constanttrek

Last post from Europe

6 comments May 24th, 2005

Looks beautifully peaceful, doesn´t it?  Almost idyllic, you may think.

And it is, I guess.  Much of the time.  But look again, and you may notice an absence of trees – that means no shade.  Look again, and you may also notice rather a lot of sun.  (Don´t look too close though, or you´ll see my knickers drying on the back of the pack – nothing like a mobile clothesline, hey?)

In a marked contrast to my rather enthusiastic last post, I am going to go out on a limb here and say that the past week or so has been – without competition – the hardest of the walk so far. Tough.  really tough.

I am writing this in Algeciras at about eight pm.  We got into town two hours ago, after walking fairly much directly from Seville – we´ve done over 200 kilometres in seven days´walking.  The distance in itself is not a major deal – although I would be totally lying if I said we keep up that kind of pace very often – but when I say that the conditions this week have left us both utterly shattered, I am talking about more than the distance.

We left the heavenly, wine soaked haven of Sevilla feeling pretty pleased with ourselves: Hey – only 200km to go, and we´re out of Spain!  That wasn´t so hard now, was it? – you know the kind of thing.  Funny how it tends to happen after a few days off and long lazy afternoons by the river. 

And the first day really wasn´t so bad.  A bit warm; but we´d been expecting the weather to become more intense, so that was no big deal.  The second day we did over thirty kilometres, and once again, we felt okay.  Sure, we´d noticed a few more hills than usual; but the landscape was so beautiful, with it´s huge golden fields and utterly enormous sky, that the undulation only added to it´s character.  The villages were a little like in Navarra, perched high up on quite rugged hilltops.

But then day three dawned.

Those little hills got bigger.  And suddenly, there were a whole lot more of them.  And it was HOT.  Man, was it hot.  Up we plodded.  And up, and up, and up.  We checked the map in disbelief – surely these shouldn´t be here?  But there they were, marked in very faintly with no vertical metre measurements until right down the bottom near Algeciras itself – where they rose to a somewhat daunting 900 metres. 

Oh, we thought.  Shit.

But then our natural (idiotic) optimism reasserted itself.  No worries, we thought; a hill or two isn´t so bad.  We´ll be fine.

And you know what?  A hill or two would have been just dandy.  Only it wasn´t a hill or two – it was more like a mountain range, that got bigger, and bigger, and more rugged, and went up and down endlessly for the next five days. 

We re-adjusted our routine to hot weather conditions, rising at four thirty, walking by six and up until eleven, then cooking lunch and sleeping for the heat of the day.  We walked on in the evening cool.  That helped a bit.  But then we checked the map for the final run into Algeciras, and came face to face with the rather unpleasant realisation that we were headed into a National Park – for the entire last sixty kilometres.

Now, we have had some nasty encounters with national parks, and we treat them with great trepidation.  Essentially they spell trouble for the independant walker – nowhere to buy water or supplies, no houses to call on in case of water shortage, and dodgy (particularly in Spain) waterholes.  At the moment most of these are dried up.

We sat and did some pretty hard thinking.  Our carrying capabilities are only four litres each – any more and it is just too heavy.  In the end Gary rescued an old trolley from a rubbish skip, restored it to it´s former glory with some gaffa tape and TLC, and we set about loading it up with our water allowance – fifteen litres for both of us for two days, and possibly two nights.

Here it is, resting peacefully in the predawn the morning we set out.   

So we headed off, a little chastened by the past few days, and prepared for a tough haul.

But how tough, we really couldn´t have imagined. 

Gary got crook about half way through the first day, unexpectedly.  Suddenly he was dehydrating faster than normal, and was also unable to pull the trolley the whole way.  We started taking it in turns, me trying to do most of the hills.  There were an awful lot of hills.  We stopped and rested for the heat of the day, which definitely helped, and then carried on.  The wind started to pick up and by eight o´clock it was blowing a gale.  Despite it being a national park, there was no way into the bloody thing to camp – it had an enormous fence around it – so we plodded on down the road hoping to find shelter of some sort.

Finally a local forestry worker pointed us toward a recreation zone about two kilometres away.  We trudged off down the road into the twilight, wind so strong it nearly pushed us off our feet, until we found it.  It, of course, was locked.

We finally managed to scale the fence and set up our little tarp.  But the night was a pretty miserable one, what with the wind absolutely howling, and Gary not too well.  We both felt very glad indeed that we had the trolley with the extra water, as there was absolutely none to be had along the whole stretch.

We rose early this morning and packed up in worsening weather – the clouds had rolled in and the wind was even stronger.  We trudged off, and the terrain just got tougher – in the entire time we have walked, including Navarra, the Pyrenees, and the Astorgan mountains, we have never encountered such unrelenting, steep country. The wind blew so strong that we had trouble keeping our balance.  By the time we got to the outskirts of Algeciras we were absolutely exhausted, and we hit the first cafe we saw for respite from the wind and a good meal.

