Small pines blow and bend in the brisk north wind. I'm glad I have my windbreaker jacket on. Red roofs and a jumble of walls tight against each other. I hear churchbells ringing. The road to the ancient farm where all my ancestors worked is out of sight far down below me behind the trees and brush.
Sheep graze down in the fields on the hillsides leading to the village.
I hear roosters crowing. The view into the valley is magnificent. Clouds blow by just skimming the rooftops of the village. The high hills around me are barren and brown ready for the next planting of winter wheat, but the fields below are still green pastures.