Torres-Bedmar-Jodar

Dear friends
Torres is a pleasant little town clinging to the folds of the Sierra Magina. The doors of most of the houses in the town, unlike those in most of Spain these days, are made of wood; some old, some new, but nearly all well designed and imposing. It makes a real diference to the appearance of the town.
I can also recommend hostal Jurinea, where I slept.
I thought today was going to be fairly easy as I had already crossed the sierra, but not so. A steep climb out of Torres, during which a bramble bush attacked my shirt, was followed by a long descent over stony paths to Albanchez de Magina, a little village staked to the side of the mountain like a sacrifice to the gods. Two old men standing at the entrance to the village were anxious to tell me the way, but they swore at each other about whether I should go left or right. I don't think it would have made much difference, but I went right. A long slog through the olive plantation in intolerable (to me at least) heat, and up to Bedmar, which sits under another mountain, and looks out over the Sierra Magina and acres of olive trees. I couldn't decide whether to stop in Bedmar or to press on to Jodar, on the other side. In the end I decided to have an extended lunch in Bedmar, and climb the mountain when the sun had lost some of its heat.
I had a great meal: salad (not a miserable english salad, but a great plateful of asparagus, lettuce, tomato, tuna, onion and olives); beef stew; flan beer and coffee for €8.50. I sat in the restaurant until 6:00pm waiting for it to cool down. It didn't seem to, but I set out anyway.
The indefatigable Juan Holgado reckons the climb is 700 metres and that it took him 1/2 hour. It's really about 450 metres and it took me an hour and a half to get to the top of the glacial morraine of rubble and scree that goes up at nearly 45 degrees between two peaks. Even this inaccessible spot had been used as a rubbish tip. About half-way down, the wreck of a Ford Escort, along with a couple of other cars. I couldn't work out how they got there until I reached the top. They drive the car up the track from Jodar and push it off the top. They might even jump out at the last minute for extra fun.
Anyway, on to Jodar through the gloaming. It was a lot easier going down than up.
Distance today 23 hard km.
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A wayfarer in Spain

Cambil-Torres

Dear friends,
These new style sticking plasters are magic. Yesterday I couldn't walk -
today I can.
Of course, the down side of this medical success story is that I have to
walk.
The walk was over the pass between Pico Magina and another one whose name I
can't remember. It was very hot and very long. The pass is at 1660 metres:
Cambil and Torres are about 850 metres. Nothing more to report, except that
I am in an extremely nice hostal in Torres. Tomorrow (Friday) it's over two
more large lumps of rock.
CiCS colleagues, I'll think you'll agree that the photo gives the lie to a
certain email expert's claim to own a fancy cottage in France. As you can
see, it's a shack in Jaen.
Distance today 27km.
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A wayfarer in Spain

Cambil-Cambil

Dear friends,
Lightly springing from bed this morning, and lacing up my favourite pair of
boots to walk to my next destination, I failed to make it to the front
door. I was reluctant to waste a day, but decided that really my feet, and
my head, which I think was suffering from a touch too much sun, needed a
chance to recover from the beating they received the day before yesterday.
So today I have done very little indeed, apart from plan out a bit more of
my route.
Cambil is a nice enough place to stop awhile. It has two rocks with strata
striking vertically up in the centre of town, both with extinct castles on
top. Cambil held an important defensive position on the route south to
Granada, and was constantly changing hands between moors and christians.
The view from the top of one of the rocks is stunning, especially in the
late evening. To the north-east the massive lumps of the Sierra Magina
dominate, while to the south lower rolling hills covered with the geometric
pattern of olive trees and red earth are bathed in the sunlight still
streaming over the mountain tops.
Distance today: 0km. I hope to do better tomorrow. I know you expect no
less from me.
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A wayfarer in Spain

