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The last thing I expected as we bumped and bobbled around that bend, '91 Fiat Panda flirting wildly with the precipice, was not the view. When winding your way through mountains at any altitude you come to expect a picturesque pot of gold of some variety; at the very least a coin sack. This particular road, if you could even call it that, etched in a Montenegrin mountainside was no exception. We rounded the bend, of which was not unlike any of the other bends we had survived the three hours previous, in that there was a certain finality about it. We had long given up covering eyes or bracing for bumps and decided that if this is how we were going to go—in an off-beige, two-decade-old tin box, piloted by Hagrid's slightly more handsome Bosnian nephew, Harold, who had somehow made his way from the realm of fiction to Southeastern Europe and along the way developed an unwavering, though fitting, fondness for a dance remix of Celine Dion's 'My Heart Will Go On'—then we were going to enjoy every single bump and bobble en route to that inevitable freefall to our fiery end. So there we were, as validated by Celine who sang: "YOU'RE HERE!", seconds from our demise, when Harold decided it as good a time as any for a pit stop. He planted his foot firmly on the left pedal. The way we skipped and skidded you would have been forgiven for suspecting he had also reefed the handbrake off. Perched up in the backseat, the three of us looked up and down, to our left and to our right, and began pawing ourselves as if to confirm our continuing existence. The better part of a minute snailed by before the dust settled around us to reveal the postcard view that postcards send home from their travels. Soaring peaks dressed in stone and shrubbery patchwork stretched further than the eye might usually see, but for the purity of the air, and further still. At their feet, the deep blues and greens of a bay harboured by limestone. We unfolded from the right of the car to see Harold standing atop a cow-sized rock-turn-podium. "Eh?" He said, gesturing with his head towards the sweeping landscape that lived over his shoulder. We stood arm over shoulder and watched as that great big speck of the Earth inhaled and exhaled and inhaled. Harold wore the gaze of a man who had seen it all before but nothing at all. He smiled widely and freely with a glint in his eye that suggested he knew what it meant to be and why. It was the last thing I expected but for just that breath I knew too.