Travesía Integral de los Montes Aquiianos

[Bierzo Baggie]

Sunday 14 May:

Unfinished business ahead. Due to last week’s slip up half of stage 5 remained uncompleted. I’d only got halfway along the Montes Aquilianos range and Pico La Guiana remained “unbagged”. Until today.

I was reluctant to trudge up the Mare’s Seat for the third time so I decided to attack from the other side. This means taking a forgotten road to nowhere from Ponferrada up to the evocatively named “Campo de las Danzas” (field of dances) so named for being the location of all sorts of jolly pre-Christian pagan festivities. It would have been a great place for a rave had the M25 been a bit nearer. But as it were, the field of dances lies at the end of a long and winding road which progressively crumbles into a stony track before stopping abruptly in the pre-mentioned field. It has all the hallmarks of a totally pointless road that was probably never finished. It’s useful for me today however as it gives access to the eastern end of the Aquilianos.

Drove up at a snail’s pace dodging potholes and parked on the grass. The only signs of festivities were lumps of soil where the boars had been sharpening their tusks. Strapped a small rucksack to my back and set off. To avoid any unnecessary climbing I skirted around the base of La Guiana and when the One Eye came in view I’m sure it winked at me. Marched briskly, jogged very occasionally when the gradient permitted and an hour and a half after leaving the car I was ready to resume stage 5 and make inroads into stage 6.

I could now see the outstanding views that the mist had denied me last week. Peñalba and Montes were specks in the distance and surprising quantities of snow resisted in the recesses of the glacial valleys. Tiptoed down the first steep section of descent which I should have taken last Sunday and crossed a lingering snowfield the size of a football pitch, conscious that it may well be the last I run through this season. There’s the semblance of a path and the occasional red-topped stick from last year’s event but for much of the way the reference point is the La Guiana peak that rears up directly in front of me. Felt good; performed some dainty footwork over loose slate and stone and started to feel like some Lakeland geezer from Feet in the Clouds when suddenly, my rucksack broke. I’d pulled at the strap and it just snapped. This reminded me that another good reason for the dress rehearsal is to try out materials. Experimenting with trainers, rucksack…figs even, can help prevent mishaps on the big day. Sat down for the obligatory makeshift repair job before carrying on.

La Guiana is a peak which deceives. It lies separate from the other 3 peaks and from Ponferrada it looks to be the highest. It’s not. It’s nearly 1000 feet lower than The Mare’s Seat. It also looks like a real mountain with its splendid pyramidal shape and pointy top. Closer inspection will reveal that there’s a track which will easily get you up in a 4 by 4. Once I saw a battered old Seat parked on the summit. Even La Guiana’s ruinous mountain top hermitage is phoney. It looks ages old and once again there are the familiar alpha and omega symbols to suggest further Visigoth or Mozarabe treasures await us. Wrong again! Within the ruins are chunks of concrete and bits of metal which even Saint Fructuoso’s couldn’t have conjured up in the 7th century.

The devastating effects of last year’s forest fires were visible to my left and where last year we trooped up a scenic little path, now it’s a faster but steeper and less attractive march along one of the many new firebreaks. It’s reassuring to think that one day the mountain will eventually reclaim what is rightfully hers and it’ll all be covered with vegetation again. Crowned La Guiana, briefly paid my respects to the hermitage and then slipped and slid down another firebreak on the north-western edge, Ponferrada and the chimneys of its power station now visible in the hazy basin of Bierzo far below.

And so ends the wildest, most adventurous section of the Aquilianos route (that's stages 4 and 5, from Peñalba to La Guiana). Soon I’m running through pine plantations along wide forest tracks more akin to trail running than to British style fell running. From the One Eye to Pico La Guiana it had taken me 42 minutes whilst from the summit back to the Field of Dances it was a far more comfortable 24 minutes of downhill joy. When I glanced back to take one last photo La Guiana looked majestic and inaccessible in the early morning sunlight, “phoney to the last”.

Stage 5.2 and 6.1
Approx. distance; 7 km
Time taken; 66 minutes.
Total ascent; 200 m
Total descent; 800 m
(The total route distance out and back was 14km with 850m ascent and descent…according to my map).
Ran about 50% of it, if you can call it running. Mine was a stuttering tiptoeing descent which was ridiculously slow compared to real fell runners but I felt secure and my ankles held out so I shouldn’t really complain.

