow, they’re off on a trip.

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.