Long walk on white path, diffuses its smell of wet wood on the heathland with wild grasses. The forest asks for silence, the winter wind doesn't want to hear anything and mother nature steps in to languish on a bed watery humus. The euphoria of the bird cannot escape the melancholy of the tree in distress, arms outstretched toward the sky. The Quercy Blanc goes numb under a lead blanket, the light goes away without saying anything, the place never refused asylum, all that's left is to score a pose. The altitude is ridiculous, there is no lack of oxygen, only the autan comes to lick the giblets of the mill, the altimeter rests. The pilgrim goes his way, the shell tosses against the backpack without disturbing the tempo of the chestnut stick. Santiago de Compostela is still a long way off.