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.



Just half an hour from Madrid, next to El Escorial, you immerse yourself in the beautiful calm of the Bosque de la Herrería.


During the spring thousands of birds sing their best melodies, millions of plants and flowers dot the newly born grass, innumerable species of insects, lizards, small rodents and mammals inhabit this enchanted forest.

There are two ways to get there, but I advise you to cross the impressive San Lorenzo del Escorial with its Monastery built between 1563 and 1584.

And if you have a few minutes, walk around it, you will discover a thousand things in its stones.


When you arrive at the there is a first parking lot with small tables and a fountain, but if you continue upwards, after the famous and unlikely Silla de Felipe II, you will continue walking along a road cut off by traffic.


You will find yourself in a magical place.

What do I do in the middle of the forest?

I walk, I listen, I smell, I play with Blue … and I write.

Now, finishing my first collection of poems, which will soon be released.


The poems of Rupi Kaur are with me.

Rupi Kaur, born in India and living in Canada, is a poet, illustrator and actress. She has published “Milk and Honey” and “The Sun and her Flowers”.

Some Rupi Kaur poems

I want to apologize to all the women

I have call pretty

Before I’ve call them intelligent or brave

i am sorry i made it sound as though

something as simple as what you’re born with

is all you have to be proud of

when you have broken mountains with your wit

from now on i will say things like

you are resilient, or you are extraordinary

not because i don’t think you’re beautiful

but because i need you to know

I stand

on the sacrifices

of a million women before me


what can i do

to make this mountain taller

so the women after me

can see farther

What is the greatest lesson a woman should


that since day one

she’s already had everything she needs within herself

it’s the world that convinced her she did not



!Qué verde era mi valle!


Parafraseando al enorme John Ford… qué verde es mi valle .

Me tendréis que permitir este pequeño homenaje al lugar donde nací, donde está este corazón loco, donde siempre encuentro la paz aunque el mundo se vuelva loco a mi alrededor.

El Valle del Gévalo, en los montes de Toledo, es un lugar casi desconocido y que guarda enormes tesoros naturales.


Furrowed by the river Gévalo, it is a valley that occupies a great backbone within the region of La Jara in the westernmost end of the Montes de Toledo.

From Los Navalmorales, where the “civilization” ends, we begin to delve into the mountain.

From here, it’s all magic.

What will you find there?

Unspoiled nature, crystalline waters, a green valley populated with Oaks, Holm oaks, Gall, Cork oaks, arbutus, heather, birch, chestnut, Jara and ancient yew… Of those who have been the guardians of the valley for 2,000 years.

And if you are lucky, you will be able to cross with a stag, a deer, a boar, a badger, some otter, eagles, owls, frogs, some Roadrunner Fox and a myriad of birds.

What to see?

Everything, but there are two places of exceptional beauty.

The Microreserve of the biosphere La Garganta de las Lanchas, where you can see three waterfalls of spectacular beauty, and enjoy the Parrot (Prunus lusitanica), related to Prunos, rosebushes and similar species. This species has an age of more than 50 million years, in particular of a time when the climate was much warmer and moister than the present. When the weather was changing getting colder and drier, all the species were disappearing except the most resistant, they managed to survive in specific areas with favorable characteristics, so precisely for that reason they are very scarce.

And the hermitage of Piedraescrita, a hermitage of the 12th century, nestled in the rock, with a gabled roof that pours over the Tajo and Guadiana basins. Its main feature is a valuable tilework Talavera from the 16TH and 17TH century with scenes from the New Testament that cover its walls.



Here you have a video flying over the Garganta de las Lanchas … beautiful, right?

Ida Vitale

Who better than the winner of the Cervantes Prize 2018 to accompany you for this beautiful tour?

Uruguayan poet and critic born in Montevideo in 1924.
He studied humanities in his country, teaching literature until 1973 when the dictatorship forced her into exile.
He lived in Mexico from 1974 to 1984, settling definitively in Austin, Texas, since 1989.





Do they get hurt and melt?
They just ceased to be the rain.
Sleepers in recess,
kittens of a transparent kingdom,
they run free by glass and railings,
thresholds of his limbo,
are followed, pursued,
maybe they go, from solitude to weddings,
To melt and love each other.
they dream of another death.

Of “Infinity Reduction” 2002


… after both here and there coming and going.
Francisco de Aldana

They are here and there: by the way,
every horizon: where an ember attracts.
They could go to any fissure.
No compass, no voices.

They cross deserts that the bravo Sun
or that the frost burn
and infinite fields without the limit
that makes them real,
that would make them solid and grassy.

The look lies like a dog,
without even the resource of moving a tail.
The gaze lies down or regresses,
is pulverized by air
If no one returns it.
Does not return to the blood or reach
to whom I should.

It dissolves, so alone.

