Granada – Alcala la Real

Granada – Alcala la Real

Wow.  Inadequate though the word is, it’s also the only one I can think of in my current, totally knackered, state, to describe the magnificent walk from Granada to Alcala la Real, where this post  comes from.

Prior to this though was the equally sublime traverse from Durcal up over the Sierra Nevada range, into Granada.  It is the highest point I will cross before reaching Santiago, and it was a truly lovely walk along a

peaceful mountain track.  I would never have found it had I not had the kind assistance of a local Friend of the Camino who lives in Durcal, Amancio.  He met me, gave me a detailed map and instructions – and incredibly kindly, also gave me a scallop shell to wear on my pack.  I’d been thinking about getting one but it had all seemed a bit hard before leaving.  I was so touched by his kindness, and the sense that my walk was really getting underway, that I confess to shedding a few tears as I walked off.

After crossing the mountain pass I eventually reached the suburban outskirts of Granada.  When I passed the house of former students of mine, where I used to walk to quite frequently in the Zaidin, I decided I could take a bus back to my flat.  I can’t count the amount of times I’ve walked that bit of unlovely concrete and I saw no reason to flagellate myself again.

I had a blissful day off in Granada, catching up with friends and generally feeling healthy and happy (until I caught up with my friends, after which, obviously, I felt somewhat hungover and not remotely healthy…although still wonderfully happy!).

I did make one rather fatal mistake in Granada, however (apart from the excess wine).  I’m sure that it will provide many people with unmitigated amusement to find that I – after all the years I’ve walked – fell into my old trap of loading my backpack too much.

It was a simple enough thing – I’d been a little cold a couple of times on the way up, so in went another layer.  Then a couple of other things I thought I ‘might’ like or need.  After all, my pack had been so blissfully light as I bounced up from Salborena that a couple of kilos more wouldn’t make any difference, now – would it?

Oh, Paula, you total imbecile.  I was not more than five kilometres on my way out of Granada the next day than I was cursing myself for my stupidity, and failing to enjoy one step of the walk.  Perhaps it is all the years walking without a pack, or the year when I carried one that was far too heavy for me – but my body now won’t have a bar of a heavy pack.  I had planned to walk to Los Olivares, but in the end, I got as far as Pinos Puente, and decided – to hell with this, I’m taking the bus back to Granada, unloading things I don’t need, and staying the night.

Which was the right decision on a number of levels.

Firstly, I was so brutal with my pack that I left with less that I had from Salobrena.  But I really don’t need much at all, and if I do, I will make do.  Anything but a heavy pack.  It felt infinitely easier.

But secondly – and a note to any who are considering the route from Granada – I would honestly split the first stage in two anyway.  Firstly, the two walks are completely different.  Granada to Pinos Puente is a pretty boring trudge through semi industrial areas, and suburbs.  There is a nice long part where one is in neither, but it was a fairly forgettable stage in my opinion.

But from Pinos Puente to Moclin, (and please forgive my lack of accents in correct places – it is just hard work shifting back and forwards from my Spanish keyboard to the English one) the Way is extraordinary.

Dramatic.  Breathtaking.  And every superlative in between.

Yes, it is endlessly uphill – the only time you aren’t going up, is when you are going equally steeply down.  And the last couple of kilometres uphill to Moclin are enough to send you weeping to the physio.  But the route is so divinely peaceful, and mesmerizingly beautiful, that the pain really is worth it.

And this is another reason I suggest breaking that first stage into two.  Quite apart from the fact that if you don’t, it is a hell of a hard haul to inflict upon

your body on the first day, I think that the second part after Pinos Puente deserves to be appreciated in full.  At first it is a lovely long ramble uphill through olive groves, with hills and crops tumbling away beneath, and nothing but birdsong and high blue sky overhead to break the silence.  I’d read that the waymarks were hard to follow here, but

obviously someone has put in a lot of work since, because they were very clear and easy to find.

The landscape became increasingly rugged, with craggy peaks of red rock jutting above blossoming almond trees.  High on a peak in the distance perched the tiny mountain hamlet of Moclin, where I had planned to go the next day.

