Im going to bore everyone with an extended account which will make Sweders Parisian monologues seem, err très brève. This will be my London marathon. It involves (optional) running. There the similarity ends.
London attracts a field of 35,000 and many more dont get in. The Aquilianos closes at 350 although with a spot of back-scratching youll probably get in anyway.
London is run on roads to the tune of huge cheering crowds. The Aquilianos is 95% off road and youll only be cheered at the end and thatll be by fellow participants and their families.
London is 26 miles and 385 yards. And you can bet your bottom euro that the 385 yards is exactly that. 385 yards. The Aquilianos is billed as 66km but it may well be 65, or 70. It was probably measured with a piece of string on the outdated Spanish military maps which are poor substitutes for Ordinance Survey. Saw a bloke with a GPS thingy a couple of years ago but dont know if anybody took him seriously.
The London race has got Paul Tergat, Stefano Baldini and Haile Gebrselassie. The Aquilianos has Pedro the lumberjack, Luciano the dentist and Carlos the copper and friends. And its not even strictly speaking a race.
In fact it may well be the case that the Aquilianos is as far removed from the London marathon as say, greco roman wrestling or ballroom dancing. But both in their own different ways are truly monumental dates on the calendar which grown men and women yearn for every year with all the impatience and anticipation of small children on Christmas Eve. And Im one of them.
I thought you were going to do the short one.
Well, no. I always alternate. Last year I did the short one. This year Ive got to do the long one.
Got to?
Err, well, yes.
Oh
Hey, Ill be back in time for lunch.
Now, I like to think of myself as a man of my word and Im not one to treat rash promises lightly. This promise was very rash. 5 minutes later I was calculating the implications of my offhand comment whilst casting from my mind any thoughts of backtracking with all the stubbornness of a long distance runner. Finally decided that we were talking about lunch in a Spanish Saturday afternoon context which could give me as late as 3:30 to stumble back to Ponferrada. However, with the traditional 6am start this would mean a sub-10 hour Aquilianos and thats considerably quicker than Ive ever done before. This will inevitably involve a lot of running and some serious training. As you can see Im not taking it lightly.
Ive always enjoyed off-road events because I find them less obsessed with time. Unless you are actually racing at the front of the field the emphasis is more on getting round, enjoying the scenery and finishing in a state that doesnt upset your loved ones. Although many off road events are across quite tough terrain I find them more relaxing and laid back. In a road race Im a slave to the clock, as I suspect most of us are. I look at my watch each time I pass a km marker. I make complex mental calculations relating to space and time which no doubt excite my neurons enormously and protect me from senility. But off road I am an unshackled, free spirit spreading love all around with flowers in my hair. So why go and spoil it all by trying to run a fast Aquilianos?
As anybody who has spent time in this country knows . when a man promises to be back for lunch
Johnb, my wife is from Galicia and lunch is a serious business. On Saturday June the 3rd I run the Aquilianos. And I must be back for lunch:o .
My training will consist of the following. 66kms of the Aquilianos long route diluted into eight tidy stages. (In fact I’ve already done the first two but haven’t written them up yet). Then on June 2nd it’ll just be a question of “doing it again” but this time all at once and within 10 hours if I’m going to be back for lunch. No problem .
Must confess that I’ve done the long route before, 4 times, but this will be the first time that I’ll be paying close attention to the clock. Referring back to my old route cards which must be stamped at 7 or 8 control points along the way I can see my previous "long route" times.
1998, 11 hours 51 minutes; ran about 50% of it. Got lost in the mist on the tops and ended up sitting on a rock for nearly an hour. Eventually glimpsed another participant through the murkiness and followed him.
2000, 11 hours 25 minutes; ran more than 50% Missed a turning, prematurely climbed halfway up One-Eyed Peak and then had to retrace my steps again.
2002, 14 hours 52 minutes; walked it all with Mrs Scouser who notched her first Aquilianos long route.
