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NOTHING much goes bump in the night. No loping, lethal Pasos Largos, robber of renown, nicknamed for his long stride; no outlawed Republican guerrilla turned mountain bandit in the painful peace which followed the Civil War. These days, the sierras are serene by starlight, Outside my tent the scarred faces of the Sierra de libar retreat into one-smooth profile - I fall asleep to the countryside's most soothing lullaby the small, soft grazing "crumps" of untroubled herbivores. I wake briefly when the Ronda-San Roque milk train stretches its horn along the valley of the Guadiaro River. And then it's dawn, and Pedro is talking to his mules, who have browsed and drowsed the night away. By his tender remarks to Rojo, Padro. and Sue-Ellen I judge the conversation private, but I can't understand it any-way. Pedro's Spanish is the patois of Andalucia - He is 60 years old, silver-haired and light-eyed, and carries himself with the grace of a grand seigneur-All his life he has worked mules: shifting cork from the forests for the local linchpin economy and, when he was young, shifting spirits from the coast for the local black economy. Pedro comes from Gaucin, one of the fortified pueblos blancos which for seven centuries marked the frontier between Muslim and Christian Spain. In Franco's time, when the isolated dictator permitted few imports, almost every Gaucin man smuggled on the side. Some say the handsome village still dabbles in contraband; not brandy or tobacco, but alternative stimulants which cross the Strait from Tangier's. Today's smugglers use power boats and Range-Rovers. There is no call for mules, or the sturdy dogs which also served as pack animals. But the old routes remain, the scrubby paths and' mountain trails and river crossings, and Pedro knows them all. Now his mules carry cold boxes and daybags, flasks of chilled fino and home-made lemonade, tins of fruitcake, packets of sticking plasters: and just occasionally a middle-agedl Englishwoman who prefers to ride going up the steep bits. In the provinces of Malaga and Cadiz, among the lionskin clay and limestone peaks and evergreen forests of holm oak, the Spanish tongue has coupled smoothly with Swahili and brought a strange new breed of tourist to the interior. Safari Andalucia is in its sixth season. and to the ageing population of rural Andaluda its clients remain welcome but eccentric. THESE foreign visitors choose not to ride in cars or tour buses, but to walk; to promenade for pleasure in the workplace of the shepherd, the olive harvester, the ploughman, the cork cutter. Their workplace is beautiful but punitive. As a Spanish farmer told the poet Laurie Lee: "God gave us a country we must fight like a lion." To the British, Laurie Lee is Spam's most famous pedestrian- As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning, the account of his improvised walk from Vigo to Malaga as Spain shuddered into civil war, is a classic of travel literature. Lee lived from hand to mouth, husked with his violin, slept rough, or bedded down on the straw mattresses of flea-infested inns. But the past is another country. We do things differently now. "Walking takes place in the mornings until the Spanish lunch hour ... a muleteer with several mules carrying refreshments brings up the rear, going at the pace of the slowest walker . . . nights are spent at private houses, comfortable inns, luxury hotels and a private tented camp - - - each tent has a "proper bed, veranda and bathroom with state- of the-art portaloo and running water." Walking for wimps? Not entirely. The sierra passes are hard and high, their foothills are flinty underfoot. In easy stages we stroll from Gaucin on its shelf beneath the mountain of El Hacha, the Axe, to Ronda on. Its great deft cliff, "and-we never cover .more than 13 miles a day. But we are stretched enough by these glorious miles and ready for all manner of wayside treats and most varieties of physical comfort at day's end. The niche market for European walking holidays is an expanding one. The rugged have long had their Himalayan treks and Atlas adventures, but a new generation of semi-sedentary wayfarer Is now demanding its share of off-road options. The structure of organised walking in countries like Switzerland. Germany, and Austria hasn't always suited the rambling instincts of the British, and it has taken the flexible itineraries of specialist - operators like Inntravel, Sherpa, and Alternative Travel to corner our custom. Few are more highly specialised than Safari Andalucia. Its component parts are one retired Black Watch officer, one Cordon Bleu cook, eight omni-competent Spanish aides and a casual work-force of muleteers, donkey drivers, and local guides. Its operation is the only one of its kind in southern Spain and its style is influenced by several traditions: the logistical expertise of the British Army, the ambience of the English country house, the agendas of the Spanish calendar and clock, and the wilderness luxury of the African safari. Hugh and Jane Arbuthnott are recognisable types. He is a scion of a gen tlemanly Anglo-Scottish family, she was born in India, daughter of a "curry colonel". They have the easy charm and social accomplishments of privilege, but since they