La sombra del ingles es alargada

A wayfarer in Spain

Carchelejo-Cambil

Dear friends,
As I travel north-east, people are becoming more friendly. The people who
own the casa rural where I stayed last night (primitive but very cheap, 15
euros) were interested in what I am doing, and knew about the route and the
difficulties of yesterday's walk. This afternoon in Cambil, I had lunch in
a bar where again they asked me what I was doing and where I was from. I
had a long conversation with the barman about the damage done to the olive
trees by the frost, and about the inequities of global capitalism.
I need to tell you about my day. I was awoken by the sound of people
knocking my bedroom wall down with hammers, and I sprang lightly out of bed
to get some breakfast. Once I'd done that, I bought some groceries for the
rumanian couple, and set out for Cambil. Of course, I couldn't find any
signs for the path, so I made my own way to a point where I knew I must
find it: the motorway. Sure enough, it tunnels under the carriageway along
with a river. I had to exercise some ingenuity to get over the river: a
slab of concrete thrown into the middle provided a stepping stone. Once on
the other side of the motorway, I had to cross back over the river, and
wade through a second with my boots tied round my neck. By this time it was
hot, and the tiredness from yesterday was taking its toll. I struggled
along slowly, following the river course, first along a track, then through
fields, and then up another dirt road to Cambil. It was only 13km in total,
but I really didn't think I was going to get there. The rucksack seemed
twice as heavy as usual, and my feet were screaming by the time I arrived.
I've done nothing since lunch in the bar apart from finding this hostal,
and having evening tapas in the bar of the hostal that were more like
mini-meals.
Tomorrow I will either press on to Torres, or stay here, depending on the
state of my feet.
Distance today 13km.
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A wayfarer in Spain

Frailes-Carchelejo

Dear Friends,
Today was unforgettable.
I spent the night in Frailes in a disco/hostal. Fortunately there was no
disco after the romeria.
This morning everywhere in the town was closed. I had to shout over the
fence of the cafe to grt them to make me a sandwich for the road. The lady
in the hostal gave me an apple and an orange, and a lift to Los Rosales.
She seemed sad.
I expected to see nothing but olives, but the scenery was very different.
Steep mountainsides covered with oaks, gorse and pines, with partridges and
even red squirrels running about in the undergrowth. It was a long road
followed by a sudden ascent from 1000 metres up to 1450 metres. When I
reached the top, I had a glorious view of the Sierra Nevada, clearer this
time than before. After an equally gruelling descent down the other side of
the mountain, a long walk along a country road, following the flow of the
river Aldearazo down past one occupied farm and a dozen in ruins. I reached
a point at about 3:45 where the road divided. A man out walking advised me
to go by the quick road, not by the official route. It seemed to make
sense, and I spent the next hour and a half wandering about a hundred
twisty little roads, all the same. Eventually I decided to retrace my steps
to the true path, and followed on down the river. The road crossed and
started to rise up. I was worried I'd made another mistake, but as the road
turned round a hairpin, the path left and followed the river into and
through a magnificent gorge. It was the characteristic pinky red and grey
rock I seen before, but in fantastic weather-worn shapes: great round
towers and half-human faces; twisted fingers reaching into the sky; scree
slopes descending to the river bed; and the river way below, a clear green
babble of water. I crossed a specially constructed GR7 bridge, half
expecting to see a troll peering out from underneath. It was that kind of
place.
Of course, walking that far down the river meant that I had to climb back
up out of the gorge. The path, once across the troll bridge, turned right
and disappeared upwards. From about 850 metres, I ascended to 1150, almost
vertically, or so it seemed. The oaks were now mixed with rosemary bushes
and matorreal. I could now see the reservoir into which the river I'd been
following disgorged itself, surrounded by mountains covered in dense
forest. It looked like Machu Picchu.
Finally, at the top, after eight hours walking, there was a sign
'Carchelejo 2 hours'. Of course, all the time I'd been climbing, I'd hardly
moved over the ground at all, so there were still 7 or 8 km to go.
I finally arrived in the town at 8.20pm, having come about 42km. I am
installed in a casa rural in the town, and have been made supper by an
extremely affable Rumanian cuple who work for the man who owns the house.
I've been able to wash my clothes in a washing machine.
Picture shows a development opportunity.
Distance today 42km.
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A wayfarer in Spain

Alcala-Frailes and a bit more

Dear Friends
Yesterday and today have been a bit complicated. My friends from Gandia
arrived on Friday evening, and we went out on the town for a drink and
supper. I must have dined on food that was too rich for me because the
following day I was somewhat out of sorts.
We made use of Saturday to visit my next two destinations, because I was
unsure about whether I could get to the second place in one day, and
whether there was anywhere to sleep when I did get there. To my relief we
found someone who knew someone who had a house for rent. Result: I have
somewhere to stay on Monday evening.
Once we'd got this sorted, we went for lunch in Jaen. I'd been there once
before (30 years ago) and remembered the castle on top of the mountain
overlooking the town. It's a parador (a posh state-run hotel) and has been
restored and extended. The view of the surrounding countryside is
impressive: the mountains here are higher and more jagged, and the scenery
more desert-like. Of course there are still olive trees everywhere. Jaen is
the olive capital of the world. The trees here have all been badly affected
by the harsh frosts: most of them are completely brown, and the branches
are being lopped off and burnt, presumably so that they will grow again
next year.
Back in Alcala we visited its castle for good measure.
Today (Sunday) Nestor and I walked to Frailes, which is where I'm staying
tonight. It's only 10km from Alcala, but is the only place to stay until
Carchelejo, another 30km to the north. We'd heard that there was a romeria
happening in the hills above Frailes. A romeria is when they take the
statue of the Virgin Mary out of the church and process up to a chapel
dedicated to her at the top of a hill nearby. It's generally an excuse for
a party/barbecue for everyone round about. We thought we might go up in the
car to take a look. It was a mistake. The whole mountain round the shrine
was a car park. There were cars parked in bushes, in the road, on top of
each other. We crawled along in a queue for an hour before could get out
again. There was a whole funfair going on, with bouncy castles, hamburger
stands, rides, a division of police. This was 4500 ft up a mountain!
I'm writing this in Frailes, sitting on the terraza of the Lady Diana cafe,
and watching the people coming back from the romeria. I have to wait till
later for the hostal to open, because they're all at it as well.
Tomorrow it's a long day to Carchejo, over the highest mountains so far.
Distance today 15km.
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A wayfarer in Spain

