Naturally

winter should not be taken into account, for then only whoever was forced to do so would cross the bridge, and then he would lengthen his stride and bend his head before the chill wind that blew uninterruptedly over the river. Then, it was understood, there was no loitering on the open terraces of the kapia. But at every other time of year the kapia was a real boon for great and small. Then every citizen could, at any time of day or night, go out to the kapia and sit on the sofa, or hang about it in business or in conversation. Suspended some fifteen meters above the green boisterous waters, this stone sofa floated in space over the water, with dark green hills on three sides, the heavens, filled with clouds or stars, above and the open view of the river like a narrow amphitheater bounded by the dark blue mountains behind.

How many  [...] rich men are there in the world who could indulge their joy or their cares, their moods or their delights in such a spot? Few, very few. But how many of our townsmen have, in the course of centuries and the passage of generations, sat here in the dawn, at twilight or evening hours and unconsciously measured the whole starry vault above! Many, and many of us, sat there, head in hands, leaning on the well-cut smooth stone, watching the eternal play of light on the mountains and the clouds in the sky, and have unraveled the threads of our small-town destinies, eternally the same yet eternally tangled in some new manner. (I. Andric)