My host advised my to walk a different route so I did. The GR 13 didn't pass through l 'Huis Bobin. But I did. I wasn't sure what Huis means in French. In Dutch it means house. And my dictionary told me in French it is the same. The house of Bobin.
I took one book with me on this journey. It is a book by Bobin. Christian Bobin. His books are like the pieces of a big puzzle. I read a few of them. Again and again. And again.
I didn't bring anything unnecesary. I am wearing the same suit every day. I have 1 extra shirt, 2 extra pairs of socks, 3 pieces of underwear. A tent, a mattress, a sleeping bag. A titanium woodburner. A lightweight pot. A toothbrush, a camera, an ipad. Maps. And a book. All the books are in this one book.
When I left the small village I took a photo of the sign with the name. I had been reading the book while walking. Next to the sign with the words "l'Huis Bobin" a donkey was grazing. (The photo is on my facebook page, i still haven't figured out how to get my images here).
Page 32.
"Les murs du monastère sont ornés de fresques. Un apôtre trempé d'or me tend son livre mais je l'écarte un peu sèchement, pour l'heure j'ai trouvé mieux: devant la fenetrê ouverte du réfectoire, au fond du pré, sur un rocher, un âne rêve. Le bois de la fenêtre encadre l'icone vivante. Le goût d'une touffe d'herbes attirera bientôt l'âne hors du cadre et il ne restera plus que le rocher et le ciel bourré de bleu au-dessus d'une colline rougeoyante du Morvan: une autre icône, un autre jour, pour d'autres yeux que les miens. L'âne sur son rocher est plus beau que que l'apôtre glacé a l'or fin sur le mur. C'est que l'un est vivant et que l'autre n'est que peint. L'âne porte placide,ent sur son dos des tonnes de masse d'air, d'étoiles lointaines et de sens de al vie."
(this is my own crude translation:)
"The walls of the monastery are decorated with frescoes. An apostle caught in gold offers me his book, but I am cautiously evading him, I found something better for the moment: behind the open fenster of the refectory, in the back of the meadow, on a rock, a donkey is dreaming. The taste of some herbs will soon draw the donkey out of the frame. And he won't stay any longer than the rock and the sky filled with blue over a hill reddishly glowing in the Morvan: a different icon, a different day, for different eyes than mine.
The donkey on his rock is far more beautiful than the apostle glittering in delicate gold on the wall. It is because one is alive and the other is only paint. The donkey calmly carries tons of air on his back, far away stars and a sense of life."
I leave late most of the days. There is so much to do. And I don't want to rush. Still my timing is usually perfect. Today I arrive in a small village at 13.30. I still have a long way to go. My route doesn't tell me to enter the town but I do, looking for coffee. In the centre, on a small field, a group of people is gathered. They sit on chairs in front of a bright yellow van. They wave at me, asking me to join them. There is coffee and cakes and fruit. 5 musicians jump out of the van. The concert starts. There is a chair for me in the middle on the front row.
After the concert the van drives off. Off to another town. They do this every two weeks. Different performers, always the same 8 villages. Free entrance. Because they think art should be out in the open, free for everybody.
I stay for a while, drink coffee, eat cake, talk. The small crowd disperses. And I walk on.
A hot day but it is cool in the woods. I know there are no campsites on my route. I know there will be mainly pine forest. I bought some food, just in case. Canned lentil stew, bananas, water.
As the day closes I find the perfect spot in the forest. High up on a hill, dry, hidden by some bushes. I can see in the far distance. In the next field three deer are grazing.
In the night it is warm and there is no sound. The silence is so deep I can hardly believe it. No wind, no animals moving around the tent, no branches falling. I just hear myself breathing.
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