Danila and I emerge from our earthen bed, alerted by daylight creeping beneath the door. We push our way out of the medieval shepherd's cave carved out of a vertical face somewhere two hundred meters above the tree line of the Rila Mountains, or as I've come to understand them, Our Makers' Ankles.
The panorama is one of severe angles, sunny remoteness, and for me this morning- pure contentment with being alive, alone with Danila, and not to be found. I spin around on our front yard and understand the massif's shape. You cannot pay or plan for views like this.
We start early for the monastery without mourning our failure to make it to the Seven Lakes, perhaps never to know if pagans are dancing there holding hands.
As we skip down without breakfast, lunch or worries, I am certain that Pan's no longer in these mountain woods nor the Seven Rila Lakes, but feel that it hasn't been long since cuckoos have seen him there. Not long ago he was winding his path between the pines, much like he used to amongst reeds and playing gods. It must be so, if even I with a sense of smell that's weak can sense his trail.
