Quiet Admiration

It was a green more vibrant than I'd ever seen; an emerald that almost seemed to hum before my eyes. It was life in its purest, most honest form. The fields extended further than my vision could, and yet in the crisp winter air, it was almost as if each dewdrop on every blade of grass sparkled at me. This was my view from Assisi, a small Tuscan town risen high above its neighbouring greenery. Cobbled walkways stretched to my left and right, with stone and brick buildings, mossy and aged, looming over me. The church - a massive, ancient thing - reached for the midday sun. A constant stream of villagers hobbled towards it, heads bowed modestly. There were no lurking gypsies, as in Rome or Florence - it was a sleepy town. Doors jingled as shoppers wandered peacefully from store to store. Tourists were not bait here - in fact, we were barely acknowledged. We wandered through the walkways and our dreamlike marvel was unchallenged, unburdened by barters and traps and questionable products. We were free to explore, to keep the quiet, and to leave this small, untarnished piece of land, history, and culture the same as we had found it.