On the pale, slim road that winds down from the foothills of the mountain, there is a bright white figure of Jesus with his arms outstretched.

When I think of that summer, this is the image that first comes to mind: a bright white Jesus standing on the dry grass verge, too large to be part of a roadside shrine, too small to call a statue.

Its strange size is unsettling, and intentionally so. The cliff edge is right there, beyond the car window, falling away to nothing but tree trunks that might break your back, and rocks to crush your skull. The figure is a warning to go carefully around the hairpin bends, to be sensible, judicious.

Yet, when I caught sight of it, the day we drove away from the ruins of the old town, it told me the exact opposite. You see, I had, moments before, been conspiring in the cool shade of an ancient fig tree and I was looking for reassurance, for encouragement.

Then, there it was, with its arms aloft, as if ready to catch me.

I dare you, the figure seemed to say, I dare you to fall…

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