This time of year a portion of the road is closed meaning no vehicles interrupt its peacefulness. The only sounds are the rustling of wind in the
trees, water slapping against the rocks or gulls calling out to each other.
In a couple of places is a path leading to softly rounded rocks where in summer people picnic or sunbathe. At any time of year, it is not uncommon to see someone there with a camera or a paintbrush and easel.
Rounding the first turn is the field where for years the donkeys, Martini and Rossi, watched the passersby. Now, both are buried beneath the apple tree across the way, but in my mind I see them every time I pass this spot.
The dirt road is a walk for all seasons. Do you have a special place to leave your footprints?
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