settled on their plot on the farm syndicate of La Almuña, near Gaucin, have worked like peasants. "Our house was supposed to be a holiday home, but we so enjoyed life here we threw up London for good." Their children went to the village school and learned to speak Spanish with Andaluz accents and, as evidence of commitment, the family acquired a black Spanish setter, Annie. and two stray cats. "We are an strays here," says Jane, mock-tragically. "We had to find work to pay our way," An idea germinated. The Arbuthnotts recalled walking holidays in the Himalayas, the seductive-ness of campfires after hours of exercise In sublime scenery. But the food was no more than adequate and the wine non-existent. The sierra walks of Safari Andaluda would bring the ethos of the Good Food Guide to the great outdoors. And so there are moveable feasts; picnics of stuffed eggs and jamon serrano, gazpacho, and roast quail; alfresco lunches of chilled almond soup, fresh languoustine, and inventive salads from the farm garden: camp dinners of kid in Andaluz sauce and local cheeses with honey and toasted pine nuts. Each of Jane's meals is matched with Hugh's eclectic choice of Spanish wines, and there is also scope to sample the robust cooking of local restaurants and inns. The Ronda Safari is not for the abstemious, anorexic or ascetic, but most of all it's not for the reclusive. The journey from Gaucin to Ronda. its meals, miles, diversions, and surprises, are group activities and the group, even at the maximum of 14, is intimate. Walkers must pack sociability with their boots. As we circle each other for the first time at Gibraltar's dismal airport I hear one of the company enthuse: "Our friends said it was like one long house party strung together with a few walls." My heart sinks. The Scottish walker is, if not downright solitary, unevenly gregarious and the only house parties I enjoy are the ones where I've chosen the guests. But thanks to Andalucia and the Arbuthnotts and their Spanish staff and the way they respond to each other and the space they give their visitors, the house party experience is there only for those who look for it. Small talk is easily scattered by the winds of the sierras; and figures are dispersed by its scale and emptiness. Besides, the week offers more than "a few walks". It makes us see with our feet It brings us close to one of the Mediterranean's most ambiguous landscapes. a piece of Europe moored off Africa, and brushes us with the courtesy and reserve of its people. The mountains and their snowdrift villages rise above the rabble and rubble of the coast, which is only 40 miles away. From the hills of La Almuña, where our feet crush clumps of rosemary and sage and make the air smell like a roast lamb dinner, we can see the summits of the Gibraltar monolith and its Moroccan counterpart, Jbel Musa, on the other side of the Strait. Gaucin was the favoured overnight halt for nineteenth-century tourists who travelled from the coast to Ronda to inspect its Arab quarter and Roman antiquities. Many of them were British officers stationed on the Rock, and they broke their journey at the Hotel Ingilterra, which is now the Hotel Nacional. "June. 1882: Perfectly satisfied with the accommodation provided and the efforts of our host, Don Pedro Real, to make us comfortable. His boiled potatoes were excellent." "July, 1888: Don Pedro is a grand old sportsman and an excellent cook, and we had better fish here than at Ronda. Good old Pedro is very fond of sitting winking at the 'vino' on the table" And many more plaudits from those hardy Victorian trippers, whose horseback excursions carried the risk of banditry from. the likes of Pasos Laigos. The inn's visitors book is as much a curiosity as its Umewarp atmosphere. We dined there on the eve of the first leg of our route, and the boiled potatoes are still excellent. Gaucin to Campamento de Castillejos: the September dawn arrives late in Andalucia and, although it's after nine. the expectant feeling of early morning attends the departure of our little caravan. The sun has reached Gaucin's stone eyrie - the Arab fortress of Aguila - and as we file through the forest of cork oak owned and worked by the village its filtered light warms our backs. This strange woodland looks good enough to eat. Its trees might have been designed for Hansel and Gretel; stripped of bark by the cork cutters the freshly-exposed trunks are like smooth sticks of toffee, while the older boles have turned into columns of chocolate. Our route takes us through a river valley where, in times past, the Civil Guard sometimes lay in wait for Pedro and his cargo of contraband. But, says the muleteer, hilarious with memories, they always waited at the same bridge and his dogs always gave him warning. Despite these escapes, the presence of the police meant a soaking for Pedro as he forded the river elsewhere. As we leave the valley the smuggler's path turns respectable farm track, with free ranging donkeys in scorched meadows, and the sky unfolds. We've already learned to identify the griffin vulture by its watchful sociability, but high on the thermals rides something rare: black storit, six or seven of them, taking their case on a flight path to Africa. Their white cousins are commonplace in southern Iberia, but the