Nowhere

Friends,
Today was a day of rest and reconnoitre in Alcala.
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A wayfarer in Spain

Almedinilla-Alcala la Real

Dear friends,
Today I rose early to press ahead with my allocation of kilometres, because popular opinion had it that it would be a hot day. I made up a route for the exit from the town, because I suspected that the real path gives a whole series of unnecessary twists and turns. I picked up the path later, and followed it to Las Pilas de la Fuente del Soto. I'd worked out another short cut here (you can tell I'm getting blasé or desperate) and I asked an aged woman sweeping her path whether I could cut up over the hill behind her house to rejoin the road. "Oh I don't really know" she said. "I've only just moved here". It doesn't matter who you ask - it could the very rocks of the earth - they will always say they're not from these parts.
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A wayfarer in Spain

A few extras

Dear friends,
There's a few things I need to say before I forget:
A. thanks to jennie for telling me about the dentist and I hope it went ok.
B. It takes about half an hour to type the blog entries using the stylus
and the tiny touch keyboard. I gave up with the graffiti ages ago.
D. I have seen more hares here than I have seen in my whole life (before).
They are surprisingly big.
E. You have to eat a lot of pig and bread in Spain. I thought I was going
to come back leaner and fitter. I might be fitter, but so far I don't think
I'm any leaner.
F. There's lots of olive trees in Andalucia.
A wayfarer in Spain

Priego-Almedinilla

Dear friends,
I had my first useful encounter with a tourist office last night - they had
heard of the path, and were keen to make suggestions about where I could
stay. They still didn't know anything about anything outside the immediate
locality, but still. This morning they managed to turn up a hotel in
Almedinilla, which I hadn't been able to do.
I wandered about yesterday evening in Priego to find somewwhere to eat. It
has a really nice moorish part like the Albaicin in Granada: unfeasibly
narrow streets with window boxes and flower pots clinging to the walls.
I ended up in the hostal where I was staying: it was lively and
companionable in the bar. They had two people working, and they were doing
everything: serving behind the bar; at the tables; and in the dining room.
On top of that they were doing the washing up and looking after reception
in the hostal. The place was called Hostal Rafi: it was a traditional
Spanish centre-of-town hostal with tiny rooms, dubious plumbing and short
hard beds; and I recommend it to any of you planning a trip to Priego.
A short day today, because Almenidilla is the only stopping place between
Priego and Alcala. I saw one sign for the GR7 outside Priego, and followed
it up an anonymous side-street. That was the last sign I saw for a good
while, so I had to make up my own route using the map and guessing that I
could cut across an olive plantation or two. It worked out pretty well
andeventually I did pick up some markings for the path. I was again walking
through olives for most of the way, and the scenery around was the same as
it has been since the north of Malaga - rolling hills covered in olive
trees. At one point I was down in a really delightful valley, with larches,
hawthorn, oaks and brambles lining the track. Local people obviously
thought so, because there was a quantity of new building going on.
In Almedinilla a man whom I asked the way to the hotel gave me a lift right
to it. It's a converted cortijo, three storeys tall and with a central
atrium going right up to the roof. They've got old farm machinery scattered
about: most of it looks like instruments of torture to me. Another long day
tomorrow, and I'm meeting two friends from Gandia tomorrow evening in
Alcala.
I don't seem to able to get a GPRS service here, so I don't know when this
report will reach you.
Distance today: 12km.
You might like to guess what the picture is. Or you might not.
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A wayfarer in Spain

