“It hides within the folds of the landscape, yet for those who know how to look, it reveals itself everywhere. A discreet village, neither quite perched nor truly rooted in the plain, but suspended somewhere in between. It stands at the edge of a ravine while nestling against the side of a hill, round and solid like a small bump upon a brow. A village with blurred outlines and shifting forms, its geography and geometry forever changing, as though caught between vertigo and shelter. The Revermont promises wonders beyond imagining…

From time to time, something new settles there, and everything shifts. Streets usually wrapped in silence suddenly seem alive with conversation; the villagers’ footsteps change pace, quicken, and grow animated. New presences fill the village. Are we standing in a stage set? For here, the inhabitants seem more like actors: they welcome us into their homes, open the doors of their barns and gardens, and guide us toward new images and discoveries. Watchfulness gives way to kindness, connections are rekindled, and we wander from house to house like bees moving from flower to flower. Depending on the year, there are unforgettable sunsets or untamable downpours, mysterious animals emerging from the depths of cellars, colours spilling from windows, and façades adorned with new narratives. Eagerly, we follow roads that already exist only to trace new paths upon them, and we write beautiful stories that, in time, become the stories we tell ourselves. Everything seems to suggest that a shift in the world is still possible. And so we tell ourselves tales of marvels and wonders.

Yet when the intensity subsides, what once seemed eternal becomes fragile again. The village returns to its ordinary rhythm; gates and curtains gradually close, and everyone finds their place once more, like familiar objects set back upon a shelf. The historic houses slowly empty of their occupants, the elders disappear with the passing seasons, and even the trees seem to acquire a few more wrinkles. Were all those little lights we kindled nothing more than illusions?

And so we descend from the village that once seemed so difficult to reach, seeking a little distance. The hills fade into the mist, the wind sweeps across the sparse meadows that still endure, and we gently close this small parenthesis that enchanted us for a weekend’s time.”