Only 44 km. from the center of Madrid, past Galapagar and taking the M505 road, in the upper part of the Valmayor reservoir there is a small paradise: Los Arroyos Reservoir.


The reflection of Mount Abantos in its calm waters, its sunsets, the peace that floods its banks, will make you enjoy contact with nature.

Walking along the path that surrounds the reservoir, between holm oak forests and riverside trees, is a delight.

In the spring, watching the flocks of ducks, with their small offspring moving gently through the water is one of those simple pleasures that reconcile you with the world.

If you keep quiet, you can hear how the duck mothers drive, reprimand, reward and cheer their little babies.


At the edge of the water, you can also see jumping, in search of the coveted mosquitoes, tents and perches that draw concentric circles on the smooth surface of the water.


Walk along the footbridge of the reservoir, and at the end of the afternoon, a beautiful line of water draws the landscape of the water that releases the reservoir to join its older brother, the Valmayor reservoir.

These late spring sunsets, when the warm wind blows over the water, reminded me of one of those wonderful poems by the great poet Emily Dickinson


The great American poet Emily Elizabeth Dickinson died 133 years ago

His definition of what poetry is is a clear example of the kind of poetry of this brave, transgressive and magnificent poet:

«If I have the physical sensation of being lifted up with my brains, I know that is poetry »

Some Emily Dickinson poems

How Lonesome The Wind Must Feel Nights


How Lonesome The Wind Must Feel Nights

When people have put out the Lights

And everything that has an Inn

Closes the shutter and goes in –


How pompous the Wind must feel Noons

Stepping to incorporeal Tunes

Correcting errors of the sky

And clarifying scenery


How mighty the Wind must feel Morns

Encamping on a thousand dawns

Espousing each and spurning all

Then soaring to his Temple Tall –

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops — at all —

And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm

I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest Sea
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of Me



When I count the seeds
That are sown beneath,
To bloom so, bye and bye

When I con the people
Lain so low,
To be received as high —

When I believe the garden
Mortal shall not see —
Pick by faith its blossom
And avoid its Bee,
I can spare this summer, unreluctantly.

!Si, quiero la Guía!

Responsable Marisol Torres.

Aquí nuestra Política de Privacidad.


SUBSCRÍBETE y sigue nuestras aventuras 


¿Te gustó este artículo?

Subscríbete a nuestra página para leer nuestras nuevas aventuras

Responsable Marisol Torres.

Aquí nuestra Política de Privacidad.