Oh have we not longed for the stillness of these cold and bleak afternoons, when the harsh sunlight is smashed into a thousand sparkling rays by the icicles hanging low on the eaves. Shiny white flatlands in the valley, black frozen mirrors of little mountain pools and lazy cows glancing out of a barn door with their steaming noses. This is in fact what les Poissonchats go for to spend their Christmas Holiday. It is another long journey along an endless winding road through dark pine forests, solitary villages, crossing adventurous bridges over babbling creeks and deep glens, up a steep and narrow path through the snow and there they are to settle for the weeks to come:
It is the homeland of Mr Poissonchat, this rough country, the perfect spot for a wintry repose. Here and there a curious fox, a delicate deer or even a low chuckling snow grouse impartially witnesses the every year parade of the Poissonchats moving the ménage to their black and white paradise. Quick, light a fire and get into your warmest socks, brew a hot and sweet punch and make yourself at home on the oven bench with a nice book, one that is brimming over with incredible stories, while outside a snowstorm howls over rock and boulder:
Les Poissonchats 