We came to Spain for Easter this year, hoping for sun, warmth, and a break from the long grey Danish winter. And we got it - finally. It had been raining in Spain since February too, but after 55 wet days, the sun returned. It felt like nature in Marbella could finally breathe again. Everything looked fresh. The colors were strong and full, as if nature had been storing energy for a big show.

Puerta Verde de Marbella hike

One morning, Tom and I decided to explore a trail we didn’t even know existed. From our terrace, we’d often seen small paths on the other side of the lake but always thought the area was private. Then one day, we checked AllTrails. To our surprise, it was a public route - full of beauty and history. It was called Puerta Verde de Marbella, part of an old country path just behind our home.

We weren’t expecting much. A walk. Some sun. Maybe a good view. But the trail had other plans.

As we walked, surrounded by deep greens, soft purples, and pops of yellow and orange, something changed. The path felt alive - not just now, but with stories hidden beneath our feet.

It felt like we had stepped into another time.

I started imagining the path full of people. Not tourists. Not hikers. But quiet figures from long ago. We pictured the days when the Moors - Arab settlers - moved from the coast toward Ronda, looking for places to live and create a life through trade, farming, and herding animals. Their caravans followed the same narrow paths we were on. They carried citrus, herbs, cloth, and stories. I like to think they stopped to enjoy the view too - even if they didn’t have Instagram to share it. The trail felt full of their presence, like they had just passed through and might return any moment.

We stopped. No words were needed. Some places ask you to just be still and listen.

I’m not sure what we heard. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe it was history breathing.

But as we walked on, I knew we had changed. This wasn’t just a trail anymore. It was a path through time, through memory, through something bigger than us.

And for a little while, we were part of it too.

Then came the Romans. Maybe they were missing home. Or maybe they had just come from the sea, trying to understand these southern mountains - so different from the ones they knew.

It all came so easily, like the trail had been waiting for someone to remember.

We reached a spot where a twisted old tree was growing right out of stone. Its roots held tight to the rock, like old hands refusing to let go. Behind it, the lake shimmered. Our little community rested quietly across the water, just beneath La Concha, as if protected by this silent guardian.