27Even though it was the first of November, it still hadn’t snowed in the mountains which undulated down from the Katara pass towards the valleys of Trikala. In the fields the rose trees were still in bloom, the great forest of beeches hadn’t yet shed their bright russet and bronze leaves, and the occasional burst of bright red from the oak, all against the stark purple and gray of the mountain crests, inspired Papa Yiorgos to comment to the muleteer that there was no artist great enough who could possibly capture the beauty of God’s creation. After an hour or so of chatting, he fell silent. As the wagon continued around and down the mountain, he leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes, letting his mind wander, listening to the clip clop of the mules and the squeak of an ornery wheel.
