the magical forest (part two)

Now I truly felt like I was in the sixties. The road stretched into the cornfields without an end in sight, and there was virtually no traffic except for the occasional lawnmower. We walked on either side of the yellow lines, Chastity still babbling on about her wallet, and I ignoring her, deep into my Kerouac-era fantasy. 

The hash was still burning a hole in my pocket, so after a ways I convinced her to make a pit-stop behind a hay-stack, hoping it would calm her down. It had the opposite effect, however, and now she was frantically trying to dial her parents in New York, running around shouting about the time difference and waving the cell phone above her head in a fight for reception.

Back in the other lane, I drowned her out with my Zen-like thoughts. No wonder these yuppies were so wound-up; it was all about material posessions and greed, when it should be about love. Love for the world around you, love for breathing, love for living. I was John Lennon, I was a hitch-hiking beatnik seeing the world through my pink-tinted aviators. La vie was truly en rose.

We had been traipsing on for far more than a mile or so when we saw it, a white sign far in the distance pointed to the left. As we got closer, we were able to read a long word that focused into “Broceliande.” 

Rejoice! Chastity abandoned her self-pitying monologue long enough to frolic down the hill to the sign, and we embraced it as if it were a long lost friend.

But it served only to point us to another lengthy route headed east, and we were almost ready to give up our journey for once and for all when we spied a bus pulling out of a distant parking lot on the horizon. 

Spirits lifted for the final stretch, we cantered over another mile or two of farmland before we finally arrived at what could be classified as civilization; several buildings as well as clientele in the double digits. It was Les Jardins des Broceliande.

Which, we soon discovered, were a far cry from Bonne’s descriptions of the magical Foret. Instead, there were some rather lewd farm animals, an obstacle course through the woods, flowers, and duck ponds.

Still, we were so excited to have arrived anywhere at all that we embraced every square inch of it; Chastity forgot about her credit card crisis, and I forgot about the hash, and we spent a delightful afternoon cavorting through the different areas of the garden... 

We swung on swing-sets, followed the obstacle course, and giggled at some extremely existential translations, such as "maturity is vehicled by hally oaks."

We made it back to the bus stop with time to spare, and wandered around the empty village square in search of amusement. Businesses appeared to have closed up for the day, save a lone charcuterie owner who gave us lollipops when we wandered inside. 

          

Perched on the cathedral steps with our suckers, we basked in the afternoon sun and watched as out of nowhere a procession of antique cars came trundling through the village and disappeared over the hill.

“Wait! Wait!” We raced after them, digging frantically in our bags for our cameras. The last car, a blue truck with yellow rimmed wheels, spotted us in the rear-view mirror and backed up so we could get a closer look. The couple inside beamed proudly as we snapped pictures and admired the gleaming vehicle. No sooner had they continued on then we spotted our bus coming up the knoll, with Hagrid grinning widely to see that we had managed to avoid getting stranded.

“Did you find the magical forest?” He hollered as we hopped aboard.

“In a way,” we answered, handing him our last lollipop as a token of our appreciation. He grinned and slammed on the gas. We were on our way home.