Only two and a half stages left and the next one is a continuation of the same forest trail to the abandoned village of Ferradillo. Maybe I can wangle a very early Wednesday morning run…

[Sweder]

Sorry, actually wanted to say I continue to savour the descriptions of mountain passes, hidden monastic treasures and lost villages, the more so for being wedged in the cultural wastelands of Strathclyde (European City of Culture my arse - the only culture I've identified so far is growing happily along the silicone edging of my hotel shower basin).

More please

[Bierzo Baggie]

Boom Boom.... Actually ran to Ferradillo before breakfast this morning but was forced into retreat by a vicious dog beast creature. Maybe it's not so different to Strathclyde after all.
Saludos

[Bierzo Baggie]

Wednesday May 17

Returned to the field of dances early on Wednesday morning. The forest trail continues just beyond a memorial stone to a “perpetual mountaineer”. Wonder if he’d died doing the Aquilianos route.

Ran through more dense pine plantations until the track rose slightly and the rocky crags that form the backdrop to Ferradillo come into view. This is the tail end of the Aquilianos range which I can see peeking out from behind Monte Pajariel each time I look through my kitchen window. A quick descent down a narrow, dusty path will take me to the entrance of the village, now almost completely consumed by abundant vegetation. I’d miscalculated the distance. Had expected 8 km of forest trail but I’d been going only 15 minutes so I’d say it was little over 3. Decided to make inroads into the next stage but as I approached I noticed that the cows of Ferradillo were in residence. In fact nowadays the only regular inhabitants of the village are the cows and I’ve met this herd before. They’re guarded dutifully by a vicious sheepdog with a spiky collar and razor sharp teeth. He’s a mean bastard, semi-wild, bred to fight off wolves or for that matter any odd looking Englishman who may be daring or stupid enough to approach the herd, the calves in particular. And there were calves everywhere.

Now I must come clean. At no point did I actually see the beast of Ferradillo. But I’ve seen it before (close up. Luckily I was on a bicycle at the time) and I knew it was there today. Somewhere. I could feel it watching me.

There was no sign of farmer Palmer either. I almost fear the farmer as much as the dog.

To be honest I could have easily taken a different route around and by-passed Ferradillo from above but that would have meant cheating. Decided to do the sensible thing and turn back. Call me a namby pamby wannabe plastic fell runner if you like but some funny things have happened in these hills recently. Who shot the bear of Burbia for example? Last weekend 200 kg of brown bear, one of an indigenous population of 40 or so (the last sustainable one in Western Europe) was found by a couple of walkers not far from here (in the Ancares region of Bierzo, to be exact). Some trigger happy halfwit with a hunting rifle had shot the poor animal and had left it to die, a newsworthy item indeed, but strangely it was only reported locally. Anyway, the tragic case of the bear of Bubia has nothing to do with the mad dog of Ferradillo but I’d rather avoid any possibility of “Farmer Palmer breakfasts on Englishman” cropping up alongside the bear headlines this week. I can picture the scene through bizarre Viz- tainted specs,

“Ee wuz wurryin moy vacas,” purrs a wild-eyed, gun wielding farmer Palmer playing it up to the local press, “so oi set moy dog on ‘im…muy bien Gromit.”

Occasionally my imagination gets the better of me.

Stage 6.2
Approx. distance; 3 kms (all runnable).
Time taken; 15 minutes.
Total ascent; hardly any.
Total descent; 200m.

Ferradillo incidently was once nicknamed “the little Moscow.” More of that to follow.

Only two stages left, nearly all downhill. I might try to do them together. Not this weekend though as Aquilianos re-enactment activities will be temporarily suspended by a rare race on Sunday. It’s the Truchillas-Vizcodillo mountain race which I mentioned whilst keeping a regular diary last year. It’ll be a good test for what’s to come.

[El Gordo]

This thread has dragged a hypothesis in front me. It's hard to deny. It's this:

There is a tendency for people who like golf not to like Bob Dylan.
There is a tendency for people who like Bob Dylan not to like golf.....

[johnb]

No resting on the top of the hill this time. You're in training...