Of “De procura lo imposible” 1998


Month of May

I write, write, write
And I don’t drive to anything, to anyone.
The words are frightening me
like doves, deafly crackling,
they root in their dark lump,
are prevailed with fine scruple
of the undeniable scandal:
over the vague written shadow
I care more about loving you.

From “Oidor Andante” 1972



horse and knight are already two animals

One plus one, we say. And we thought:
an apple plus an apple,
a glass and a glass,
always the same things.

What change when
one plus one be a puritan
more a gamelan
a jasmine plus an arab,
a nun and a cliff,
a song and a mask,
again a garrison and a maid,
someone hope
plus the dream of another.

Of “Infinity Reduction” 2002

! The journey has begun!

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Is anyone really that wild enough to tie a frog?

A “tied” frog unleashes the fury of a lady walking near the river.

Spring is here, with its little sunshine and downpours. The true, I like that the mountain smells of rain, but I do not like to get wet, so I go hiding where I can to protect me from the rain.

That day first it was sunny, then it rained a little and again the sun came out. We were in La Pedriza and mommy wanted to try a mat that was just bought, while I was chasing the smells of squirrels who mocked me from the trees.

Suddenly there are cries; a very, very angry lady, screams near us.

She goes with a gentleman, also older, and they scream right across the river. I do not have a very broad vocabulary, but I know how to distinguish words like “savage”, “denounce”, “intolerable”… They scream and shout! ” Do something, man! ” !” Poor Frog! ” and stuff like that.

Mummy, quietly lying down reading on her newly-released air bed, hears a little screaming and goes on with her book.

Relax, Blue, I’m told, they look a little hysterical.

But they scream and scream, I bark and bark, and finally mommy gets up and we cross the bridge across the river.


When we get to the other side, in a tiny pond, there are… A frog tied up.

That’s what the lady insists on screaming.

We approach to discover that it is not a frog, there are two, and they are mating.

The male, tiny (but brave) is on the female, and she is releasing a chain of eggs that the male is fertilizing on the fly.

Teamwork is called that.

But of course, if you don’t know what’s going on, and you don’t even see your feet, you might think the frog is tied.


Mommy tells the lady to please stop screaming and disturb the peace of those two frogs that are just reproducing.

The lady does not like mommy to take the opposite, and continues to shout that is a brutality, that is to denounce it, who will have been the thug… There’s no way she understands what she’s got before his eyes.

With all that scandal we have alerted the few walkers, and at the moment come some mountaineers, who ask what happens… While the lady continues with her cries.


The mountaineers burst into laughter, mommy joins them, and I think they could be heard in Timbuktu. I scamper happy.

The couple walk away, very dignified, talking among them of how little respectful young people are.

Mommy and the mountaineers are still laughing and I’m happy with new friends who pamper me.

And I also give some races between these flowers so beautiful.

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El Valle de la Barranca is one of those narrow mountain valleys, with its jumping creek, its wild pines that perfume the air and a couple of reservoirs so that the beauty of La Bola del Mundo and la Maliciosa is reflected in its serene waters.

just an hour from Madrid, this enchanting valley offers you a beautiful and easy path with a beautiful route of about 11 kilometres along the slopes of the valley. If you want a route already champions, get in La Maliciosa


In the silence of the forest you will find birds singing at the beginning of the spring, playful squirrels, crows, griffon vultures, wild boars, foxes, shod eagles that spend their summers here and, if you are lucky, you can marvel at the flight of the Royal Eagle.

after skirting the two reservoirs, revel in the elegance of the ducks drawing perfect uves in the water, scare some frog with our footsteps and breathe deep, my Little squire Blue and I began to climb through the pines. A curious squirrel watched us from the branches, Blue ran under the tree as saying “come down and play for a while”, but she continued to jump ignoring us.

The road is slowly rising leaving the river Samburiel down. An hour later, when the song of the river barely reached the pines, I decided to go down to his side for a steep slope and loose soil full of dry pine leaves that I thought was going to give me the coup of the century. Fortunately we got to the river without incident.

I Am passionate about the water streams, the perfect crystal of their pools, the crazy eddies that hold the branches that have dragged the winter, the foam path of their little jumps…


Walking along the edge of the river, with the fluffy ground and the sound of the water is a wonderful experience of peace and communion with nature.

A couple of kilometres above I wanted to cross it to see a giant: a huge, impressive pine that extends its roots as arms of Hercules on the hillside that goes down to the river and its glass stands out against the sky as the elder brother of a family INM Ensa.

I looked for a step on the stones of the river, something simple and without too much risk, I go alone where there is no mobile coverage, and after many calculations I found a place to cross. Blue, who may be more aware than me, was spinning around and around like checking every stone, evaluating the possibilities. I prepared myself to make a good jump to a big stone in the middle of the stream, from there to the other side of the river there were another couple of jumps, but much easier.

