The first class bus dropped us off pretty well in the middle of nowhere at a roadside tienda. A few cafe tintos later, and the collectivo that would take us to Salento arrived, with but one seat to spare… so I got to sit on the hump next to the driver trying to look like I do that shit all the time, which Lucy says I pulled off pretty well.

Cascading down from a picturesque town square, overseen by a statue of the liberator, Simon Bolivar, Salento is little more than a couple of hills speckled with hostels and front porch restaurants. A short but vigorous walk up to the mirador opens up views of the entirety of the little town, and on to the loping green hills beyond.

Salento! A long loved weekend destination for the locals – where the local “Trucha” fish dominates restaurant menus, vintage jeeps and horses are mass transit, and the street dogs are fat, happy, and seemingly well appreciated.

Seriously, people love dogs here. Most people seem to have them, most tourists step out of their cars with them. The street dogs themselves happily follow you around for companionship, for miles sometimes, loyal, and asking for little more than the occasional scratch behind the ear… occasionally leaving you for another passing person if, maybe, they are walking where they were going.

Our first night’s stay was in a lovely hostel on the main tourist street, and we had a wonderful stay there, but our visit to this idyllic gem in the heart of coffee country really began with our stay at famed hostel: La Serrena.

A lot of magic happens on foot with a pack on your back. The walk to La Serrana would lead us out of town, from the steep grades and narrow streets, past porches studded with sleeping cat and neighbors hanging out of windows simply to witness the happenings of the day. We cross a small foot bridge, the streets quickly turn from concrete to gravel to dust, and the town gives way to wide open country. The views were endless, and impossibly green.

La Serrena advertises itself as an Eco-farm though we didn’t see much coming up in the small garden. It hardly mattered – the farm is poised along a ridge which looks down from either side to remarkable views, and those breathtaking vistas had us planted in the earth, our eyes cast far, for many, many hours.

Just a short 3k walk towards the base of the valley, and you find coffee farms… Small coffee farms. Very small ones. I’m not really convinced that they make a meaningful income on it, but they serve the purpose of a point of education for coffee thirsty tourists and tired, hungry backpackers. The tours are short and uneventful, but just the very act of being there, surrounded by the coffee, cool and humid, justifies the small cost of the tour, the long walk down, and damn near the price of an international flight.

Leaving the farm, we head down to the river valley below, and a tiny town which, we were promised, had buses very regularly to take us back to Salento. We didn’t really find a bus until we were damned near back up the long hill to town, but what we did find was a tiny, perfect little rural town along the river – quiet except for the few residents out walking, who were overjoyed to see you, and greeted you warmly with an wide smile and an honest appreciation that you could be here to see the magic they live in.

Fucking Colombia… A theme park for the eyes, with some of the friendliest people you will ever meet in your lives.