2004, 14 hours 9 minutes; walked it with Mrs Scouser’s brother in law. Ran occasionally. A thunderstorm of biblical proportions washed away the tail-enders and the course was closed 2 hours early… just when we were finishing.
So, if I’m to get back in time for lunch I’ll have to improve my Aquilianos best by a couple of hours which means no getting lost, no siestas and no chorizo sandwiches. And it’s not just a question of getting back for lunch; I must also be in a decent enough state to eat it.
Mist in June? It'd have them crying in their plates of fried fish down here.
So which is the greatest offence - being late for lunch or sitting at the table but failing to partake heartily? Not that you'll have to worry about that. All you need to do is navigate flawlessly, avoid elongated breaks, and run for about 60% of a massively hilly 66km course - about 6 hours running. Sounds like a piece of filloas...
"Filloas?" ...that's pancakes for me mate!
Whatever, my strategy for this year is centred on being back for lunch.
And with the words “back for lunch” echoing in my head I set off on my first 14kms of the Aquilianos route (training version). My intention was to make only the occasional photo-stop and to run all the hills.
First I headed up past the little church of Otero along a familiar track. A small group of old folk were labouring uphill as if in a belated act of Holy week penitence. The priest was just getting out of his car as I passed and he was fumbling with his papers. I suddenly thought of Father MacKenzie of Eleonor Rigby fame. At least the priest of Otero will have half a dozen to preach to.
As I left the village, the Montes Aquilianos stretched out before me, the last vestiges of snow clinging defiantly to the mountainside. I pushed on upwards with a spring in my stride. Then the first real descent followed, down to the tight little valley behind Monte Pajariel where the River Oza will be my only travelling companion for much of the next 20km. As I tried to mark some sort of rhythm a couple of roe deer flashed out in front of me and I watched as their fluffy white rears disappeared into the distance.
15 minutes later I left the wide forest trail to swing right and cross the river via the Roman bridge of San Esteban, half eaten by ivy and so grassy on top that you hardly realize you’re on a bridge. Now the trail thins to a narrow path which is rocky in places. I must duck frequently to avoid overhanging branches. Every now and then a lizard scuttles away into the undergrowth where poppies, bluebells (or rather, purple-bells), buttercups and tiny snowdrops emblazon the grassy verges with spring time colour.
A short distance before the village of Villanueva I must cross a road and embark upon a stiff climb which in the past I’ve managed to run. Don’t know how, it’s a steady 1 in 4 for much of the way. Today I walked it, stopping to take a couple of photos as Villanueva shrunk into a miniature toy-town behind me. Here you cross from one valley to another in order to be reunited with the River Oza once more, arriving at the village of Valdefrancos, “valley of the Franks”. They say that this village was repopulated in the middle ages by French pilgrims, hence the name. Nowadays it’s a ramshackle but charming rural place where storks nest on the church tower and village folk go about their seasonal duties with huge monster-size scythes. Here ends the first stage. Didn’t have the time or energy to run back home from Valdefrancos. I’d conveniently located my car there earlier.
Approximate distance; 14 kms.
Time taken; 1 hour 33 minutes.
Total ascent; approx. 450m.
Total descent; approx. 300m.
Monday April 24.
Stage Two; Valdefrancos to Montes de Valdueza.
I took advantage of the regional bank holiday of Castilla y León to continue the Aquilianos dress rehearsal. (These Mickey Mouse holidays are what make this country great). Parked the car in front of the church of Valdefrancos. There seemed to be nobody about but smoke drifted upwards from a couple of chimneys. The route to Montes de Valdueza is only 6 or 7 kms but it’s all uphill, unlike yesterday’s stage which had a couple of half decent descents. Just as well it’s short as I’ll have to retrace my steps to get back to the car this time.
