After siesta, our evening was spent in the walled city of Mont Blanc. We came upon a classical concert in a 12th century church. The sound of the music against stone walls, accompanied by a little bird swooping and flitting above the performers, made a moment I will not soon forget. The rolling hills of La Mancha are covered with yellow wheat, green vineyards, and now and then a freshly plowed field of red soil. In places, hills are filled with olive trees, and the scent of olive oil fills the air, reaching even to the high speed highway where we traveled.
Castles guard the high places, and windmills dot the hills.
In the pueblos of central Spain, time seems to have stood still. Residents still carry their drinking water from the plazas, and gather there in the cool of the evening. Tiny stone churches recall the important moments, the births, marriages, and deaths in an endless cycle. It was late in the evening when we drove through the little village of Arisgotas. Women in dark housedresses chatted in the streets outside their curtained doorways.