Walking by the Sèvre Nantaise

The late-afternoon light falls gently over Clisson, like a large warm hand resting on the rooftops.

The red tiles draw in the day’s warmth in a long kiss.

The air is mild for the season, perhaps too mild, like those winter days that seem to forget their own age.

Down below, the Sèvre Nantaise is no longer calm.

The rain of the past few days has swollen it.

It moves wide and full, heavy with alluvium between the rocks.

It pushes against the banks, swirling impatiently around the bridge’s pillars.

A turbulent Moldau speaking loudly today.

Ahead of us, Usko, the little Border Terrier, trots along.

He doesn’t wander far.

He stays close to us, his nose buried in the still-damp grass.

He sniffs the embankments, pauses, looks back at us, then sets off again, a small scout attentive to the world.

Nature still hesitates between winter and spring.

The great trees have quenched their thirst and now reveal, beneath the canopy, a few timid buds.

The rumble of the river almost drowns the secret sound of sap rising in the branches.

Grass, tenderly, slips between the stones.

We walk without hurrying.

A serene, bucolic contemplation of the present moment.

There are moments that do not try to be remarkable.

They simply exist, with the quiet rightness of things in their proper place.

Musicians know that silences are sometimes worth more than certain notes.

For silence allows us to breathe.

So, pausing beside an old stone wall, we listen.

And we hear.

First, a little tune.

A few simple notes returning like a quiet refrain,

as if the town itself were remembering an old song.

Then the flow quickens.

The little tune almost becomes a tarantella,

like a sardana — light, lively, whirling.

The sardana is a bit like a shared breath:

one steps into the circle, takes a few steps, then lets the dance continue.

It is not meant to shine.

It is meant to hold together the movement of the world.

Usko, the small companion, lifts his head.

He senses that something is dancing in the air.

Later, back in Clisson, the narrow streets let squares of light slip through.

The market hall, built more than six hundred years ago, resonates with the different woods — oak, chestnut, fir.

It is one of the rare buildings in Clisson preserved during the Wars of Vendée.

Above the rooftops, the silhouette of the Château de Clisson stands still.

Stone watches the swollen river pass, just as it always has.

And I understand that some moments have nothing to prove.

They simply exist, full like the water of the river.

An ancient town.

A walk in the mild air.

A small dog exploring the world.

And the river continuing on, wide and hurried,

still reciting its long winter sentence. 🐾