The first section continues along the River Oza until San Clemente, a small linear village which is very similar to Valdefrancos. The path is narrow, with dense riverside vegetation and flanked by clusters of primroses. Then there’s a short section of road before a new path heads off amongst the chestnut trees on the right. This is a steep climb which zig-zags upwards until the river becomes a distant murmur on the valley floor. The path is clearly marked by the furrows that centuries of cart transport cut into the rocky floor before the road was eventually built (relatively recently). Soon I’m walking again. The vegetation becomes sparser and consists mainly of scrub and evergreen holm oak. Then a flattish section re-activates my legs and the first houses of Montes de Valdueza appear as spots in the distance. The altitude is now over 1000m which is just about the maximum for villages in El Bierzo.
Montes de Valdueza is a place where you end up asking yourself why anybody should have wanted to live up here in the first place. It’s so isolated and inaccessible. The path which I `d just followed was sometimes barely more than a rocky ledge yet it was once their only link to the outside world. Maybe “they” were hiding from somebody. Before the Moors swept through most of Spain Bierzo already had several monastic communities and hermitages. Little is known about them but Saint Fructuoso supposedly founded the local monastery of San Pedro de Montes as early as the 7th century when what we now call Spain was a Visigoth kingdom. Since then, the monastery has been rebuilt several times and was eventually abandoned in the mid-19th century. If you know where to look you'll find that just one last remnant of Visigoth past has miraculously survived. Just before the village a hermitage stands alone although it looks more like a shack or an abandoned barn. Close inspection will reveal a rare Visigoth stone engraving encrusted below alpha and omega symbols just above the door. This was almost certainly removed from the original location, the monastery of San Pedro in the village a couple of hundred yards away. At least that’s what they tell me. It’s the sort of thing that might have been nicked years ago and sold off at Sotheby’s. But it’s still there, unmarked and forgotten, a reminder of that murky era between Romans and Islam.
It’s hot and I’m thirsty. Time for a quick visit to the village fountain. There’s only one fellow about and he’s working his allotment with the radio on at full blast. It’s all a bit eerie and I feel like I’m intruding. I walk under an arch and alongside the crumbling, roofless old monastery, a melancholic ruin from some pre-raphaelite painting, left sadly to its fate. Wonder if they’ll ever get round to restoring it before it’s too late. A fitting place to end my second stage.
Went back the way I’d come at a more leisurely pace taking photos and running sections of descent. Just outside Valdefrancos I bumped into a wiry old mountain goat trotting along with a couple of sticks. It’s Domingo, one of the Aquilianos hardcore. He’s in his mid-50s and is still a regular top ten finisher. Exchanged pleasantries but he’s in a hurry. They’re out training on the hills already….
Approx. distance; 7 kms.
Time taken; 49 minutes.
Total ascent; 380m
Total descent; hardly any.
I'll try and do stage 3 and 4 together tomorrow. I’m running shorter distances comfortably at the moment but I’m a bit worried about my stamina. Now I’ve never been one for too many long training runs. About two hours is my limit. But that gap has previously been filled by cycling and challenging all day walks. Of course since little Lara was born all that has rightly gone out of the window. So on Sunday morning I’m going to set off early and join the next two stages together, the second one being the terrifying climb up “the Mare’s Saddle”, a mare indeed….this will count as “a long one” coz I’ll have to make my own way back again. The logistics of all this are becoming increasingly complicated. Oh, and I promised to be back well before lunch!
The photos show that it’s a long way up. Maybe it’ll get Albion’s (inevitable) relegation out of my system.
This stuff really makes me yearn for Spain. There is a seventh century Visigothic chapel on the hill crest above Quintaniila de las Vinas (Little Farm of the Vines), near Campolara (Lara's field) in SE Burgos, where I used to sit for lunch sometimes whilst out on fieldwork. It's not that far from Pinilla de los Moros (Pine sapling of the Moors), telling of Islamic settlement in the region, as you recount.
The chapel at Quintanilla is quite well-known since it's visible for miles around, and I'm sure I could find you pictures and links. But then my coffee would go cold before I've made much headway through the Sunday Independent. And I digress.
