A foliage-covered monolith sweeps towards the wastelands, where the sirocco drinks from quiet hills and breathes life into dust. Above parched hues of gold and lustier green, houses are perched theatrically, their backyards plummeting towards the tombs of desperate prisoners and the damned.
At eventide, their whitewashed walls burn like salt crystals and Ronda’s gorge – the Tajo de Ronda – becomes an abyss. Framed by torrid hills, shadows and spine-tingling ingenuity, the gorge consumes both the living and the dead. It transfixes, it’s immortalised in sunlight and darkness, stone and pretty thoughts…
