Where the witches live

Near the way to the mountain, not so far from the village, there’s a path that leads to a stream hidden under the grass and ferns. Only the eldest of the village remember the story of the Witches who lived beyond the boundaries of the forest, following up the stream and under the old oak tree. There, just there, lay the entrance to an unknown world of mystery.



Last weekend I went to my mom’s village up in the mountain in Gredos, Ávila. Every time I need to scape and recharge my batteries I go there. The weather is amazing, so cold at night that even in the summer you need to sleep with a blanket or wear long sleeves (fyi: I live in the hot hot hot Madrid), the silence is golden, if you listen carefully you can hear the sound of the water flowing on the plaza’s fountain.

With almost no signal on your phone, it’s the perfect place to evade your daily life and problems. And the perfect place to take this kind of photographs.


The peacefulness is absolute. The silence invades the place, the whole village, only broken by the soft buzz of the insects and the babbling of a brook nearby.

Here, time seems to stop and stretch on. And what it actually is just a weekend, is transformed into eternity.

The mountains in the distance are the same as always, as if time hasn’t passed from my childhood. What stories would they have seen. What do they have still to see.



 La quietud es absoluta. El silencio inunda el lugar, todo el pueblo, roto tan sólo por el suave zumbido de los insectos y el murmullo de un arroyo cercano.

Aquí, el tiempo parece deternerse y alargarse. Y lo que en realidad es un fin de semana, se transforma en eternidad.

Las montañas en la lejanía son las mismas de siempre, como si el tiempo no hubiera pasado desde mi niñez. Qué no habrán visto estos parajes. Qué les quedará por ver.