black stork is a trophy for twitchers. We've already had elevenses but before we reach our high noon - a stiff pull from the Rio Guadiaro to the campsite - there is a surprise pit-stop at Ven-tora Cando, the farmhouse of a family who fuel us with tapas of cheese and sausage, fresh almonds from their own trees, and cold beer from a fridge powered by solar panel. Safari Andalucia has "come to an arrangement" with these isolated smallholders, and the arrangement supplements both their income and their routine. Cortes de la Frontera to Zahara de la Sierra: the second leg of our route is the toughest and loneliest, and includes a vehicular detour to the village of Zahara. But we have been well equipped for this long day by two nights, five meals, two siestas, and three hours of voluntary strolling at Campa-roento de Castilleios, where there are camp showers, hot water bottles, and duvets to die in your sleep for. The climb over the Sierra de Libar begins with breakfast in the Bar La Raspa in Cortes. We eat and drink like Spanish roadmenders: toast rubbed with garlic and sprinkled with olive oil, manteca de cerdo, a kind of pork and dripping pate, coffee with cognac or anis or a mixture of both - a bracing brew called sol y sombra, sun and shade. We are ready for anything. We have said farewell to Pedro and his mules and we are even ready for the next troop of reinforcements: six donkeys to provide back-up transport for the lame and the downright lazy. Some of them get employment as we breach the Sierra de Libar at 3000ft, but my personal pain is well worth the plain - the Llano de Libar on the other side of the pass. This great, flat-bottomed hanging valley is rimmed with shattered cliffs and floored with turf. In an amphitheatre of standing stones, monoliths raised by natural forces, we peer into a limestone pothole 90 metres deep. We dawdle on for six miles to rendez-vous with the Land-Rover and a picnic lunch, tartan rugs provided. Then we leave the high plain with its herds of long-horned, chestnut-coloured Andalucian cattle, exiting by a saddle to join the antique cobbles of a path laid by the Moors. As we pick our way down this fractured pavement we catch our first glimpse of journey's end, which is still two days and three valleys away. High on the horizon is the unmistakable clifftop profile of Ronda. Montejaque to Ronda: Another day, another donkey. This time we are met by Jose, who is kept going with nips of fino, and his companion Alegria, whose name means happiness but who has the sorrowful demeanour of all donkeys. The last lap. We are replete with our day of rest at Zahara and Grazalema although our day of rest has been busy. Some of us have gone ballooning. an option "payable locally". All have explored the immaculate villages, which are whitewashed annually by gangs of women. An have visited an olive mill, where at last I learn the meaning of cold pressing, and a blanket factory. A cultural visit to a blanket factory? This Is no ordinary textile mill but the only survivor of Grazalema's 18 factories, which once provided every shepherd and bandit m the hills with his woollen poncho. The small, low-tech village plant still turns out Spain's best blankets, as well as stylish wool serapes for matrons of Cordoba and Seville. In Grazalema we have also eaten 13 courses of tapas in the village square and drunk 13 bottles of the local white wine, Vina Fahia, which is almost one per head. We have listened rapt to flamenco. The ambience of the English country house is fast retreating before the agenda of Andalucia, but on one stretch of the nine-mile walk from Montejaque to Ronda there is a moment when the African safari takes over. I hear a lion roar. The morning air is like mescalin and I wonder if I'm hallucinating. Then I remember the balloon pilot, an Englishman who used to live in East Africa, talked about a local farmer who keeps a lion on his property, and as we pass the farm we see its jungle king: a shabby beast shabbily imprisoned in a cramped cage. Even Alegria shows no fear of the sad captive.
We are subdued for a time. But our spirits rise with Ronda, which is rising before our eyes. No army would dare assail the city from the bottom of its 500ft precipice but we are peaceful pedestrians, not battle-hungry foot soldiers. We seek only the sacking of its tourist attractions and the legitimate occupation of the new Parador on the edge of the Guadalevin gorge. By vertiginous cobbles and ancient steps we enter Ronda, I look back over the bowl below and the ridges hiding dead ground to the hills above Montejaque. Beyond them, on the far side of other ridges, other valleys, other mountains, out of sight but not out of mind, is Gaucin, where our .journey began.
"We can walk between two places," remarked Thomas A. Clark in a humble collection of aphorisms called In Praise of Walking, "and in doing so establish a link between them, bring them into a warmth of contact, like introducing two friends." Gaucin, old chum. I’d like you to meet my pal, Ronda.
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Safari Andalucía SL, Finca Almuña, Apartado Postal No 20, 29480 Gaucín, (Málaga), Spain Telephone: (34) 952151148 | Fax: (34) 952151376 | E-mail: info@arbuthnottholidays.com |
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