The village is small, dull and is there since there were villages.
Each house is now at least a century old, placed, replaced and replaced.
The road has felt the shoes of Roman soldiers, of monks, of painters, of revolutionair man, of soldiers from WWII.
Now, or was it then, the time has stopped moving here.
Woman wear still the knee-long skirts.
Man work, childeren wear still those horrible sweaters.
And every sunday they go to church twice.
But, there's also a road that goes on.
That leaves the village.
There's a sudden moment that this road spilts up in four other roads.
A Crosspoint.
What's about it?
My dear, dear reader.
Not everybody can see it. In fact just a few can.
Who can?
Those who just believe.