3.
The Long MarchNow, how I got to be at my godforsaken bothy, with Gérard’s binoculars, squire Raboullet’s potato sacks full of provisions, and my suppurating boils (sorry if I disgust you) is a rather long story…an itinerary along tracks which didn’t exist until I took them and which I would never have thought I could negotiate. Many a time, I must confess, I have an irresistible urge to sit down, lean against a tree and suck pebbles. But wanting to make time stand still is the same as turning back, and that I must not do. So the second of February had its tomorrow, as might have been expected, and it gave rise to many more. From then to the fragrant and still misty dawn which greets me through the bars of the east window of my bothy, two long months have run their dizzy course.
After