Rute-Priego de Cordoba

Dear Friends,
After a slap-up breakfast at Hotel Maria-Luisa (canteen coffee and diy
toast) I set out for Priego, stopping only in the centre of town to buy a
roll of bread and to send home some used maps (13 used, 13 to go). As usual
there were no signs to tell me where to leave the town, but this part of
the route has been travelled by the inestimable Juan Holgado with a GPS, so
I was following the route he took, albeit in the other direction. There
were more olive plantations on this side of town, but as the path rose, it
hugged the side of a steep mountain where cultivation was impossible,
andthe scenery was more varied. Oaks, hawthorns and gorse predominated, and
the noise of the birds and insects became more intense. There were still no
signs of any kind for the gr7 path, until I reached a path at the side of
an olive grove well off the road, where suddenly there was a whole rash of
red and white marks painted on the rocks. You could not possibly have ever
seen these marks had you not already known the way. Almost as soon as they
started, they stopped again, and I was left to my own devices to find the
rest of the way to Priego.
It's a nice town, and is the first place that feels like that since Ronda.
People are dressed like townspeople and look like townspeople. The other
towns I've been have been little more than meeting places for people from
the surrounding countryside.
Distance today 27km.
Toodle-pip!
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A wayfarer in Spain

Cuevas de San Marcos-Rute

Folks,
A short day today.The lady in the pension asked for her money because she
was going to Antequera. She left me in the house on my own, telling me to
pull the door to when I left.
The day was cold and overcast, so I dressed warm. Of course, within ten
minutes the clouds had disappeared and the sun was beating down.
At about 9.30 I crossed over the Rio Genil into the province of Cordoba,
and was therefore into the second half of the journey. I've travelled 360
km in the last three weeks: I'm quite pleased with myself.
The path on the other side of the river folows the line of an old road. It
cuts through a rock and follows the river for 300 metres before turning
north to Rute. Or at least it did 50 years ago. Now the road has fallen
into the river and the path clings precariously to the crumbling rock for a
while, then gives up hope and stops. I had to make a two kmdiversion
through more olive trees to rejoin the road. There's a great development
opportunity for someone here: an abandoned olive oil factory, probably
built in the thirties, surrounded by palm trees, and in good condition.
With some hefty financial help from the European Regional Development Fund,
it would make a great rural hotel.
After climbing up over more hills covered with olive trees, I was overcome
by the view. Cuevas de San Marcos is at the end of a very large reservoir
'el embalse de Iznajar', but it can't be seen from the town. Now, on the
hill, and with the mist gone, the reservoir was below me, a perfect blue in
the sunlight. It was a good moment.
Ariived in Rute, I looked for Hostal Las Rosas in calle Toledo. The barman
in the bar next door told me it had closed, so once again it had to be a
hotel. When I was a young lad you could go to anywhere in Spain and find a
pension or somewhere where they would take you in. I suppose it''s just not
worth people's while any more. The kind of people travelling regularly
these days want anonymous hotels on the outskirts of town where they can
park their BMWs.
Rute is definitely a town, if a bit down on its uppers. It's famous for
anis and pastries. (And olives of course). I used to know someone who came
from Rute when I was in Granada 30 years ago. His name was Pepe and he was
studying law. I expected to see him walking down the street towards me.

The picture is of the river where the road is cut.
Total distance today 14km.
Tomorrow, the Sierra Subbetica.
Pip-pip!
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A wayfarer in Spain

About germans

I knew they were German because they definitely weren't English, and they didn't seem Dutch. I hope this answers your question.
It doesn't make any difference that magnetic north was changed - the gps works off big birds in the sky.
Today's report to follow, although judging from the number of comments today, it looks like my circulation is falling.

Villanueva de Algaidas-Cuevas de San Marcos

Dear friends,
I don't understand how star ratings for hotels work, and I don't understand how they relate to the cost of a room. I thought it was to do with how firmly the shower head is attached to the wall, but it seems there's no correlation there either. The place I stayed in last night was 50€, the place before that 40€ and the one before that 20€. The 20€ place had one star, the 50€ none. The pension I'm in tonight is 10€.
I think John Wyndham must have spent some time in these parts before he wrote 'The Day of the Triffids'. Both olive trees and triffids produce oil, they both cover the whole countryside in row upon endless row, they both communicate with one another by rustling, they both shoot out a deadly sting as you pass by... It's obvious.
I spent the morning plunging through olive groves, supposedly following a river, but in reality climbing in and out of eight foot deep stream beds and trampling down freshly ploughed soil. Every so often a post for the GR7 was placed to indicate the (notional) path. I had lunch (beer and sandwiches) in Cuevas Bajas and bought some ibuprofen tablets from the chemists. Every tiny hamlet in Spain has at least two or three pharmacies.
I rang ahead to a pension in Cuevas de San Marcos, mindful of last Monday when the hotel was closed for the staff's day off. It turned out when I got here that the pension is no longer operating, but the lady takes in people if they turn up. Just as well for me because there's nowhere else to stay here.
I took a picture of the olive trees. They stretch half way to America.
A wayfarer in Spain

