No! Crimea disappointed me...
After the fresh Caucasus where in every place your hear water from the roar of a waterfall to the murmur of a tiny spring, the dried waterless Crimea could not fascinate me! Maybe it was a warning linked to the fact that 1957 was disastrously dry? Or probably the mood was not the one painting everything pink? The thought that probably somewhere in Romania is still alive she whom I thought dead for years? Or, on the contrary, will the hope collapse and I feel even more desperately alone?
I was thinking of it after setting for the night among the rocks. Cold, not like Crimean, wind was blowing. I was thirsty. Chatir Dug seemed thirsty too. I changed my mind and decided not to climb its top.