Sinuously flowing through the ancient veins of this mountain is the purest living spring water.
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Here, where I sit, the water empties into a limpid natural rock bowl, smoothed and shaped by the constant flows and tempests.
Nature ensures this is no hurried process, the origin of the water in this pool was a great storm from a distant armorial age.
When this rain fell, foolish knights were still tilting at windmills in the plain far below, and the peasantry lay cowed under the rule of unjust Lords.
It has taken 800 years to journey through the subterranean heart of this mountain to finally emerge into this verdant moss shrouded grotto.
During the immensity of this filtration, empires have risen and fallen, continents have been discovered and whole cultures forcibly converted to patriarchal gods.
The long long seepage through crystals and minerals have left this water steeped in the soul and goodness of this great hill.
Kneeling below its exit, I allow the soft liquid to cool my dusty hands and drinking deeply, I feel the strength of the mountain enter my body. The only appropriate thing to do in this position of supplication is to give great thanks for the natural processes that surround me.
Once taken in this manner, it is impossible to look at water in the same way ever again.
Drinking becomes no more or less than an act of prayer, and a connection to a far distant time.
Photo: Spring emerging in Los Alcorncales near Facinas. Courtesy of the author.