36
On the stroke of 11 p.m., we leave the reassuring glow of the campfire to sink into the forest. Progressing in single file in the dark night, we advance cautiously, stumbling from time to time on an exposed root. The silence is complete, except for the murmur of footsteps on the ground covered with leaves. The awakened senses are assailed by the sweet smell of wild garlic which mingles with the sweet tones of the wood anemone. After regarding twenty minutes, a melodic hoot pierces the night. The first nightingale.