Villanueva de Tapia-Villanueva de Algaidas

Dear friends,
Today was a frustrating day. But first, I must make it clear that soap and even a comb were provided at 'Los Tres Pollos/La Paloma Rural Hotel'. I also had a very nice supper of Salad with figs and roquefort, and ravioli in tomato sauce. The owners are Italian.
To return to my frustration. Today was supposed to be short day but ended up somewhat longer because of the ludicrous detours made by the path. I ended up walking ound and rond in circles in amongst the olive trees when I could have been sitting doing nothing as is proper on a Sunday.
I'm thinking the commenter on my boots might have been right, or at least that I shouldn't have believed the salesman in Foothills who sold me some fantastic new footbeds guaranteed to make my life better. They certainly haven't made my feet any better.
Anyway I've ended up at Hotel La Rincona on an industrial estate outside the town, which is costing me 50€. Vaya estafa, you might say.
There's also been some adverse comment on the walking poles. I was very dubious about these myself, and in some ways I'm still not sure, but, given that I've never carried a heavy rucksack for an extended period in my life before, and that my knees regularly give me gip, I thought it might be a sound investment. What I've found is that they really help going up hill, they can be useful going down to stop me falling over, and they're a bit of a distraction going along the flat.
Chin-chin!
Distance today 20km.
The picture is not really relevant.
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A wayfarer in Spain

Villanueva del Rosario-Villanueva de Tapias.

Dear friends,
There's a lot of new towns in this part of the country, but none of them are what I'd call new. Villanueva del Cauche, for instance, looks like it has been there since the 13th century, and hasn't changed much in 700 years, apart from the motorway running 200yards from the end of the (only) street.
This part of the path is very odd. It describes a great loop running south, east, north and west from Antequera, and ending only about 25 miles north of the town. It seems to have been designed for the purpose of promoting rural tourism to these towns, which, from the tourist's point of view, don't seem to have much going for them. What's more, the route is badly designed so that you end up walking alongside main roads, as previously described, or along endless flat stretches of farm tracks between fields of cereals and broad beans (there's a lot of broad bean cultivation in this part of the world, for making habas con jamon). Today was long and tedious, but for one episode, which made me smile. I was looking at my map at a junction between to dirt roads. A car drove past and stopped, and a man my age got out and asked where I was going. He looked at my walking poles and asked to try one; he got me to talk to his son in English (to the latter's great embarassment), he asked me how old I was, and told me all kinds of things about himself. Five minutes l was in his brother-in-law's finca (a very stylish country house) with a beer in my hand being introduced to all the members of his family. I think they were as bemused as I was. The photo is of them outside the house.
I am currently in 'Los Tres Pollos' country hotel outside Villanueva de Tapia. I really don't understand the logic of prices for hotels in Spain. This one is 40€, for slightly worse accommodation (no soap, no shampoo) than last night (20€). They are playing opera downstairs though, so they're clearly aiming at a more discerning clientele. I will report on dinner tomorrow.
A wayfarer in Spain