There was a pair of German students working out in Salas de los Infantes a year or so before me. They both had reasons to remember their trip. Firstly Jochen fell I love with, and later married, Marissa from Calle de Palacio (Palace Street), where I used to stay. He lives in Bochum where he is an accomplished semi-professional drummer (presumably all that training with geological hammers over the years came in more than handy). They still go back and Jochen has links with the local dinosaur museum in Salas.
Stig, meanwhile, was less than half as lucky. When they crashed their car and drove into the stream (at Mambrillas de Lara - Lara's little bosoms - as it happens) it was Stig who emerged with the broken elbow. A frantic and painful scramble to the bar beside the main Soria road ensued, to beg a lift for the one hour journey to the nearest hospital in Burgos.
The distance and time from medical help can be quite an issue in rural Spain, as I'm sure you know. It was a thought which often crossed my mind whilst hammering an outcrop with one hand and holding onto a flimsy bush with the other whilst atop an unwisely-attempted scree slope.
So, back to the Visigothic chapel. There we were, having our bocadillo and Kas de naranja, when my mate Nic decides it's time to chill out a bit. He legs it all the way down the hill to the car and back to fetch his acoustic guitar and three San Miguels from the coldbox.
He returns, puffing heavily, but manages to strum out a fair rendition of 'American Pie' which was his virtuoso piece at the time.
After the first verse is complete, Jochen holds up his hand, reaching deep into some secret pocket in his black leather trousers (quite the hippest geological field gear I've ever seen) for his Rizlas and stash of canutos.
'Hier, you guys, vait ein minute', he says, smiling broadly under his knotted bandana, 'You vant some Schpliff now ?'.
It developed into a very mellow session in a memorable setting. 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).
The memory of that afternoon sits alongside me now. Since whilst I didn't take up Jochen's offer then, I did buy Nic's battered old acoustic a month or so later, and still play it to this day. It's not a great guitar, and I'm still not much good, but we've been places together.
Hope you enjoyed your double stage today. I suspect tough training like that would make the massive 'climb' up to Westminster Bridge look rather less than challenging.
Right then, back to the Sindie. Bad luck, The Baggies. And John Prescott did what, exactly ? No, I just can't believe it ...
Thanks for that information Nigel . Didn't know about the chapel at Quintanilla de las Viñas, nor of any other that had survived in one piece from Visigoth times.
As for Saint Fructuoso, a similar thing happened to me. There's a fellow from the village who chases after anyone who wanders into the monastery and charges them a euro. He's really pissed off because Peñalba, the next village, has a Mozarabe church which attracts loads more attention and cash. He's not actually authorized to charge this money but does so anyway saying that it's to restore the church which is connected to the monastery (and he charges you if you wander in here too!) Well, he was the fellow I'd mentioned who was working in his allotment. The other day I avoided him (he's a gumpy old sod) but on a previous visit I tried to get my euro's worth by asking a few questions. I'd asked about the monastic order of San Pedro de Montes and he told me they were Fructuoso monks. Naturally I translated this as "fruity monks". No wonder they closed the place down.
And as for Bob Dylan, I was never into him either although my other half is a fan.
And as for stage 3 and 4....I dutifully completed them this morning. Too knackered to even think about writing it up. Will do so during the week. Buenas noches.
So far I’ve covered some 21 kms and have walked only 2 of them although all has been more or less runnable. Not so for stages 3 and 4 which depend more on walking ability than running ability. The ascent of “the Mare’s Seat” in stage 4 (about 2150m and the highest point of the Aquilianos) is purely a test of being able to walk uphill for two hours. And it’s quite a hill. You can see the way up half way through stage 3 but it is best not to look.
