There are adventures and then there are…adventures. This one was the latter. The bright red scar over the inside of my right forearm is slowly fading away, but to be honest, I wish it wasn’t. It is the last scar to fade among many others that were made that day, as the uneven rough wall refused to be climbed and instead tore the unprotected flesh.

Well, “climbed” sounds too elegant. It was rather a desperate and highly ungracious attempt at ignoring the fact that it was just too damn high. I felt the strength in my body dying a very quick death but at the moment when I was about to slip, tearing my arm for the second time, I suddenly found myself on top of it.

Sweating profusely, we made our way into the soothing darkness of the grand structure. And then the smell of history eclipsed all the other present scents. The place was old. Very. Old. So much that it seemed to make all the other places I’ve visited seem like acne-faced teenagers.

The air strained under the weight of memories, even though its hallways were now empty and the courtyards overgrown. Just the church remained, glorious in its wooden and stone grandeur. It was too easy to get lost among the many corridors, and before I knew it, the place consumed me with its chambers, stone slides, bone-filled holes, rickety stairs, marble altars and scaffoldings.

Wounded but adorning stupid grins on our exhausted faces, we found our way back. There are adventures, and then there are adventures. And some scars are better when they don’t fade away.