My adventure started when I was standing on top of Ronda’s seventy-meter-high bridge. Despite the distance, I could hear the water murmuring as it flowed underneath the bridge. The stream wound its way in between two steep rock walls, coiling back and forth like a slithering snake. The water carried a slight blue tint, but its clarity remained uncompromised; I could see the gray river rocks settled beneath the water’s surface. I couldn’t take my eyes off the water and knew that I had to get closer to it.

My friends must have been equally fascinated by the view. I wonder if they too were captivated by the crisp water, but perhaps it was the surrounding cliffs or more than likely, the gorge as a whole. Regardless of our individual motives, we had all eagerly agreed to find a way to the bottom after our city tour and refuel break. We started climbing down the same steps we had walked down during our tour, this time with slightly tired legs and sweat-stained shirts. “Does anyone know where we’re going?” I heard someone ask. No one replied with a yes, so naturally, we just continued walking, descending until the steps ended.

We now stood on top of a much smaller bridge which put us just under five meters above the water surface. Still, we couldn’t figure out how to get to the water. If you were going to suggest jumping over a locked gate and then trudging through overgrown thorn shrubs, trust me when I say that that wouldn’t have done the trick. I was watching the scene in amusement, when suddenly, I heard an unfamiliar voice behind me say, “I know a much simpler way to get down there”. I turned around to find a short lady standing in front of me with a twinkling smile, and a thin line of bright blue eyeliner. She pointed out a little rock beach right along the river and explained that we could get there by walking past the side of a house and then down a little path. What she forgot to mention was that the homeowner of the house we had to walk by, would be sitting in his little courtyard peering out at us. Taken by surprise, we immediately stepped back when we saw him, worried that we had trespassed onto his property. Our worry quickly abandoned us as the man mirrored our questioning thumbs-up gesture, giving us an unspoken approval to pass by.

The path to the river was thin and imperfect in its straightness, like a loosened line of yarn. It drew a line through a patch of spiky plants that reached just under my knees, pricking me occasionally as I navigated carefully to avoid them. The destination made my discomfort well worth it. There stood the river. Not 70 meters below me, not five meters below me, but directly next to me. The river bank was made up of small and medium-sized gray rocks, making the water appear rather icy. The temperature matched its crisp appearance. It didn’t take more than a few seconds for the pins and needles to creep in, swallowing my feet and ankles in numbness. I ignored the discomfort, as did everyone else. We became consumed by the nature that surrounded us. Like a group of curious children, we each set off to embark on separate journeys of discovery. Some searched for broken pieces of mosaic tiles that had been scattered along the river As I sat on the bus back to Sevilla, wishing I was still wading through the waters of the river, I realized that there is beauty in the temporary nature of experiences. I know that moments and experiences don’t last forever, and while I sometimes wish that I could stay in them just a little longer, it would be less special if that power existed. Besides, how do I know that my next moment will be any less special than this one?

Facebook IconYouTube IconTwitter IconVisit Our Instagram