But upon reaching Los Olivares, I discovered the only accommodation was up the hill.  This information is no doubt available – I’ve not researched accommodation very thoroughly, being happy to throw my sleeping bag

anywhere if need be.  However, knowing there was a lovely Casa Rural only a couple of K’s further on proved too tempting, so I staggered off up the hill.

And, boy, what a hill it is.  I confess my fitness is not the premium that it could be, but I’m not in terrible shape.  Even so, I had to stop on several occasions – and for the first time in many years, I felt a few blisters come up.  Oh me, oh my.  Just when I thought my blister days were over.

Halfway up a man sitting astride his horse gazed out at the incredible view before him, the abrupt drop into the ravine and mountains jutting high onto the horizon.  He told me that he’s been riding his horse up here since it was very young, and right from the start, the horse always wanted to stop at this particular lookout.  Now, he said, the horse bounces up eagerly and heads straight for this point, where he stands gazing out into the distance.  Sure enough, the horse was alert, head up and ears pricked, taking in the scene.  I thought he must feel as if he was king of the world up there.  When I stopped panting enough to take the picture, I certainly felt that way.

We both continued on our respective paths, the man on his horse at a considerably faster rate than the sweaty Australian bringing up the rear. Finally I emerged into Moclin and discovered that the first house at the end of the walking track was the much longed for Casa Rural.

And what a treat it was.

The owners take a kind view of pilgrims, and as such I found myself quickly ensconced in what were, by any standards, palacial quarters – for only twenty euros.  I soon had a crackling fire in the chimonea, a Spanish omelette cooking on the stove, and my gear laid out across a beautifully soft king sized bed, whilst I indulged myself in a long hot shower.

Like I said. AMAZING.  And infinitely better than my sleeping bag in a cave somewhere.

I confess, though, to feeling rather done in, and more aware of my muscles than I have been in a while.  It might have been a short stretch, but it is no laughing matter, and I stress again – do it in too stages.

Today I leapt out of bed and winced; sure could feel those muscles.  But the walk to Alcala la Real, just as the stretch before it, was magically beautiful – and with more of those great work out hills.  The waymarks are a little bit sparse in places, although not hard to work out.  Probably the worst marking was the last five kilometres into Alcala itself, although it is pretty obvious where to go given the dirty big road sign 100 metres in front of you.

It was a truly beautiful walk again today.  At times I cursed the (wonderful) Friends of the Camino who sent me up a seemingly endless hill amongst olive groves; then I sat and had an apple under them and inhaled the utter silence, and the extraordinary light of Andalucia, which glistens with an almost

incandescent radiance, and I wondered why on earth one would choose any other path.

I confess that my body is complaining a little.  In addition, I made a change to my footwear, thinking that Birkenstocks wouldn’t be suited to the terrain.  That was a mistake – I can feel soreness in my feet that I never did while I wore my sandals, so I will be swapping over as soon as I get to Cordoba.  It is something of a harsh reminder that – for me at least – there is no comparison to the trusty companions that got me through the Sahara.  I’d rather have cold feet occasionally and have my beautiful sandals than warm ones and pain.

I can also say I cannot remember ever – EVER – enjoying a walk as much.

Hard as this country is, Andalucia is simply the most stunning part of the world

I can imagine being able to walk through.  Every day brings a new fortress clinging to a mountain outpost, layered in history.  In the late afternoon yesterday pink almond blossom blew gently across my face, glinting in the golden sunlight.  Water trickles from mountain streams, and rocks glow ochre beneath a cerulean blue sky.  One is never too far from a village, and food and accommodation is cheap.

I am enjoying every step, and I will be very sad when I leave the province that has become my home, and move into the rest of Spain.  Andalucia has a magic and passion that live in the rocky hilltop villages, and deep in the russet soil of the endless olive groves.  I sometimes feel I could walk through here for years and never cease to be enchanted by its hidden valleys and high, whitewashed

houses.  At the moment I am savouring every day, and looking forward also to the delights of Cordoba – a city I’ve never had the privilege of visiting.

Meanwhile, thankyou for your emails and comments.  I can’t tell you how blissful it is to be walking again, and through such amazing country.  And if you are considering this route – do it.  The Via de la Plata is, so far, infinitely more beautiful than the Frances, for me.  And yes, it is a solitary route for this first part – but if, like me, you quite like your own company, then it is the perfect combination.

Til next time.