I am catching an early bus this morning to Trento, and then a train onwards to Venice, changing at Verona. Opposite the village bus stop, there is a fountain spouting a very gentle arc of water. All I can hear is the seemingly eternal trickling over a blissful silence. This is a very beautiful part of the world.
The bus winds its way along mountain ledges, and through the windows, the mountains turn and close like monstrous gates. They are covered in fir and ash, brushed in an upwards direction.
On the other side of the valley, at the foot of a mountain, I spot an entrance to a tunnel, and it suddenly clarifies what now seems like a very obvious fact: that whenever a train passes through a tunnel, there is something greater it's passing through. If I imagine beyond the immediate darkness and the irritation of popping ears, I realise I'm somewhere underneath a giant mountain. Such is the case many times on the train from Trento to Verona.
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