But of course that wasn´t the end of it.  Despite two marked on our map, there is no camping here.  Although the noble thing to do would be to camp on the outskirts and walk back up the coast to Tarifa tomorrow, where there is a campsite, we are just too tired, and have forked out for a pension. 

In many ways this week has been a really good reminder to us not to become complacent.  Obviously there is a lot harder country and conditions to come, and we need to remember that this part of the walk really has been a bit of a doddle in comparison with what lies ahead.  I´m glad we have learned enough to make sure we have the right water supplies to last us in such situations – we can pretty much judge it to the litre now – and that we have the fitness and mental endurance to hang in there.  But I would be lying if I said I feel confident about what is to come.  I will, however, be checking the map with a much keener eye in future.

Anyway.  That´s all a bit of a sombre old departure from our usual tales of wine and relaxation, and definitely not the exhilarated "farewell from europe!" post I had planned.  But you know what?

That´s walking.

And we still love it. 

Now I am going to have my "goodbye to Spain and booze" booze up.  I am hoping that I will lose the feeling in my feet for a while. Or maybe just lose my feet.  Either way it´s got to be good.  Cheers.

Caballeros Y Senoritas

5 comments May 13th, 2005

And we were worried about getting in the way of the festival of El Rocio?

How stupid are we?

There is no getting away from the annual pilgrimage.  From all over Andalucia, people come on horseback, in carriages, and on foot, to the small town where the "Madonna of the Dew" has been celebrated since 1280.  The festival reaches it´s culmination in the weekend before Pentecost – this year, the 16th of May – when, in the early hours, the statue is carried out of the church.

We arrived in the small town of Rociana del Condada early in the morning, where the pilgrims were gathered together in an amazing display of colour and festivity, in the town square, for a service of blessing by the local priest before they set out.

The women were clad in traditional flamenco dresses.  Some rode their own horses, often sidesaddle; others were perched, with immense poise and flair, on the backs of horses ridden by the dashing male Caballeros. The men themselves were striking, in their tight fitting, cropped jackets and broad flat hats, with leather chaps flapping over their breeches.  All rode superb horses with the kind of surety which can only come from years of expert handling – the animals themselves were the cream of Andalucian stock. 

It was a fiesta before the pilgrims had even left the square, proudly riding beneath their respective clan banners.  As the parade wound down the street and through the village, it was led by a solemn, stirring drum beat played by old men on horses.  But behind them, about halfway down the long line of riders and carriages, a bright, noisy brass marching band lifted the atmosphere, with people in their gaily decorated carriages waving merrily to passers by.

Gary took off to take pictures, and I just sat and watched, feeling unbelievably happy to stumble unwittingly across such a wonderful celebration, spellbound by the beautiful women sitting proudly behind those handsome, suave men.  One in particular really took my eye (woman, that is, believe it or not) – although I never managed to get a really good picture of her.  Nonetheless, her bright red and black dress and erect posture seemed to my, admittedly rather romantic, eye to epitomise the heritage she wore with such èlan.

One man rode a young, spirited horse, which periodically became unsettled by the continous fireworks and lively atmosphere.  He sat it with steady control, barely moving in the saddle. 

It was a magnificent display of horsemanship.

Children as young as three and four were perched confidently up on horses fifteen hands high, handling them with perfect assurance.  It was a great opportunity for the local adolescents to look seriously cool, and plenty grabbed the opportunity to ride in with their girlfriends sitting in splendour behind them, clasping them around the waist with their legs crossed daintily over the side.

When the parade finally passed out of town, we set off up the road in the opposite direction, feeling a little sad that we were to miss the main event.  But, ever since, the road toward El Rocio has been a police monitored continous stream of dancing flamenco girls, smartly dressed Caballeros, and carriages bedecked with bells and flowers.  Over a million people are converging on the tiny hamlet this weekend, and we feel as though we have met most of them!  They all wave and cry out "Hola!" and "Buen Camino!" to us as we pass, and we in turn call back and laugh with them. 

The wonderful carnival atmosphere had taken most the sting out of having to walk 150 kilometres north, back to Seville, in order to cross the river.  Arriving in Seville removed it totally.  It is one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen, and there could be no more stunning time of year than now to watch the blossoms come out in the tropical gardens, and smell the oranges on the trees lining the streets.

We have been blessed with great rough camps as well;

this one, in a stand of cork trees, was absolutely heaving with noisy wild life which was enormously comforting.  We spent the night laughing at two lizards who thought it was the height of amusement to dash across the end of our tarp and scuttle into the bushes, then turn around and come straight back.

