About half way between Coll d'Estenalles and Coll d'Eres, there is a place where oak and pines trees stand under the early stars, while the sun is sinking behind Montserrat mountains. After walking through the forests of this area, we usually sit on the ground, and with the faces flushed by the last sunlight of the day, so red, we sing the songs we love the most. These are the deepest instants in life, perhaps the truest instants. The North wind cools us, however we wear suitable clothes, and despite the cold weather, we appreciate the harsh intensity of the forces of nature. We love the cold in winter, the heat in summer, the strong blow of the wind when it awakes, the silent falling of the snow in the heart of the forest, the loneliness of the wild valleys... The energy of the nature is not our enemy but our mother. We emerged from the strongness of this nature that we love, and we accept its power.
In this scenario, time stretches as if it were ethernal; perhaps because we don't think about time. We don't think about what existed before this instant and we don't think about what will exist after this instant either. The dazzling image of the sun dissapearing in the west like a red ball of fire reveals to us that we are in heaven, but we are in heaven not because of all these realities but because of our heart, our mind, our love, our way of thinking, our way of living, our lack of utilitarianism, our submission to the forces of nature.
Lately, we have become usual visitors of this countryside, and sometimes I think that the trees, the wild pigs, the hills, the winds... know who we are, and love us, and are glad to have us so near.
This place is the farest spot from fashionable people. It is a hidden place in the heart of the wild Earth, where the core of the existence lives naked, and so we can see it naked and clear as it is.
Some skin stone's tops cluster near this place. They are made of red rocks, and these rocks are made of thousands of more little stones. Below the tops, the trees cluster around the stone's hills, and from these trees, a wide and deep forest stretches like a green prayer rug. The big temple of the mountain embraces a deep silence, and only the wind, some animals, and our voices singing in the night, break the strong and peaceful stillness of the evening.
The distant image of the old monastery of Sant Llorenç is cast across the wood. There is a quavering light on its windows, and from there to us there is only the deep darkness of the tree tops in the night. Now, the ripples of the clouds are dyed red, and the wind blows stronger. Rosemary and thyme scents are sent up by the blowing of the wind. I put my hand on a rock and I feel it chilly almost as if it were ice. We sing a song and when we finish we flounder for a minute because we don't know what to do. Perhaps singing another song would be a good idea, or instead perhaps we should go back home. Suddenly, we discover we are not alone because somebody is coming down to where we are. He or she comes from the top of the mountain, and appears as a little point of light that grows as it gets closer. This man or woman crawls slowly as if it were a distant ship in the horizon of a dark and cold sea.
When we go away, and the night rules and goes by, the dew is going to moisten the leaves and the grass. Yet, at dawn, light blows away the darkness, and a new day starts again.
This forest is full of winding paths that guide toward magical places, isolated wells, little old churches, lonely and neglected old farmhouses, charmed palaces, deep caves... I specially want to talk about a cave, the dragon cave, whence many centuries ago, a dragon went out from the dephts of the Earth to eat whoever it found on its way.
Sometimes, I went into this cave, a crevice in the heart of a red stone's crag, and I have to say that I didn't find any trail of the dragon, but something inside me compells me to believe that it is real, and that I have to believe it exists. This narrow cave is dotted with inner crevices, and it has two holes as entry and exit. The dragons have some sort of magic that makes them glorious and therefore they usually appear in the armorial shields of many important families around the world.
These days, the days we go on a journey, a mountain trip, are very important because time tends to slip away. And when we decide to start a trip, a trip towards nature spots we have not to hope or to expect anything. We have to enjoy whatever we find whatever we live. If we imagine our trip before it starts, it doesn't quite live up to our expectations. To make the most of our journey, we have to enjoy what we find without expecting anything. Every day has a surprise, something to savour, a specific identity. Every trip is a gift, a mystery, a magic experience. Of course, we have to plan it out, but we have to keep a chance for the random factor. We have to have free time, a time without timetables or specific goals; a time to walk without any direction, discovering more than seeking, living more than thinking.
Many people cringe when they think about travelling without any safety. People put the comfort on top of all the goals in life, and they destroy any magic to be more comfortable and more safe. When magic dies life dies. And if we don't fight against the rut every day, we will mindlessly end up in the mind's jail where most people live. If we don't fight, we will succumb. Social pressure is far too strong.