Spanish Celts

I left the path. Something drew me aside. Was it the voices of the Celts rising from the boggy ground? Or the battering breath of the wind dragon flapping across the Asturian sky? No matter. I was drawn. By the landscape herself. And I followed her crooked finger. Upward and into the bosk.

One is never disappointed when one heeds the call. For treasure is aplenty, stowed within the contours of the Earth’s body. Under stone. Behind tree. Clattering between the banks of a brook. Perhaps it’s the treasure itself that beckons. Perhaps the gold seeps into the soil weaving glistening trails only instinct can see.

Cold gusts bit into my cheeks. I stopped. Pushing back my hat, I saw clearly. It was an altar. Not that there was a sign. But the presence of the rock, the shimmer of emerald, and the whispers from the pine grove surrounding were explicit.

Few are those who recognise Spain’s Celtic side. Her cooler northern side. Yet Celtic she is. And as I knelt, placing my hands on the rock’s long-chilled hide, something of substance was released.