A couple of weeks before my 25th birthday, I found myself with some time to spare. Having seen off my notice period at the museum where I’d worked for the past two years, and with Nathan out of town for work, I had five days to fill and a sense of restlessness to satisfy.

In the last weeks of March, we took a trip to Albarracín, a small town in the south of rural Aragón. Tucked behind towering city walls on the curve of the Guadalaviar River, its quaint stone houses and sun soaked streets cling to the mountain side; a snapshot of ancient Spain.

Learning that the mountains don’t care for complacency, the hard way.