Travel · 5 min

Children's hands on old stone

Children read a place with their hands. They run them over the warm limestone, climb into the pine, gather pebbles as if they were treasure. For me the ascent into the Calanques is hard and lovely at once, for them it is one great adventure. And somewhere in between we meet, at the top, out of breath, looking at the sea.

The mountain as a playground

It needs no programme, no attraction. A gnarled pine branch is a throne, a rock niche a cave, a pine cone a find. Children still know that a place need offer nothing but itself. I learn that anew from them each time. We move more slowly, stop more often, and that is exactly what makes the way richer, not poorer.

Slow is the right speed

With little legs a short hike becomes half a day, and that is good. You see the trail of ants, the thyme, the lizard on the hot stone. A child forces you to look where you would otherwise walk past. In the end it is not I who remember the view, but they who remember the tree they sat in. Perhaps that is the more honest way to travel.

What remains

By evening everyone is tired, pockets full of stones, knees a little scraped. Such days cannot be booked, only allowed. A mountain of white stone, a few pines, the sea on the horizon, a good day needs no more. And the children take away something that lasts longer than any souvenir, the feeling of having conquered a place with their own body.