High in the mountains, with time growing all around, we walk, like pilgrims, along crunching acorned paths, carved like riddles in the red slate steeps.
The autumn sun shines sweetly on the turning chestnuts, glowing golden against the evergreen and the wind whispers through the valleys, stroking the soft blonde grasses with the secrets of the dusty sky.
Mossy caterpillars creep in silent convoy across the cairnstones, beginning their journey of transformation from silken pine pouches to pollen brushed breeze.
Crickets crackle and pop on the hot stones and the dogs lap noisily from a clean mountain spring.
We rest for a while at a deserted cortijo, lunching in the mid-day heat on bread and olives, freshly picked tomatoes and walnuts cracked on the flat rocks.
Cloud shadows ease like wishes across the sunken white-washed villages below and as our eyes sweep out over the distant horizon, so our hearts are stilled by the soothing sighs of the sierra.
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