Montaña Vieja

Wake-up at four; it's still dark. The narrow streets of the little town have a curious atmosphere: it's mostly silent and sleepy, but I pass several groups of other people, walking as briskly as I am in the still-cool air. The surrounding mountains have disappeared in the fog.

A half-hour walk to the starting point of the trail. And then: up, up, up the stone steps that have been laid in an ancient manner on the side of the mountain. These steps give no mercy to anyone, and when I pass people sitting down on some stones, most of them have the same look of astonishment and agony on their face: how much more?

There's always more. After every corner: still more. I don't know where I am – the trail is surrounded by trees, and even when there is a small open area, the fog around us makes everything in the distance invisible. It's as if walking in a tunnel.

But at the end of the tunnel, hidden by soaring mountains from all sides, hidden from everyone's view but the birds', is this.