The rotor vibrates and its shudder, like a steel wing, beckons you to travel, and already the wind is caressing the cabin with the warm breath of early spring. The ground fades away in a whisper, leaving the weight of everyday life to crumble away. The helicopter rises, a sylph of the air, a mechanical bird gliding towards the immense blue, towards the eternity of an endless sky as far as the forest of Brocéliande.

Beneath our feet, the earth opens up like a living mosaic, woven of emerald and tawny gold. The horizon, elusive and sovereign, rises like a promise, a call on which time suspends its flight.

The sun, a silent accomplice, stretches the air in crystalline transparency. No clouds or flakes of celestial foam this morning, and while the sea will soon sparkle, it will extend its arm to the edge of the world. Over there, eternal Brittany is already awakening, dressed in winds and legends, bathed in sea spray and mystery, with its granite houses quivering under the caress of the salt.

In this celestial ballet, I become Icarus without fear, carried by the intoxication of flight, drunk with light and height. Each beat of the blades sounds like a poem, an ode to pure freedom, to the sacred dance of sky and sea. And as the weekend unfolds into infinity, it has no boundaries other than the call of the open sea, with no compass other than the echo of the wind.

FM