I’d just turned sixteen. At that time, in my youth, I lived in my hometown, in a small village in the south of La Palma, called Bendito.
Back then people used to talk about a woman who arrived in town many years past. She lived in a small house in the ‘White Valley’. The White Valley was covered with a mantle of white flowers during all the seasons of the year. The woman’s house was next to the infamous hill: “The Nameless.”
It was rumoured that The Nameless was a magic vortex. Whoever passed through it always came back with something extraordinary to tell. Good or bad, sometimes horrific, if they came back. Most people never returned from The Nameless. Even then, more than 60 years ago, I was too cool of a youngster to believe in “old wives’ tales”, but I always refrained from passing through the magic hill. I was not a curious child. I was fine with the conformity of the norm, and I took pride in that.
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