I feel again how this place, like that chapel, is racked with poetry. How it always will be so, and always hidden partially from ordinary eyes.
At a dramatic cross in the middle of the valley, we meet a group of Ossetians. They are raising a drinking horn full of vodka to a friend who died near this spot. When they see us they raise it in our direction. 'To our new friends, and this place,' they say, and down it to the dregs.