Free The Man Who Planted Trees by Jean Giono

ABOUT FORTY YEARS ago I went on a long journey, on foot, through the uplands, utterly unknown to tourists, of the ancient region where the Alps extend into Provence.
    The area is bounded in the south-east and the south by the middle reaches of the river Durance, between Sisteron and Mirabeau; in the north by the upper course of the Drôme, from its source down as far as Die; and in the west by the plains of the Comtat Venaissin and the foothills of Mont Ventoux. It includes all the northern part of the department of the Basses-Alpes, the south of the Drôme, and a small enclave of the Vaucluse.
    When I went on my long tramp through that deserted region, between 1200 and 1300 metres above sea level, it was an expanse of bare and monotonous moorland. All that grew there was wild lavender.
    I set out to cross the area at its widest point, and after walking for three days found myself in a landscape of unparalleled desolation. I camped near the skeleton of a deserted village. I hadn’t had any water since the previous day, and I had to find some. Although the houses, huddled together there like an old wasps’ nest, were in ruins, they made me think there must once have been a spring or a well nearby. And indeed there was a spring, but it had dried up. The five or six roofless houses weathered away by the wind and the rain, and the little chapel with its fallen tower, were arranged like the houses and churches in living villages. But in them no life remained.
    It was a fine day in June, very sunny, but on those bare heights, open to the sky, the wind blew cruelly. The sound of it raging through the carcasses of the houses was like the snarl of a wild beast disturbed over its prey.

    I had to move on. But after walking for five hours I still hadn’t found water, and there was nothing to suggest I was going to. Everywhere the same dry land, the same tough grass. Then I thought I could see a little black figure standing upright in the distance. I took it for the trunk of a solitary tree. But on the off chance I set out towards it. It was a shepherd. Thirty or so sheep lay resting on the baking earth nearby. He gave me a drink from his flask, and then, a little while later, took me to his fold, which was hidden in a hollow. He got his water, which was delicious, from a very deep natural well, over which he had rigged up a rudimentary windlass.
    He said very little. This is common in people who live alone, but you could tell he was sure of himself and confident in his self-possession, which was surprising in such a dismal spot. The place he lived in was not just a hut but a real house built of stone: you could see where he’d patched up the ruin it must have been before. The roof was strong and kept out the rain. The wind in the tiles made a sound like the sea on the shore.
    Inside, the house was tidy, the washing-up done, the floor swept, the shepherd’s gun cleaned and oiled. His soup was cooking over the fire. I noticed now that he was freshly shaved, that all his buttons were sewn on firmly, and that his clothes were mended with such minute care the repairs were almost invisible.
    He insisted I should share his soup, and afterwards, when I offered him my tobacco pouch, he said he didn’t smoke. His dog, as silent as he, was friendly without fawning.
    It had been agreed from the outset that I’d spend the night there: the nearest village was still more than a day and a half’s walk away. Moreover, I knew what they were like, the rare villages one did come across in that part of the world. There were four or five of them sparsely scattered over these slopes, buried in thickets of holm oak where usable roads petered out.
    The villages are inhabited by charcoal burners. Life is hard there. Families, crowded together in a climate as harsh in summer as in winter, seethe with conflicting egoisms. Ambitions swell to wild proportions among them, so desperate and unrelenting is the desire to escape.

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