Antequera-Villanueva del Rosario

Dear friends,
You'd think, from the amount of huntin', shootin' and fishin' that goes on in this country (I'm writing this in a hunting themed hotel, the second so far) that there would be no wildlife left in the country. It doesn't seem to be that way. I've been amazed at the racket being kicked up by birds on my way, particularly in the first week. It's a bit more subdued here, perhaps because there's less ground cover. I'm no ornithopter, but I've seen eagles (I know they were eagles because they were three times as big as anything else), buzzards, and other raptors, a variety of water birds, and plenty of assorted hedgerow birds. Flora - plenty of that too. The flowers at the side of the path remind me of my childhood in the quiet back lines of the rural idyll that was Gloucestershire. Photo to follow.
Back to my travails: another 14 km along the side of the main road this morning, and i+i nearly swept into the ditch by a maniac in a passat overtaking a van as they both passed me. My curses were wasted on the empty air but my second stiff letter to the Andalucian Junta will bring speedy
results.
It was really cold this morning,and as I climbed up out of Antequera the wind rose, and forced me to put on my Sun Microsystems fleece. At last I Ieft the road to cut across country, and to enter the most beautiful valley I think I've ever seen. (I will be selling panoramic views in the foyer
after the performance). It was everything you could want in a view - a sky of a perfect blue, bright yellow patches of gorse, distant blue ranges of mountains, waves of fresh green barley in the wind, and outcrops of stark grey rock.
I wish I could buy that view. I don't think I'd realised before how beautiful the Spanish countryside is.
Round the corner, progress had dotted rancho ponderosas over the hillside.
My next stop was Villanueva de Cauche, where the path divides into northern and southern routes. The way to the south takes you over the Sierra Nevada and the Alpujarras, and the northern route through faceless towns and villages. My way lies north. I had to cross a motorway to get to it. After Cauche, it was more road walking, this time with the added benefit of a motorway next to me. I was glad to arrive. A valuable lesson: always take the first hotel you find. It saves wandering about for hours with a heavy
pack on your back.
I had two brushes with the supernatural today - a german couple appeared on the road in front of me near the source of the river Villa, but when I got to the point on the road where I had seen them, they had disappeared. There was nowhere in the real world where they could have gone where I couldn't
see them. Later, an andalusian worker in black outfit and cap climbed over the barrier at the side of the road 100 metres ahead of me. He too disappeared.
Total distance today: the alethiometer reports 40km, but also thinks my maximum speed was 751kph. I think it was about 32km.
Last night I made an additional post, thanking commenters for commenting, but it hasn't appeared. It means a great deal to a lonely traveller to know that the folks at home are thinking of him, and looking out for his welfare.
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A wayfarer in Spain

Porras

I'm in a venta (a roadside tavern) near Antequera. I've just had a dish I've never seen or heard of before - it's called 'porras' and I want to share it with you. Take red pepper, tomato, breadcrumbs, garlic, olive oil, and salt. Whizz in a processor until it all forms an orange paste a bit thinner than houmous. Stick it on a plate and throw some tuna, jamon serrano, hard-boiled egg and tomato on top in a tasteful arrangement. Serve, to the delight of your friends and contemporaries.
The real genius of Spain (to be a bit pompous for a moment) is in this sort of cooking. They use simple ingredients to produce food that's not haute cuisine, but is tasty and wholesome. Whenever I've been to a posh restaurant in Spain, I've always thought that I'd sooner be in somewhere where ordinary people go, not just from inverted snobbery (although that plays an important part, of course) but because the food is better as well as a lot cheaper.
It also helped a lot today that the waitress was very nice and even asked what I was doing, which is a first.
One bottle of beer, porras, pork kebab, orange, glass of wine and bread €9. Not bad value for a meal I would have paid £20 for in England.

I felt quite ill this morning, so I had some co-codamol with my cafe con leche. I think this was a bad mistake, as I felt very odd until I stopped here for the meal.
The route from Abdalajis to Antequera is not very interesting, after the initial climb out of the village it joins a road, and then the main road with cars whizzing by like porras in a processor.
A few km after the venta, the road became steeper and narrower, and I was forced into the ditch with the rubbish on several occasions. I am thinking of writing a stiff letter to the Most Excellent Committee for Footpaths of the Junta of Andalucia.
Some speculation: is it possible that I am going through a strange and miraculous change, and will I return stronger, leaner and fitter for life? I think not, but it must be odd for a body used to sitting down for most of the time to realise that this unusual physical effort has to be repeated every day for the forseeable future. Does it decide to shut down inessential services (my brain?) and redirect effort where it's needed? I hope so. I expect, some time in the next week, to have made the transition from worker to walker. If that happens, perhaps the University will have to redeploy me to a job which will make best use of my new talents.
The hotel receptionist expressed interest in my walk today. She said English people are very strong. She must have been talking about someone else.
The picture is of Antequera from the castle. It was taken on my mobile phone, transferred to the Palm by bluetooth, copied to the SD card from my camera which I inserted into the Palm's card socket in order to turn it into a standard jpeg file. I've only just thought of doing this.

Expect some comments about bird life tomorrow.
Distance today:Valle de Abdalajis-Antequera 19.2km, exactly as estimated.
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A wayfarer in Spain

Turbine

This was the picture of the turbine I meant to send yesterday.
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A wayfarer in Spain

