After waking up early to watch the sun rise, I had all day to explore. I asked Jacky if there were any maps for walking trails in the area, and he dreamed out a map that would take me down the road and into an old-fashioned village.
I found my way through the tangled maze of the village I was staying in and made my way up to the main road and turned left, further out into the country (if I can say further out-we were an hour drive from a town of anytime already).
It was a pleasant sunny day, about sixty degrees, perfect for walking. The road circled around the valley, rising gradually higher and higher. I passed through several little villages and I felt happier and happier as I drew closer to the beautiful green mountain I had admired across the valley.
When I got tired, I found a large concrete slab alongside the road, with a view out over the terraces, and spent awhile sitting in the sun reading a few more chapters of Lord of the Rings. Reading such an epic story and remembering the scene the night before of tall pines rising through the mist made me want to write my own epic fantasy, and I spent most of the walk planning it all out in my mind. Of course I'll probably never get around to writing it down, but I got further than I usually do when I think of a story. The problem is I don't really think of stories, usually; I can dream up fantastic characters and settings, but the plot escapes me. My lively and thoughtfully-named characters end up sitting around staring at the walls of their lovely setting, boring themselves to death. It seems like all the good plots are taken.