Andy, in the interests of science, I'm pro-Bob, anti-golf. Is there any other stance if you live in the south of spain? The golf bit, I mean. I'm not a militant or anything - I'll still talk to a golfer...

john

[El Gordo]

I should say that I don't actually dislike golf (that would be a dangerous sentiment around here), but just feel sort of indifferent. Let's revise it to:

There's a tendency for people not to be enthusiastic about both golf AND Bob Dylan.

[Sweder]

I'll add fuel to your hypothesis Andy.
I'm a golfer - at least one who aspires to play golf - and I have no love of Dylan. (Unless you mean the stoned rabbit from Magic Roundabout - he was cool).

The theory begs further analysis.
I enjoy golf yet also love Motorhead, Led Zep and Pink Floyd. So the link appears to be restricted to poetic whiskered folksters . . .

[El Gordo]

The theory begs further analysis.
I enjoy golf yet also love Motorhead, Led Zep and Pink Floyd. So the link appears to be restricted to poetic whiskered folksters . . .

I wouldn't want to extend it to the whole category. It's specifically a Dylan thing I reckon. I can imagine some golf enthusiasts with the odd Max Boyce or Billy Connolly LP......

[Bierzo Baggie]

What makes you think I'd like golf Andy?

Did have a game of pitch and putt once. It was against Bob Dylan funnily enough. Very good golfer as it turned out. Shame he kept on singing in a strange whiny voice every time he got onto the green. I had to tell him to shut up.

Now where did I put those Rupert Bear trousers....

[El Gordo]

What makes you think I'd like golf Andy?

Did I think that?

[Sweder]

Did I think that?

Nope, but I'm equally intrigued as to why this thread caused you to ponder this important and increasingly undeniable matter. There again I've probably missed a vital post that explains all . . .

Speaking of rockin' golfers (mate), I seem to recall seeing blood-spitting rock fiend Alice Cooper taking part in the definitive celebrity golf program A Round With Aliss (the name refers to the host and doyen of BBC golf commentary, Peter Aliss. Cooper played/ plays off a creditable handicap of 6).

Hmm. The sound of snoring fills the ether . . . perhaps we should return to the mountains?

[El Gordo]

Nope, but I'm equally intrigued as to why this thread caused you to ponder this important and increasingly undeniable matter. There again I've probably missed a vital post that explains all . . .

You did.

2 of 'em.

Numbers 8 and 10 on this thread.

[Sweder]

Doh! I knew it . . . :o

Still, another blow for the rapidly growing group of subversive rockers last night as Finish Satanists smothered in latex triumphed in Athens, overcoming the Balkans mutual back-scratching conspiracy to grasp the Eurovision Song Contest title. No indication of golfing tendencies, though I suspect they'd struggle to get into most club-houses in this country dressed like Klingon adolescents.

Err . . . it says here.

I'll get me denim cut-off jacket . . .

[Nigel]

American Pie soon faded into 'Blowing in the Wind' (I never did like Dylan much - heresy, I know, but even for me that seemed somehow fitting in the circumstances).

It was me, Sweder - guilty as charged. And yeah, I preferred Dylan from the Magic Roundabout as well.
He was like, er, cool, man (or should I say 'rabbit' ?).

[El Gordo]

Blowing In The Wind?

Ahem.

Surely Blowin' In The Wind.....?

These things are important, y'know.

[Nigel]

You really had to be there to appreciate that difference, Andy.

[Bierzo Baggie]

It’s just before 8 o’clock on Sunday morning. I leave the car in the nearby village of Rimor, which is the next village on from Toral de Merayo and my well-trodden Monte Pajariel trails. This 8-stage adventure is coming to a close.

Set off in search of the exact point where I’d turned back a couple of weeks ago. There’s a mountain bike race on which should mean that farmer Palmer’s herd and his notorious man eating beast (and farmer Palmer himself for that matter) are all under control. If not it could be a bloodbath.

Pressed on reassured by a vague concept of safety in numbers. After a 2-hour uphill hike and a couple of wrong turnings I reached the once muddy path which had now been baked dry by the intense heat of the last few days. I’m just above the abandoned village of Ferradillo.

Ferradillo is an evocative name in these parts. Strange to think that such a beautiful place can be so synonymous with hardship and discomfort and suffering. It was once a poor farming village with nothing of historical or architectural interest. Its claim for a place in the history book comes from the terrible aftermath of the Spanish civil war.

