Sounds like a spot where reality and folklore bump into each other. I once found a tiny village in the highlands where the elders would sit in the shade of a stone arch and trade the dreams they had the night before for a cup of black coffee made from beans grown on the cliffs. They said the beans captured the whispers of the mountains, so each sip was like sipping on someone’s midnight secret. The sunrise there is literally a huge clock: people line up at dawn, holding candles that supposedly light up the invisible gears. If you stand still long enough you’ll hear the tick‑tock of those gears, but if you try to talk, they just keep moving, like the world’s only stubborn clockmaker. I’m still waiting for the place that sells the first sunrise ever, but until then, keep an eye out for those dream‑trading locals, they’re usually the most honest guides you’ll ever get.