On the fertile plain of the Rio Almoldovar, the oaks grow to gigantic proportions in the rich brown earths that are found there.
Over millennia, this river has brought nutrients and soil down into this valley from the encompassing mountains.
The founding acorns of the forest were also brought here by the river and were gently laid in the fecund soils from which the mighty oaks of Los Tornos sprouted.
This has ever been a place of retreat for the locals from the fierce summer heat and its graceful trees been the backdrop of many a tryst and moments of inspiration as well as being balm for soul and mind.
Moorish poets of the Sufi tradition may well have sat composing verse in the shade of this tree during her youth.
Over the succeeding centuries, it has seen kingdoms and empires rise and fall. while languages and Gods have changed and castles have crumbled back into the ground from whence they came.
Our cycles and dramas are of little import for its own slow sylvan rhythms. Here in this glade it simply sits and breathes, whilst watching over the gradual and subtle changes in the ecology.
Surrounding this venerable tree are many younger ones, perhaps only 300 years old who share such a similar form, it is reasonable to assume that they are the scions of this, the Mother Tree.
Even with her great age though, she has not yet reached the maturity of the veteran oaks.
These truly old denizens of the forest begin to shed unwanted branches and the centre becomes hollow, slowly decaying and feeding the roots underneath with the now unnecessary matter of ages.
In this hollow stag headed form, she will live for another thousand years and our current civilisations of reason will be nothing more than a footnote in history and to her, over in the drop of an acorn.