Nearly endless a landscape of hills with naked olive trees all over it. Varying color schemes from reddish brown, ocre de rue, dark yellowish brown and softer hues, to a color of dust beneath stonegrey sky. Dust-colored rocks with a greenish shade to it, later a more bluish touch and a fringe of tiny shrub. Old cars, aged distance, clouds above it without other sign than being there.
I truly would have loved it as much as an empty page, if it had been that empty page. I already started to dislike it as we drove to those mountains, disagreeing with almost everything I was. I had taken myself for someone else sitting next to the other stranger in a small, blue Citroën driving north from Jaen to Cazorla through valleys with a strong smell of olive oil, then alongside the Quadalqivir where we took notice of a magnificent hemisphere and Salazar being nothing else but a rock, a river or a place surrounded now by a desert of industrial activities.