Walking around in the village and up to the castle and the forts, we felt in no imminent danger of attack of any sort. Many of the people in the museums and shops, though, behaved as if we were conquistadors, wanting to invade their shops, their life, their souls. Their rude and unfriendly behavior did nothing to endear us to the place. They acted as if they were positively sick and tired of all the tourists that they are so utterly dependent on. Which in one way is understandable, but on the other hand makes life more miserable than necessary for both parties.
All the negativity was not able, though, to diminish the exhilaration we felt about both the now to a great extent crumbled forts, still impressive, by virtue of their location, and the amazing panoramic view of the strikingly beautiful landscape around us. Some of the mountains were bathed in the now reddish glow of the late afternoon sun, and the dammed Guadalest drinking reservoir is no less than stunning, with its emerald color, lined with what from a distance looks like white, sandy banks leading up to the terraced hillsides, reaching all the way up to the timberline and beyond.
While my companion went down to the village, I stayed on a little longer, perched on a slab of rock, just taking in the scene around me. People came, stayed for a little while, took photos, pointed out landscape formations to each other, and left again. I sat there, peacefully marveling at the mountains, the lake and not the least the people who had once lived, worked, fought and died here, of natural causes, in combat or in the dungeons, now open for the public, as an attraction… I suddenly shivered. I was chilled by the thought, and by the fact that the sun was setting. Time to start the descent, and our drive back to friendly L’Alfas.
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