As you look at their gray stone huts against the scarred hill-sides you leave your own age behind you, and if you were to see a skin-clad, hairy man crawl out from the low door fitting a flint-tipped arrow on to the string of his bow, you would feel that his presence there was more natural than your own.
Quand on contemple leurs tombeaux, ou les cabanes en pierre grise qui s’accrochent au flanc des collines, on se sent tellement loin de son époque que si un homme chevelu, vêtu de peaux de bêtes, se glissait hors de sa porte basse et ajustait une flèche à son arc, sa présence paraîtrait encore plus naturelle que la mienne.