El Chorro-Abdalajis

I forgot to put the distance for yesterday.
Ardales-El Chorro 19km.
I meant to start out early but didn't quite make it.
The road to Abdalajis (which must be a moorish name) starts just outside the hotel, so after breakfast I set off straight away. Today was hotter than it has been, and I soon had to stop for a breather on the steep climb out of the gorge. The cliff face here is nearly completely pink, and vertical for at least 200 metres. Onthe other side, pine trees complete with pine scent. Then at the top of the path, a different sierra appears, like a great grey whale rising from a sea of gorse (not sure about that analogy). Coming down the otherside, I could see the layers in the limestone, rising almost vertically. Picture to follow.
The vegetation was now lower to the ground, with palm fronds everywhere. I was soon in Abdalajis looking for somewhere to eat. From hat I could see, there were five bars and a bread shop. I more or less decided to press on to Antequera even though I was feeling a bit crummy, but on the way out of the village spotted a new hostal which looked ok. 20€ for an en-suite room with every modern convenience. It seems to be the stanard price. With this sort of quality, there seems to be no reason to pay 45€ for a hotel.
I walked up to the village mirador in the evening for a look at the surounding hills, then back to the hostal restaurant for a fine meal, green bean salad, sausages in wine, pan, vino y postre for €7.50. The bar was about cming to life at 10.30 when I left.
Day 15:El Chorro-Abdalajis 11 km.
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A wayfarer in Spain

Ardales-El Chorro

I have been asked by various interested parties to give more details about the scenery I'm passing through. (My reports are rather sparse because of the difficulty of using the palm pilot to type lots).
What struck me in Tarifa was the greenness of the countryside. If it weren't for the cork oak trees the rolling hills would make you think you were in Herefordshire. The change came on the third day - a steep climb up to 900 metres and real mountain scenery. From Ubrique, the dramatic pink and grey outcrops of the Sierra de Grazalema started to appear, and oak and olive trees replaced the cork.
After a stretch of low hills planted with cereal crops and casas pijas round Ronda, I climbed up and into a well cultivated valley before Serrato and Ardales..
Distances covered
Day 1:Tarifa Facinas 21
Day 2:Facinas Barrios 24
Day 3:Barrios Castellar 20
Day 5:Castellar Jimena 20
Day 6:Jimena Mojon 28
Day 7:Mojon Ubrique 7
Day 8:Ubrique Villaluenga 13
Day 9:Villaluenga Montejaque 20
Day 10:Montejaque Ronda 10.9
Day 12:Ronda Arriate 8.9
Day 12:Arriate Turnoff 14.3
Day 13:Turnoff Serrato 10.1
Day 13:Serrato Ardales 16.2
That brings me up to today's walk. Hostal el Cruce was only €20, and very good value at the price. My destination was El Chorro, which is a small village at the end of a series of large reservoirs, and a spectacular gorge. The barman told me to go the wrong way because he thought I was talking about the road. However, I met two old gents walking down the road, and one of them remembered that there had been a signpost outside the hostal before they put in a mini-roundabout. So I came back past the hostal and set off up the other road. I was soon hot and out of breath as the road shot up the mountainside. I still wasn't sure I was going the right way, so I asked a farmer. Of course, he told me I was going completely the wrong way and that I should be on a different road. A bit further on another man told me I was going the right way, and soon I picked up the red and white markers of the GR7.Then it was up and down over a series of mountainlets, until the path turned north to El Chorro. Where the path came back out on to the road I sat down for a break and chatted to two Welsh cyclists doing various tours round the area. They told me they have a friend starting the walk in two weeks, and this reminded me that I've still not met anybody else walking the route.
_After the break I walked through pine trees round a reservoir at the top of a hill, used to provide water for the hydroelectric station at El Chorro. I also saw the giant rusting turbine thing in the photo. Then I started on a steep path down 'El Tajo de la Encantada', which seemed to me to be a vertical cliff face. I'd thought when I started this morning that I would be in my luxury hotel by one o'clock, but the path was so long, steep and treacherous underfoot that it took me an hour to descend 400 metres. As I did so I passed through several geological layers; conglomerate with big pebbles in a concrety rock; sandstone cut into curves by the wind; and sharp shiny black rock splitting into tiny fragments.
Finally at the bottom and in the village, I looked for the hotel 'La Posada del Conde'. Nowhere to be seen, so I went to get a late lunch at a restaurant. The waiter told me the hotel is TEN KM from El Chorro. Fortunately the restaurant has apartments in a converted flour mill (this is where all the European money goes!). After a good lunch of healthy vegetables and a bottle of Don Faustino, I arranged to rent an apartment. It's amazing - a room cum kitchen in funky blue and yellow, a bedroom up a dinky spiral staircase with ensuite bathroom, and a further bedroom in the eaves for unexpected guests.
To round off a very satisfying day, I took a walk up the railway line which cuts through the gorge in a series of tunnels and bridges, to see the famous 'Camino del Rey', which is a precarious walkway stuck to the side of the vertical cliff face of the gorge. They've knocked down the first part now, so it's inaccessible unless you're one of the crazy mountaineers who are the main inhabitants of El Chorro. I wouldn't have gone on it, not even for ready money.
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A wayfarer in Spain