I jumped, not without a bit of leg tremor, and I stood there waiting for the Blue jump. The dog jumped but slipped, fell into the water in the middle of a current so intense that it took river down almost a meter. He managed to swim to the shore and there, drenched and tembandoed with cold, he began to bark at me.

arm-wrestling, I jumped back to the shore where I had left off.

From afar I sent my hug to the old pine on the other side of the river, and walked back while Blue ran cheerful and wet.

Back next to the reservoir we sat in the sun, eating the sandwich and watching the clouds move over a transparent blue sky.

And then, all of a sudden, we were able to enjoy the magic of the Eagle’s flight over the valley. ! We are fortunate!


The afternoon passed between the singing of the birds and the poems of

Wislawa Szymborska

The sensibility of this Polish poet, Nobel Prize in literature, disarms you.

If you want to read his poems, here

Some Poems:

The silence of plants

A one-sided relationship is developing quite well
between you and me.

I know what a leaf, petal, kernel, cone, and stem are,
and I know what happens to you in April and December.

Though my curiosity is unrequited,
I gladly stoop for some of you,
and for others I crane my neck.

I have names for you:
maple, burdock, liverwort,
eather, juniper, mistletoe, and forget-me-not;
but you have none for me.

After all, we share a common journey.
When traveling together, it’s normal to talk,
exchanging remarks, say, about the weather,
or about the stations flashing past.

We wouldn’t run out of topics, for so much connects us.
The same star keeps us in reach.
We cast shadows according to the same laws
Both of us at least try to know something, each in our own way,
and even in what we don’t know there lies a resemblance.

Just ask and I will explain as best I can:
what it is to see through my eyes,
Why my heart beats
and how come my body is unrooted.

But how to answer questions never made,
and when, on top of that the one who would answer
is such an utter nobody to you?

Undergrowth, shrubbery, meadows, and rushes…
everything I say to you is a monologue,
and it is not you who’s listening.

A conversation with you is necessary and impossible,
urgent in a hurried life
And it’s postponed forever

It’s all in season. I feel made,
I know woman and nail to the ground
Deep root, and I tend in flight
The branch, certain in you, of its harvest.

How the branch grows and what right!
Everything is today in my trunk a single yearning
To live and live: To tend to heaven,
Upright, like the arrow

That is thrown into the cloud. So upright
That your voice has learned the skill
of opening it smiling and flourishing.

I’m shaking your voice. For her I feel
That the warped branch straightens out
And the fruit of my voice grows in the wind.

End and beginning

After each War

Someone has to clean up.

Things won’t straighten themselves up, after all.

I say.


Someone has to get mired

in scum and ashes,

So that they can pass

The wagons full of corpses.


Somebody’s got to get

Between the mud, the ashes,

The docks of the sofas,

The glass splinters

and bloody rags.


Someone has to drag a beam

To prop up a wall,

Someone put a glass in the window

And the door on its hinges.


Photogenic it’s not,

And it takes years.

All the cameras are gone already

To another war.


We’ll need the bridges back,

and new railway stations.

Sleeves will go ragged

from rolling them up.


Someone, broom in hand,

still recalls the way it was.

Someone else listens

and nods with unsevered head.

But already there are those nearby

There will begin to be some

To those who are bored.


There will still be those who sometimes

find among bushes

Arguments bitten by rust,

And take them to the garbage heap.


Those who knew

Of what was going here the thing

They will have to leave their place

Those who know little.

And less than little.

And even practically nothing.


On the grass that covers

Causes and consequences

Surely there will be someone lying down,

With a spike between the teeth,

Looking at the clouds.

Of “End and Beginning” 1993



Happy Love

Happy Love. Is It normal,
Is it serious, is it positive?
What does the world serve two beings
Who don’t see the world?

Lifted up each other without deserving it,
Two any in one million, more convinced
What would happen to them. A reward for what? You are welcome.
The light falls from nowhere.
Why do you give in them and not in others?
Does it offend justice? Yes.
Does it violate established rules with care,
and cast the moral from the peak? Yes on both accounts.

Look at the happy ones:
If at least it hide a little bit,
fake a little depression for their friends’ sake?
Listen to them laughing – it’s an insult.
The language they use – deceptively clear.
And their little celebrations, rituals,
Those elaborate and mutual attentions,
it’s obviously a plot behind the human race’s back!

What would happen
If their example were to be imitated?
What religion and poetry would appeal to,
What would be remembered and what was forgotten,
Who would choose to remain locked in the circle.

Happy Love. Is It necessary?
Tact and judgment force silence
As if it were a scandal of the high spheres of life.

Perfectly good children are born without its help.
It couldn’t populate the planet in a million years,
it comes along so rarely.

Let the people who never find true love
keep saying that there’s no such thing.

Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.


!Si, quiero la Guía!

Responsable Marisol Torres.

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