Views from Ronda

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 …

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