An early start and a short drive up to Montes de Valdueza along a mountain road that twists and turns relentlessly. They’ve recently put up crash barriers along some of the more dangerous sections but last time I passed this way it looked frighteningly easy to go over the edge. After about 40 minutes I pulled into a completely empty car park just before the monastery and set off, this time with a smallish rucksack. This is the point where long and short routes part company and for those tackling the high Aquilianos peaks a rucksack with a minimum of equipment is obligatory (water, raingear, etc..).
Stage 3 crosses from Montes via the Carballal pass (a shade under 1300m) and then down to its sister village, Peñalba. Never have two siblings been so ill matched. Both are owners of 2 emblems of the Bierzo region and both emblems contain the alpha and the omega symbols. There the similarity ends. The Visigoth stone of San Pedro de Montes I saw in the previous stage. It’s stuck awkwardly like some misplaced jigsaw piece into a tumbledown shack that nobody can find. The golden cross of Peñalba in contrast I won’t see today. It’s in the Louvre in Paris! More contrasts. Montes is semi-abandoned with muddy unpaved streets and only recently installed lighting. As I passed through this morning there were kid’s toys scattered about one of the main streets as if playtime was only momentarily interrupted by nightfall. Its prize exhibit, the monastery, is a mighty ruinous landmark that nobody knows what to do with. 6 kms away the church of Peñalba (itself once part of a monastery of “fruity” monks) is the jewel in the crown of Mozarabe culture in northern Spain.
And who were the Mozarabes I hear you ask? This is a subject of vigorous historical debate. Glorified Visigoths some may say but they are believed to be Christians who came from Moorish occupied territories and who brought with them Arabesque architectural styles such as the perfectly preserved horseshoe arches of the church of Santiago in Peñalba (see photo). Recent restoration work has uncovered millennium old wall paintings similar to those of the mosque of Cordoba and each year more tourists descend upon the isolated little village to visit the Mozarabe church. Subsequently Peñalba is tidily kept, perfectly paved and most of the houses are lovingly restored, several being let out as holiday cottages. And all in stark contrast to its sister village on the other side of the hill. No wonder the self appointed guardian of the monastery is pissed off.
The route commences. Leave Montes and push on upwards through a chestnut grove with monster sized tree trunks. Soon I reach a rocky outcrop which is crowned by a crude wooden cross. This is the site of Castro Rupiano. A castro is an ancient hill-fort and they are extremely common in “Celtic” areas such as Galicia but Bierzo is also full of them. So now you know that the president of Cuba is in fact “Fidel hill-fort” (the surname comes from his Galician grandparents).
A flat section follows from where, towering 1000 metres above me, the glacial circle of the Aquilianos is clearly visible rimmed with snow. I feel a shiver of excitement. And fear. Crossed the bubbling stream which I’d forgotten to cross in the year 2000 event and then faced the steepest climb of the route so far and a taste of things to come. Marched up as briskly as I could but I’m out of practise and stop a couple of times to enjoy the views. A rich green meadow marks the top of the pass. Here the turf has been violently excavated in places where wild boars have dug for roots.
Peñalba was visible from the pass, its slate roofs tightly packed around the bell-tower of the Mozarabe church. The village blends in chameleon like with its landscape. Some have compared the texture of its litchen covered slate roofs with the skin of a reptile (although today many of these roofs are brand new, a sign of growing prosperity).
The descent is more gradual and I can run again but cautiously as the vegetation is deep in places and it’s difficult to see where to put your feet. Zig-zag downwards through woods where the birds and the rumbling River Oza in the distance provide a musical accompaniment more powerful than any i-pod soundtrack. Ironically I next cross the Valley of Silence where a reclusive “fruity” monk called Saint Genadio once lived in his cave in splendid isolation.
Arrived in the village at 9:30. I’ve been walking/ running for exactly one hour. The mare’s seat awaits me menacingly.
Approx. distance; 6 kms (ran less than half of that).
Time taken; 60 minutes.
Total ascent; 325m.
Total descent; 250m.
