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On reaching these heights that feeling evaporated. You were
embowered in mighty trees, in the midst of which stood the Old Town.
Unlike that other one, it faced due North; it lay, moreover, a few
hundred feet higher up. That alone could not have explained the
difference in temperature, one might say in climate, between the two.
To begin with, there was on this tiny upland basin exceptionally deep
soil, borne down by the rains of unnumbered centuries from the heights
overhead and enabling those shady oaks, poplars, walnuts and apples to
shoot up to uncommon size and luxuriance and screen away the sunny
beams. From above, meanwhile, a perennial shower descended. The
moisture-laden sirocco, tearing itself to shreds against the riven
summits of the high southern cliffs, dripped ceaselessly upon this
verdant oasis in clouds of invisible dew. You could often enjoy the
luxury of a shiver, at night-time, in the Old Town.
It was a stronghold originally; built on these heights for the greater
security of the islanders against Saracenic inroads.


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