Sunday on the mountains

On Sunday morning, last weekend, my husband, his father and myself drove to his father's village.

 The road to the village is always the best thrill for me, as I watch the colours around me change from those of the city to those of the countryside.

 The leaves are long fallen and turn into a natural scrapbook.

I long to listen to the sound of the little rivers. Why do we always rush to the end of the journey? We must stop and listen to the giggle of the water.

The bridge, one of the two linking the village to the city world. Built some four decades ago. My father in law remembers the time when they had to cross the river to get on the road to the city.

 The bell, calling the old residents and visitors to the Sunday mass.

Depicted with a certain naivety but also with faith, Jesus Christ on the ceiling of the church.

Now largely abandoned, the village still provides shelter and refuge to the faithful few who call it home.

 

On our way home, sheep grazing quietly in the meadows.

Some goats, too. The mountain is their kingdom.

A kind of beauty that is original and untamed.

Nature has taken over the old gardens, creating her own wild tales.

I hope your weeeknd is rich in sights and sounds and the love of those you care for.