Thanks again for all the info. Id already trawled the net for stuff about Quintanilla de las Vinas but the last link you gave me explains the historical context (visigothic, mozarabic and asturian) in terms that even a Bierzo Baggie can understand. Ta! Its definitely worth a visit if ever Im in the area.
Stage 4; Peñalba to La Silla de la Yegua (2150m)
Sunday April 30 (part two).
From now onwards there’ll be no more potted village histories. No more Frankish valleys, Visigoth stones and Mozarabic arches. Only sweat and strain. From Peñalba upwards it is nature in its purest form. And it ain’t pretty. It’s raw. We are talking rocks and scrub and gorse and big sweeping landscapes along with a sense of space and of freedom and of overwhelming individual smallness. Let the show begin.
The first km was runnable along the path that eventually leads to Saint Genadio’s hidey hole. Then an unmarked trail leads off to the left and soon it’s brutally steep. No messing about with zig-zags here, the gradient is constant. There’s no need to use your hands but in places it can be a scramble if you are in a hurry. Although there’s no distinguishable path for most of the climb the route is well marked this year with red sticks, arrows painted on rocks and piles of stones (hitos). No excuse for getting lost then, not even in the mist.
And walking uphill is not just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. There are varying techniques. Some involve an unbroken energy saving plod from bottom to top. My method is one of short fast bursts interspersed with brief respites. I don’t know which is more effective.
Had originally intended to keep the camera in my rucksack but the temptation proved too great once I’d stopped for a breather. Looking back towards Peñalba I saw the mighty limestone cleft in the shape of a V that I’d just walked through. It was a good excuse for the first of several rests.
Up to now I’d drunk very little and as my energy level sapped it was hunger that affected me most. Cue my secret weapon, a bag of figs, strategically placed in my rucksack for the second half of the climb.
It now became progressively rockier but easier to find a less vertical route up the scree. Struggled on, head down, heart pumping away like Thomas the tank engine on speed. Sand lizards scuttled in my wake and at one point I saw a glistening silver snake scuttling sideways. It was probably some sort of viper and I gave it a wide berth. Small songbirds hid in the gorse bushes. The first patches of snow prompted more photos. Began to suspect that walking uphill for too long may produce mild hallucinatory effects. At one point I’m sure I saw a white horse (it turned out to be a rock) and then I could hear a river bubbling away behind me (it was my water bottle in the rucksack).
Passed alongside a series of snow-traps where amazingly the snow was still over a metre thick. In one place there were pint sized wild daffodils where the snow had melted. It’s a weird sort of climate up here. Struggled on ever upwards until I finally came over a ridge and one very ugly anti-climax of a summit reared up in front of me. But by now I’m not bothered about picturesque.
If in a marathon there’s a feeling of unbridled elation on crossing the finish line, in this event you get that feeling just under half way on crowning “the Mare’s Seat”. The temptation is to call it a day here and many do. If the weather is bad. skinny roadrunners in shorts and vest may show signs of hyperthermia. But it’s worth hanging in there. Things can only get better.
Today it’s sunny but there’s still a chill wind up top and I limit my stay to 15 minutes. Time enough to change my t-shirt, eat more figs and get my bearings. It’s 11:15. It has taken me 2 hours 45 minutes from Montes to “La Silla” and I haven’t seen a single person. Having covered between 10 and 11 kms I reckon I’ve averaged 16 and a half minutes for each one!
Prefer to hang around the “alternative” summit which is a pile of stones overlooking the wide valley of Lower Bierzo and with the other peaks of the Aquilianos stretching away to the west. But that is for the next stage. The romanticism of the “real” summit about 50 yards away is spoilt by a couple of antennas and a concrete hut with solar panels on top and graffiti in the Galician language. Circling the hut I read “Cabeça de egua teito de Galiza” (the mare’s head is the head of Galicia) and also “We’ll never be Spain”. For some galicians, Bierzo is the 5th province of the Galician nation. But these dopey nationalists have managed to get the name of the mountain wrong.
