THE WAY OF THE WOLVES
The years have passed so quickly, but how to tell you and how to write it to you?
Yesterday again, by taking the path of the wolves, "but yes, you know it!", between the sheepfold of Alexandre and the water tower of Carmantran, we descended to the stream with the Tinou, this same stream which has now become Lake.
On this formerly dreaded path we took to their heels, on foot or in an improbable vehicle, the carcass of a pram turned car on wheels, after having plundered the Pépé's reserve of nails and screws, without ever being held against us. , the good man.
Once we arrived at the end of our excursion, the heart of the bog became our imaginary kingdom.
Our sandals were covered with crickets and grasshoppers as you can still see when climbing the Puy Violent, near Salers.
Welcome to our miniature jungle, meeting with this people of the infinitely small.
An explosion of life and colors: the dragonflies paraded in their most beautiful finery, iridescent, bronze. The water bugs roamed the surface of the water in complete serenity, defying the laws of physics while maintaining an unlikely balance.
The buttercups announced a beautiful cacophonous summer, lulled by amorous chirps intended to seduce the partner of a moment.
The rushes of water were omnipresent, like proud guards in halberds protecting moats "cows' hooves", always quick to make us stumble in suspicious mud,
and to hold captive our giant steps in a sucking sound.
Our excursion always ended with the snake
silver of the Pont Aubert stream,
furrowed in every direction by the promise
of fries to come.
Going up the stream,
we became the proud successors
Doctors Schweitzer and Livingstone,
discovered in the latest issues of Fripounet.
One day, one day maybe, one orange day, the world would be ours.
But to get there, it was difficult to progress without tripping,
between mud, rocks and crevices, the obstacles were daunting
for the marmosets that we were, Michou and I,
and if by misfortune our uncertain footsteps lead us
in the water of the stream, it pierced us like so many needles,
the contrast was striking, between the summer heat
and the hand of ice gripping our ankles
This land of all dangers, barometer of our courage,
could never hold us long, drawn as we were
by the certainty that on our return home, Granny would regale us with steaming feasts, testimony of her love.
Anyone who hasn't heard the butter melting on the Tourtou, which has barely left the cast iron tile, hasn't really lived yet.
A pyrotechnic show if ever there was one, between the blushing hearth, Anna's crimson cheeks and the sour smell emanating from her sourdough pot.
What if the great scheduling of our world had begun in this kitchen,