A strange occurrence

It was a long but relatively uneventful day today, apart from the pig's
head in the middle of the path. The taxi driver turned up at 10am as
arranged, and dropped me off at the point where I turned round yesterday
evening. From there I walked and walked until Serrato, then walked and
walked until Ardales. Ardales looks quite pretty in the distance, but close
up it's a bit of a mess of intensive hen houses and new construction, and
the river is full of green slime. There is one hostal in town, to which I
was directed. I'd rung them a couple of times during the day with no reply.
When I got there I could see the place was closed. I thought for a bit,
rang the hotel in the next stop (El Chorro) and booked a room. Back to
town to find a taxi. The taxi was in Malaga. Sat down to think whether I
could bear to walk to El Chorro. Another taxi was turned up by a helpful
barman. This taxi driver was also the owner of the closed hostal, so when
he found out what I wanted, he let me have a room. I'm writing this in a
completely empty hotel.
The dead pig's head must have been a sign.
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A wayfarer in Spain

Ronda-Arriate

A bit glum today. Saw daughter off on bus to Malaga at unnecessarily early hour. Really felt I would miss her company on the walk. Now I am really on my own.
Before I forget, thanks for all the comments on the blog. It's great to get them. In answer to specific points
A. Not yet eaten by wolves.
B. Can't do anything about line spacing.
C. Jose, gracias por la oferta de casa en Bullas. Si vivo aun, seguro que voy.
D. Eaten one lot of potatoes and given the other to the poor.
E. Weather bad for agriculture but so far, good for senderistas.
F. Failure of blog may have been due to user error or lack of GPRS service. Certainly I couldn't access the blog myself for a while because vodafone decided that blogspot.com was adult material. Most of it seems very childish to me.
Today's events: I set out from Ronda earlyish, and found my way through the back streets and past the cemetery to dead end. Back-tracking slightly, I found the right road and strode to Arriate. I soon found the only place to stay, Pension el Horrible, with outside toilet and bucket of dishwater for a shower. 12€, which is a tad cheaper than I've been paying so far.
I decided to stay, but to push on a bit further and return by taxi. This means I won't have to stop at Serrato, which has nowhere to sleep. It also gains me a day's march.
I arranged for the local taxi man to pick me up this evening and drop me off at the same point tomorrow. This should mean that tomorrow is about 20km to Ardales, which should be fine. By chance he was driving past with his family as I struggled to find the way out of Arriate and, realising I must be the looney who rang him with the bizarre commission, offered to give me a lift to the first signpost. Just as well, because I don't think I would have found it.
It was boring walking, alongside the main road for much of the way. The signs are very sparse here, so it's as well I have my trusty gps and maps.
I had supper in Pension Horrible.It wasn't bad at all, and only €6.
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A wayfarer in Spain

The new bridge

As it is my day off I went with my daughter to el santuario rupestre de
nuestra senora de la cabeza, on foot. This is a view of Ronda's bridge from
the road on the way back.
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A wayfarer in Spain

Ronda-supplement

Until I got to Malaga province, I met almost nobody on the way, but here there are a great many English and other pasty Northern European types traipsing about the countryside. The curious thing is that I keep seeing the same people again and again. I met two English blokes at the top of a pass (The Pass of the Postman - he must be a lot tougher than your average), and then again at the bus station in Ronda. (I wasn't getting a bus anywhere, just finding out about buses to Malaga for my daughter.
And that's an interesting thing - I keep having to give the tourist information people tourist information. In Ronda today I was able to inform them that their bus information was wrong. I haven't been given a sensible answer to any of my questions yet, particularly about walking. There's plenty of general printed publicity about paths and routes, but nobody has any real knowledge about them.
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Cerdos

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A wayfarer in Spain

Another attempt

Another attempt at an entry in this pesky blog. I see that only one entry has succeeded since the starting two from Tarifa.
I'm now (Friday 8) in Ronda and I've completed 100 miles of the walk. It's been reasonably gruelling, and has highlighted my lack of training. I've got blisters on most parts of my body, including where the rucksack rubs on my hips. Since the ambulance backup gave up and went back to England, it's been twice as heavy.
The scenery on the route has been very varied, from the unexpected green in the cork oak forests of Cadiz, to the dramatic red and grey mountains around Ronda.
I've stayed in some great places, the most memorable being a little house on the top of a rock in Castillo del Castellar, overlooking a stunning reservoir. Unfortunately it was pouring with rain all the time I was there.

technology is rubbish

This blog is a nightmare. I am in Montejaque.