the magical forest (part one)

Chastity and I were on a quest to find the magical forest. We didn’t know what or where it was or how to find it, but we had hash and the magical forest sounded like a good place to smoke it.

“It's where Merlin is said to be buried,” said Bonne excitedly, having just returned from a jaunt there with her host family, “so there’s all these trails leading to supposedly enchanted places, and gardens, and waterfalls, and… ooh! It was just SO fun and mystical, you have to see it!”

My eyes met with Chastity’s and I knew we were envisioning the same thing; a picnic basket of soft baguettes from the yellow boulangerie, spread with fresh goat cheese and mountain ham, being swung between us as we frolicked through the enchanted wood while hallucinations of fairies danced above. Our weekend was booked.

All Bonne knew about the location of the forest was that it was out in the wilds of Bretagne, somewhere between Rennes and the seacoast. Rather than consult a map, Chastity and I decided to simply head west, asking for directions as we went along. On Saturday morning, I met my hung-over travel partner at the bus depot, and we inquired at the front desk as to the best way to find the magical forest.

“Ah,Villandry.” They said, stamping our tickets and pointing us to the corresponding bus. We collapsed in the back, eager to be transported to a wonderful world of wizards and weed; Chastity regaled me with a few stories from the night before, involving a coke-addled Donovan spilling his heart to her until 4am, but as time went on her head tipped progressively backward and sentences became incoherent. Soon, she was snoring, mouth wide open and nose tipped toward the sky.

I amused myself by taking in the passing country-side, marveling at the great expanses of empty land and corn-fields. After a half hour or so, the bus came to an abrupt stop, and all five of us passengers were hustled out. Two set off walking, which left us and a senior citizen to transfer to another, far more dilapidated vehicle, this one handled by a burly and bushy-haired man who, judging by his smell and appearance, never really left the bus. 

He promptly slammed into gear and set off into the cornfields, following some sort of ancient cattle trail; stalks kept whipping against the window as we accelerated to seventy-five, maybe eighty miles an hour, the bus rattling in an effort to hold together as it jolted over pot-holes and cowpies.

Chastity and I gripped the seats in front of us, ashen-faced, exchanging an attempt at a re-assuring look; “well, I’m sure the man knows what he’s doing.” Cobblestones and cathedrals whipped by; we had suddenly come across a town, but it was gone less than a second later as Hagrid hurtled on at breakneck speed.

He slammed on the brake in a gathering of houses and shops that somewhat resembled a community, and Chastity and I, gravely car-sick, raced to the door. It said Villandry on the sign; the forest must not be far off. 

As we started to walk, however, I got an ominous feeling. There were no signs anywhere for the forest; it looked as if this town’s hot spot was, instead, the Laundromat. We pulled a one-eighty and sprinted back to the bus just as it began to pull away; huffing and puffing, we explained our quest to the driver. Chuckling in disbelief, he announced,

“Well it’s a good thing you followed your hunch. The forest isn’t for another half-hour or so… and if you’d stayed here, there wouldn’t have been another bus until tomorrow.”

He proceeded to take us under his wing, explaining, as we trundled farther into a succession of small villages, that we should disembark at the highest point of the hillside. From there we would be able to walk to the forest, but, he warned us severely as we descended the steps, we must absolutely be back at the stop at 5 o’clock; it would be the one and only bus going back to Rennes that evening.

The town that we were deposited in was straight out of a story-book. The few shops that were open had signs printed in Breton, the Celtic language, and when we arrived inside one restaurant to inquire about the forest and possibilities for lunch, we quickly learned that the villagers could speak French no better than we could.

They were clearly ecstatic to have tourists in their establishment, however, and the proprietress ushered us to a cozy table at a window overlooking the river. Nearby, a small fire crackled in the fireplace in order to keep water boiling.

The woman gave us some recommendations off of the miniscule menu, and soon we were being treated to hearty buckwheat galettes, hot from the oven and washed down with a tangy home-made cider. When we stood, full and contented, to make our way to the register, the various people who had made our meal and who were now relaxing at the bar inquired as to our satisfaction. When we assured them that we were very satisfied, they toasted us cheerfully.

As we reached into our purses to pay the meager sum we owed, Chastity realized that the lasting effects of last night included not only a hangover but a missing wallet. Her slew of frantic gasps and “Omigods” bounced off the cave-like walls, shattering the peaceful air.

I was about to appease her hysterics by offering to pay, but the woman was already voiding the sum from the register. She gave Chastity a sympathetic pat on the arm and wished her the best of luck finding her wallet, refusing to take any of my money either.

We asked for one more favor before leaving; directions to the magical forest.

“Ah oui, Broceliande…” The woman walked with us outside and pointed out a road at the bottom of the hill. We were to take a left and follow it a mile or so, where we would see signs for the forest. Thanking our new friend wholeheartedly and promising that we would stop by again if we were ever in the area, we set off.