You drive up a small mountain road and then turn off onto a rough mountain track. You park the car and descend down steps cut into a sheer rock face two thousand years ago and only repaired in small patches, where absolutely necessary, where otherwise crampons and ropes would be needed. You can see the immaculate, perfectly round holes cut into the rock where more sensible peoples placed posts and handrails. Fifteen minutes of falling down a mountain in instalments and you come to a ledge, about twenty foot wide, which seems to you now like the firmest Terra Firma ever.
And cut into the cliff above you are the Roman reliefs, celebrating the dead. Warriors, mothers, families, hunters, children. Carved into the inaccessible rock face by people who must have cared as deeply as the crevices borrowing their way into the mountain side.
The sign near the car park tells you this was the site of an ancient death cult, but in the glorious sunlight with a view of a valley cutting its way down to the sea it is the least dark and Gothic place ever. It acknowledges death in the face of life and celebrates life in the face of death.