take me back to the mountains
In all facets of life, I'm a person who enjoys being as busy as humanly possible, if I can help it. I love having a few projects going at once, people to see, things to do, and I love being surrounded by this same action. I'm sure I've already rambled enough about how much of a city dweller I am, and those thoughts could be an entirely new post of their own.
Despite that energy I have, I find myself constantly returning to the thought of the mountains. The beautiful Greek mountains. My village is a teeny, sleepy place settled at the top of a mountain. The population has dwindled slowly but steadily since the 60s, first with immigration and now with old age. Every time we visit, fewer businesses are open, and just a few more people are gone.
What I love about it so much though are the everlasting parts. There will always be the few churches scattered around, there will always be the smell of pine (and a hint of manure) in the air, and there will always be the water. The fresh, always flowing mountain water.
Mountain water straight from the rock is one of the most amazing pleasures in life, and I dream of it all the time. It seems stupid to love something as simple as water from a specific place so much, but if you knew, you would get it. The special thing about these mountains is that if you know where to look, you could chisel straight into a mountain and get fresh water pouring back out to you.
This last summer, around sunset, I decided to just walk down the road (it's extremely rare for someone to actually drive down it), and turn at the first dirt path I found. It was then that I realized how much joy I found walking the same forest paths that my grandparents walked before me. Some had goat and sheep footsteps trailing away, and they marked their ground by eating every blackberry off of the bushes, leaving none for me.
For all the inner accomplishment and joy I get out of the life I lead in the city, there's always a little part of me that dreams of the mountains. Maybe that's the detachment I get as a 2nd generation Canadian. I look at where I'm from so wistfully, although I only experience it for a few days at a time, in the most beautiful time of year.
At some point in my life, I want to stock up, and stay up there for a month or two, maybe three, to properly experience it. Preferably in the fall, as the region is famous for it's fall mushroom harvest. Preferably with my dad as well.