“Let’s go gentlemen, get on the carriage please!”
Jozef worked for many years for the Slovak railways, he used to live in the city and he knew just a few English words about the railway world.

Yesterday, for the umpteenth time, we crossed the Polish-Slovak border and we walked 15km in the woods of the Poloniny National Park since this morning. It’s lunch time and we are sitting in the center of Rusky Potok village, surrounded by yellow flowers and eating old bread with some tomatos who survived our last transfers.

There are no more than thirty houses and two churches: one of them is wooden and is dedicated to St. Michael Archangel and the other one is more modern, painted in white with a rounded orange dome.
A white cat walks by before two little blond twin sisters, with a quick stride, dressed alike and probably coming back from school.
I wonder where’s the nearest school…

In these villages it’s very easy to feel observed. A man in army camo and his hands behind his back is walking in his garden, curious about our presence.

Jozef  lives in this small village on the border with Poland, where in these last days of April there’s still snow on the border line. He’s a father, a grandfather, a sculptor and a walker. He has no phone and no car, just an old radio which he turns down when there’s a commercial and turns off during political programs.
That break up device with 350W written on it, is useful to listen to the forecasts only when you can’t see what’s the weather like by looking at the sky!
Once entering in his garden, we are invited in his house. Giving a quick look around I say: “You are a wood artist!” He pretends not to hear me, but after a while he answers that the only one who really makes art is nature. He’s passionate about everything, he collects insects, knows about plants and mashrooms. He’s an expert of his mountains, the Carpathians, leaves alone for the woods, not afraid of being on fresh air for three days without equipment. The season doesn’t matter, he puts on his army camo and heads off  to the mountains with an empty bag on his shoulders. As he comes back the bag is full of woods, branches and bows of the trees. Once at home he invents, sands and smooths logs and barks and then he admits that the funniest thing to do is to name his works.

I would have taken his “Labyrinth” away, a twist of well sanded branches, but unfortunately the backpack is heavy enough and the trip is still long.

We drink a coffee, laugh and have a few cups of a good alcoholic drink. When you feel the hospitality is always hard to say goodbye and leave. Glorija writes down his home address, we want to send him a letter with the pictures taken during the afternoon.

Altripiani is encounters, people and stories in their territory.