It was the last day of September. My husband and I climbed into a taxi in Astorga, Spain, and traveled twenty kilometers west to the mountain village of Rabanal del Camino, (population less than fifty). Rabanal’s cobblestne main street, the Calle Real, climbs a steep hill past unpainted stone houses, three ancient churches, and two tiny seasonal food shops. The taxi dropped us at the door of Refugio Gaucelmo. Along with the small...
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