‘Sua Maestà,’ I say. Then I bow and close my eyes.

Gran Sasso d’Italia, ‘Your Majesty,’ is not just a mountain. She is a magnificent and omnipotent entity, a deity that has watched me grow up and offered me comfort when I needed it. Whenever I stand in her vicinity, I offer a salute. I am filled with gratitude for the chance to walk on such a powerful presence, always feeling Her protection surrounding me.

Reading Nan Shepherd’s The Living Mountain, I reflect myself in its lines. It is not about ‘conquering’ the summit, but about experiencing the mountain in its totality: exploring its valleys, listening to its sounds, and immersing myself in its natural rhythm, creating an intimate mental connection with it.

It is not by taking the mountain on the whole that it is understood, but by long, intimate hours with a particular locality.

This made me think of how I stop at the foot of Sua Maestà, how I share a sandwich with the stray dogs that inhabit Her, or how I lie down on Her meadows to breathe fresh air. Although the Scottish Plateau did not see me grow up as She did, in those few hours I explored it, I immediately found mental calm and a sense of belonging to something greater. The mountain is a living entity, a space that is shaped and transformed by light and time. It is not just nature, but a silent teacher that shows us how to slow down and listen.

And maybe this is exactly what we, as architects, should learn: to slow down, to stop thinking we have to build big, and to listen and connect deeply with the places we analyse and study. Maybe we shouldn’t be so frantic, and we shouldn’t give so much importance to money, the summit, but rather give importance to people, their wills, their feelings and their story, the intimate hours that we spend in the valleys.