The country itself has been peaceful and lovely, with endless orchards of olive and orange trees flourishing in the dry, red earth.  A landscape which I imagine would appear barren from a car window seems rich and teeming with life on foot.

Sometimes we get down about the amount of time we are forced to stop for various reasons – we have fallen behind our intial schedule by a couple of months – but this week, we have both felt that life really has conspired to show us the best of Spain before we leave.  Seeing the pride and beauty in the rituals and costumes associated with the annual prigrimage to El Rocio has given us a new understanding of thecountry itself, outside of flamenco shows or tourist gimmicks.  Watching the brilliant horsemanship and the absolute familiarity which with both males and females display around the animals, has demonstrated in a way which no tourist show can, the deep relationship between horse and man which is so integral to Andelucian culture.  Hearing the songs, seeing the laughter and dancing, we have felt more at home in Spain than in all the time we have been here. 

What a wonderful thing this walking business is.

Our next post will (hopefully) be the final one from Europe, as we are now into our final stretch toward the coast and our boat to Morocco.  Thanks to all of you who have borne patiently our long delays and sent messages of encouragement and support – we absolutely love getting them.

Hasta la huego, amigos….

1 comment May 7th, 2005

It would be hard not to like life down this end of the world.  Twenty eight degrees every day, clear blue skies and a light breeze, orange trees in bloom everywhere and sparkling seas; it beats the hell out of freezing on the meseta.

So one really has no right to complain at the fact that we are walking an extra one hundred and fifty kilometres of it – right?

We had debated for some time about whether to stick on the coast, or cut inland under Seville.  We have been really anxious to get some ground covered, as for one reason or another we have had a very slow few weeks, and the coastal route was the quicker by over one hundred kilometres.  Unfortunately, there seemed a very large national park in the way, with a rather scary looking river crossing at the end.  Given some recent daunting encounters with rivers, we were reluctant to chance it; but in a tourist office not long back, we were let in on the little secret that in fact there was a unique festival happening in the small town of El Rocio – the annual gathering of a particular religious clan – and that participants arrived on foot.  This, we were told, meant that rather than being closed as per normal, the way through the national park and across the river would in fact be open.  We were pretty happy about this piece of news, especially considering that the coastline is beautiful and there seemed plenty of camping open all the way down there.

So.  Can you see what is coming?

I´ll cut it fairly short, and just say that after a few days walking in the general direction and complimenting ourselves both on our brilliance in discovering this marvellous alternative, and our good luck in walking at such a time – we came to the closed gates of the national park, and discovered that we had Buckley´s or none of getting across the river.  which has meant a rather long backtrack inland, because the only other crossing is right up under Seville; we have gone from being one week from catching the boat to Morocco, to about three.  But hey.  As I said: it´s too beautiful to complain.

Meanwhile, despite my initial misgivings, the new tent arrangement has proved suprisingly bearable – not to mention a vast deal lighter. To say it attracts the odd bit of attention when we put it up amongst the plastic fantastic motorhomes of Spain´s flash camping grounds, would be an understatement; Molly and Harold from Manchester literally pause halfway through their steak, egg, and chips, and gape in unabashed amazement at our Ma and Pa kettle arrangement.  But it´s amazing what you can do with a tarp, mozzie net, and a few clothes pegs.

Now that the weather is warmer, it is bliss to have an open tarp for the breeze to blow through at night.  I also love being able to look out through the mozzie net at the bottom and see the stars, which are beautiful here – although I´ve still to work out what all the constellations are on this upside down side of the world.  Of course, the arrangement also has the added advantage of affording me three hundred and sixty degree vies of any advancing serial killers, which, as you all know, is highly important to my mental health.

On the downside it has taken us some time to organise the whole mozzie net construction.  In the beginning, there were some ugly midnight scenes, involving mouthfuls of net and frantically waving arms and hands in an effort to extricate oneself from it´s somewhat claustrophobic embrace.  But liberal use of clothes pegs seem to have sorted that little issue; it is just important not to leave going to the toilet until the last minute.  Sometimes it can take quite a series of precise maneuvres to unwrap the whole contraption.

I have to say that given the entire lot is under one kilo, it affords us a great deal more space than the tiny hiking tents which were the alternative.  Whilst the weather is warm, it is a good set up.  Don´t know how enamoured I would be of the idea in the middle of winter.  But – oh, sweet hallelujah – cold weather is not something which will be bothering us for a while.  And that, my friends, is a GOOD thing.

We are very happy also to be back using the Spanish phone system – at last we can afford to call our families and say more than "hello, we are still alive".   

Although, I´m not sure my Mum needed this two hour long ramble…

We are not going into Seville, as we really would like to reach Morocco some time this century.  I know I said we didn´t want to rush, but really, this food and wine haven is getting a little out of hand.  Another month here and we won´t be going anywhere except rehab.