Español In the Pyrenees, there is a place, crouching near the end of a narrow valley, surrounded by high mountains and grim. A peculiar place where the air smells likeBach, where the food has a certain taste of Wagner and where thinking is not only permitted but is mandatory standard. That place is lladore, the epicenter where it fuses the words of Ausias March, with the harsh words of a farmer for his cows, in the old parish church, which features their years in centuries.There, my brothers James and Ferran live. One day they were ...read more...
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