nal quality, mysterious and enduring.
In the late afternoon we reach the
village of Ushguli, Europe's highest
continuously inhabited settlement,
a cluster of stone houses that have
gathered themselves around the pro-
tective skirts of the towers. We find a
guesthouse that we share with hikers
and cyclists. On the horizon, snow-
capped mountains beckon. Our host
is an old crone, dressed in black. We
enjoy our first beer in days.
Later, I walk out alone into the vil-
lage. Instantly I am transported into
the twelfth century. Rocky paths too
narrow for vehicles make their way
between rock-built houses, roofed
with great slabs of rough slate the
size of tables, randomly piled. Gen-
tle-faced children smile and greet me
as I pass. The sweet smell of horse
dung fills the air and, far off, a cock
crows. Rough-cut wooden picket
fences lean and sag, separating the
path from overgrown plots of land.
Above me the ancient towers loom,
speaking of olden times. They are all
empty, holding their secrets, their
ornately carved doors barred from
within. With my face pressed to the
cracks, I can feel the cool air inside,
smell the damp earth. I find one
unbarred and crouch my way through
the low entrance. Inside it is as dark
as an underground tomb, the rough
stones thickly covered in ash. Under
my feet it is soft with a deep layer of
dry cow dung. Outside again, old,
black-garbed women go about their
business acting as if I am not here. To
them, I am an inconsequence, an in-
trusion into their anachronistic lives.
The sun is close to the surrounding
mountain peaks. The air grows cold.
Cows make their slow way home
across the opposite valley, following
well-worn paths. In the distance, the
higher mountains are capped with
snow. In the clear evening air they
seem strangely close. The day settles
to quietness. All about is the sound
of flowing water. A cow bellows from
TRAVERSE 42
somewhere far away. Shadows creep
across the village but the high snow is
still bright with evening light.
Clouds darken, threatening rain.
I glance up and, in front of me, the
ancient towers take me back again
to swords and bows and arrows and
frightened people hiding in upstairs
rooms, staring out pale-faced from
the narrow slits in stone walls; of
cloistered monks offering up silent
prayers from their narrow monastic
cells.
I follow the path further into the
village. A woman sits on a rectangu-
lar wooden stool and milks a cow by
hand into an enamel bucket. Other
cows breathe their hot, impatient
breath, nudging each other, waiting
their turn. In the houses, children
are being put to bed. An old woman,
shawled and hobbling with a stick,
makes her way home. On her feet,
heavy boots. There is the smell of
wood smoke in the air.
In the sky, high above the moun-