Written by Lucy Brzoska
On the outskirts of Aiguafreda, the Cingles de Bertí loom up rather dauntingly, but the climb isn’t as bad as it looks, especially if you begin early in the day. At the side of the track was a Dappled White, keeping perfectly still. Its green underwing markings are like the mottled pattern of lichen on a rock.
There’s a short cut near the top cutting through dark damp woods where shadows are purple with liverwort. Then abruptly you emerge, like a prisoner out of an escape tunnel, and look wonderingly over the top of the precipice at the flat table land.
Spring comes at full tilt with a range of sounds not heard since the previous year. A cuckoo starts up from the valley below. I can hear a flock of bee eaters somewhere over the fields. A nightingale sings, still rather tentatively, from deep inside the evergreen oaks. Then a Tawny owl starts hooting in the bright morning, disconcertingly, like a clock striking thirteen.