The forest is full of pines, sun filtering through sand at your feet and sandstone boulders exist just off the trail, like huge animals biding their time, watching. There’s nothing malicious about it though, there’s a stillness, a tranquility of nature. The boulders watch as a rabbit stops as you approach, taking you in, acknowledging your presence. You feel there is something very alive about the Fontainebleu forest. You’ve become a part of the scene, instead of just observing.
A group of French children perch on a nearby rock, and ask a question without pretense or introduction. You respond “Je ne parle pas francais”. “Oh! How are you! Hello! Good job!” All at once in return, not in any specific order.
The routes are marked in what seems like ancient paint, color-coded circuits that have been developed over more than a century of alpinists enjoying an afternoon in the forest. Wipe the sand off your feet, and pull on the sandstone worn smooth by generations. Initial kid in a candy store turns old man, oh my back! Lunch breaks of baguettes and cheese, long summer days.
The French countryside seems remarkably at peace in the surrounding crazy world. The news tells of middle eastern violence, and it seems a lifetime away. Enjoying the sunsets, sleeping somewhat soundly as the brain catalogs and lays down foundation.
To Paris by train, a well-worn, often used vehicle shoots past sleepy villages. You get to the station, and narrowly realise you have to get off before it goes the other way. This continues to happen. A never ending maze of underground stairs, colored letters and people hurrying.
You really wish you had paid more attention in middle school. On a train off a train, too many Charles de Gaulles, who was that guy anyways? Normally reserved, asking French strangers for help. Literally sardined, uncomfortably intimate and surprised the smell isn’t that bad. Maybe it’s the perfume.
Crowds thin, an accordion plays and a child dances. You give the player some change. Peace. You emerge, walk for ages along chic, long hangers of Nespresso and baggage carts. Collapse, back to Scotland.
rocksandpoo 