Lunch in the mountains

Lunch in the mountains was worth the drive up the narrow, curvy road with no barriers that would prevent a wrong flick of the wheel leaving the car careening into the valley below. When I say narrow, an SUV would be wider than the tarmac.
The house belonged to a writer and sculptor. They had bought it when it was a ruin and had transformed it into an estate with studios, guest houses, a pool, and landscaping that both displayed his sculpture and the plants that lived with minimum demands for water.
The whole area was bathed in the scent of the mimosa, the blooms on the trees so bright that sunglasses were almost required.
We were able to eat on the terrace. Her fresh baked bread, laden with nuts and seeds, was still warm from the oven, some of the best I’ve tasted in a country that makes wonderful bread. Because they are so far from stores, she bakes her own. The rest of the meal (pasta with salmon and wild asparagus in a light cream sauce) and salad tasted even better in the fresh air. The mountains looked as wild, rugged and deserted as they must have when the Neanderthal man roamed the area.
After lunch we walked up the road until we came to a dirt path and continued walking up, up and up until we came to a dolmen. As we walked we talked about our writing, until our characters seemed as real as the “real” people we know. At the dolmen we speculated what certain marks meant and marvelled that one of the supporting rocks was heart shaped and our writers’ minds could picture sacrificial virgins breathing their last.
The afternoon ended all too quickly, followed by another prayerful trip back down the mountain road. The drive home was pink from the flowering apricot and cherry orchards in between the twisted branches of the grape vines that still have not begun to leaf.
Lunch in the mountains had given all my senses and my muscles a good workout.