The general history of the war has been well recorded (in particular, curiously, by English historians). But many individual stories remain untold. Terrible atrocities were committed, admittedly by both warring factions, but the retributions that followed by Franco’s men bordered on genocide. Unsurprisingly many of those who found themselves on the losing side hid up in the hills, clinging to the vain hope that the Allied powers would dispose of Franco once Hitler was defeated. But it was not to be.

These doomed men and women were known as “the maquis” and Ferradillo was their village. Maybe Ferradillo didn’t have any choice. And the very word “maqui” will mean different things to different people. It’s still a sensitive subject. Some of them (and the families of their victims… and their executioners) are alive to this day.

Ferradillo, late May 2006, was buried beneath exuberant vegetation. You wouldn’t know it was there. It’s hidden away just like the maquis were all those years ago. The cows were there at some undefined point within or beyond the village and this time I knew I could follow the path without meeting the dog-beast.

Took the descent gently. I didn’t want to risk turning my ankle again. It was a stuttering sort of run which resembled a walk but it got me there. Everybody has their favourite section of the Aquilianos route and this is mine. First you run through a section of pasture land alongside the silent jagged peaks which guard Ferradillo and whatever terrible secrets it may hold. Then you enter a dense wood of delicious young oaks which have miraculously avoided the recent forest fires. I fear that it’s a case of enjoy it while it lasts. The path is very overgrown and unless they tidy it up a bit during the week there’ll be a few people getting lost on Saturday. Ducked frequently to avoid overhanging branches and at one point glimpsed a roe deer’s head peaking cheekily out from some long grass. For a moment I thought it looked like a kangaroo. Also had to negotiate a couple of rocky outcrops which provide a wonderful natural balcony over the Bierzo basin. Ponferrada murmurs far below and to the left the morning sunlight catches the “Lago de Carucedo”. Few would suspect this shimmering lake emerged from the aftermath of Roman mining operations.

This was the last of the rough stuff. The path opened out into a forest trail and soon the chestnut groves announced the proximity of Rimor. It is potentially a fast section of the route but the accumulated distance will have taken its toll on the day. Better leave something in reserve if possible.

Stage 7
Approx. distance; 8 kms (mostly runnable).
Time taken; 48 minutes.
Total ascent; minimal.
Total descent; 600m.

[Bierzo Baggie]

The calm follows the storm and normal running services are resumed. A flat, comfortable trail, uncluttered by rocks and stones takes me through vineyards and orchards of ripening cherries and fields stained red and purple with poppies and sweet smelling lavender. Monte Pajariel gets closer. Ponferrada’s ugly urban sprawl stretches out to my left. I’m very nearly in the home straight.

But there’s one last surprise in store. I should have known. A few weeks back I’d bumped into Aquilianos die-hard Domingo who told me that they’d left him in charge of a new section of the route. Previously we’d always followed the Monte Pajariel trail and it’s a familiar one for me because I run it most weeks. But Domingo with a sadistic grin said he was going to change it. And he’d got a chainsaw. Now leaving a fell running psychopath to redesign the final kilometres of the long and gruelling Aquilianos route is a bit like leaving a pyromaniac overnight in charge of a fireworks factory. And when I saw the blue and red arrow painted on a stone I feared the worst.

Fair play though to the wild eyed old mountain goat. Domingo has cleared an excellent new section of quiet, undulating pathway that twists and turns along the river bank and past the poplar tree plantations. The air is cooler and there’s plenty of shade but it does make the final part a little longer and after 60 odd kilometres this could leave a few weary participants violently cursing Domingo and his chainsaw.
Incidentally, Domingo has named this new path after his dog.

Crossed the River Sil via the usual ramshackle bridge in front of the abattoir and then tucked in to one last climb up alongside Ponferrada’s imposing Templar’s castle. Then headed into the old part of town, below the clock tower and out into the spacious square with its Baroque town hall bathing in the glorious sunshine.

Stage 8
Approx. distance; 8 kms (all runnable).
Time taken; 47 minutes.
Total ascent; approx. 100m
Total descent; approx. 200m

Journey’s end.
On Saturday I do it for real.
All at once.

And lunch is the impossible objective. It’s as good an objective as any.
“Hasta pronto!”

[Antonio247]

Best of luck on Saturday, BB! It must be really great to do the whole course in a go. The landscape looks great and I´m sure the atmosphere will be wonderful.


Saludos desde Almería

Antonio