Chapter 5: Slow Travel and its Magical and Unknown Places
There is a green river that makes a noise of rain, and the floor around is orange, red and yellow. To cross it, a blue metal bridge. Passing the bridge, there is a tunnel made of trees and leaves. Beyond, there are corn fields. Endless rows of tall plants, low plants, vivid ones, and dry ones. To the right a green mountain, to the left a yellow hill. A tree in the background, alone. The sound of the bells of a church I do not see. Or maybe it’s those cows that are over there. A road that crashes against white houses with red roofs, and another that enters a forest. We took the latter and went back to the blue metal bridge. It was daytime when we went out and we could hardly see when we came back.
SLOW TRAVEL FRANCE
I had never heard the name of that place: Cromary. I do not think you´ve heard of it either. How many beautiful worlds there must be out there and we do not know about them. I think of this small town, that way through the blue metal bridge, the green tunnel of trees, the rows and rows of corn, and I think of the thousands that must be out there to be discovered. And I wonder why people always end up going to the same place, to take the same pictures from the same angle. Do they not dare to discover these paths with the mountain on the right, the yellow hill on the left, and that church bell ringing? Or maybe it was the cows. Is it that the need to accumulate is greater than the desire to treasure?
We discovered the wonders of Slow Travel for the first time in this place, where no one was pushing us for a perfect photograph, where there was nowhere to go but there where we wanted to be. That hike took us nowhere in particular and everywhere at the same time. That is the art of slow travel.