The sun beats down on the village, unchanged for a century.
A donkey swings from side to side, baskets swaying, laden with sorghum; clip clop over the cobbles, past whitewashed walls, breaking the silence.
In the glaring sunlight scarlet hibiscus burgeon from window boxes. The scent of jasmine fills the air, mingling with the pungent smell of curing hams dangling from hooks on beams in open sided barns.
Polished wooden doors gleam, heavy knockers protrude from black iron bolts.
The narrow street becomes a path, winding down to the stream; stones become gravel, gravel becomes mud, giving way to rivulets of sweet running water, while Mulhacen rises above the pitched rooves, dominating the tiny village perched higher than any other in the land.
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