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.
___
A wayfarer in Spain