We nearly gave up twice. The first time was when the pavement ended. The second was when the path split without explanation beside a faded wooden post.
Then we heard people laughing somewhere below the trees. The water appeared gradually: pale blue running over smooth white rock, gathering in shallow pools before spilling farther down the slope. Families sat beneath the trees. Children climbed where adults had wisely decided not to. Towels hung from branches.
There was no entrance gate, no changing room, and no obvious place to leave anything dry. We found a flat rock and improvised. The water was warmer than expected. Not bathwater, but enough to make us stay. Small channels ran between the pools, carrying people slowly downhill until they stood, climbed back up, and did it again.
Nobody seemed to be performing the place. People shared space, warned each other about slippery sections, and moved their bags when new groups arrived.
We stayed until the shade deepened and the rocks began to cool. On the walk back, our clothes were damp, our shoes were ruined, and the café had already closed. We never learned the official name of the pools. For now, the directions are enough.