Climbing “La Silla de la Yegua” (stage 4 only)
Approx. distance; 5kms (ran only the first).
Time taken; 1 hour 45 minutes.
Total ascent; 1050m.
Total descent; fat zero.
Of course, I had to get back to the car which would double the distance of the two stages. Eventually I found a slightly different return route which involved a section of road and a brief encounter with a boar. But that’s another story. Felt confident descending and was back at the car for 1:30.
It all added up to a 4 hour 30 minutes half marathon!
What a fantastic run that is. If we weren't so skint I'd come up there and try and run it.
Nor have I forgotten all the fine mountain races you suggested last year, which will have to be put off till next year...
Of course, it makes me wonder why there are no similar races (if that's the word) in the Sierra Nevada. Actually I probably know the answer to that already.. Anyway, all I need to do is get off my culo - the hills aren't going anywhere.
Stage 5; Sunday May 7, The Mare’s Seat to La Guiana peak.
What goes up must come down. But not yet. The next 10 kms is a roller coaster ride up and down the three other mountainous peaks which form the Aquilianos range after the Silla de la Yegua. They stretch out in a north westerly direction and eventually peter out into a succession of limestone crags. Looking to the left of the crest the gradients seem gentler and give the appearance of giant hills rather than mountains. To the right the ice age monsters of the Würm period have bitten out great hungry chunks and glacially moulded valleys drop down to Peñalba and Montes. Don’t ask me how! Ask a geologist.
But first I have to get to the starting point of this, the fifth stage. This is an odyssey in itself. I drove up the lonely road of Morredero (a place to die) to the mini-ski station which I hadn’t reached on my bike in February. As I took the last hairpin I found myself thinking back to the early autumn of 97 when a much younger Roberto Heras (later Lance Armstrong’s wingman at US Postal) won his first major stage here in the Vuelta. I watched him shoot past at this very point followed by a procession of ashen faced (dope-fuelled?) supermen, eyes fixed ahead like zombies. Heras tested positive last year after winning his fourth Vuelta de España and is now in disgrace. Like so many others.
Park the car and feel a cold wind as I get out. There’s a fine layer of frost on the wooden veranda of the ski clubhouse. I put on gloves and a kagool. Only the presence of wild daffodils where the snow has recently melted reminds you that it’s spring.
From the ski station I trudge up the Silla de la Yegua yet again, this time underneath the solitary teleski, a second hand cast off from the Sierra Nevada station in Granada. And finally, one and a half hours after setting out from home, I’m sitting on the mare’s saddle, the finishing point of stage 4 and I’m ready to gallop.
An ocean of mist is sweeping across ominously from the north and the peaks that I must head for are obscured. No worries. I know this stretch like the back of my hand. Stumble down the steep, slate littered descent following a recently formed but already well trodden little path and then headed back upwards past Pico Berdianas and then in the supposed direction of Pico Tuerto, “the one-eyed peak”. Couldn’t see much though and on glancing behind me at one point I suddenly saw the old one eye squinting at me through a misty shroud. I’d missed him! Turned around and climbed up to the cross which marks the summit. Then hurried on in the direction of La Guiana, the last decent peak of the Aquilianos route before the long and painful descent to Ponferrada.
The visibility gradually got worse but the route is easier to follow than it used to be, it’s well trodden in places and there are still red markers dotted about from last year’s event. Oh, and as I said, I know these mountains like the back of my hand. In fact I know every goddam stone personally. I even know every soddin’ gorse bush! And my navigation skills have improved over the years..GPS! who needs it? Ha! And….hey, those rocks up there don’t seem too familiar, err…”WHERE THE #### AM I !?”
The mist cleared momentarily and a mass of slatey grey rock loomed up in front of me, crowned by a horribly familiar antenna. It dawned on me that I’d somehow turned 180º and gone back the way I’d originally come. Fumbled about for a compass to confirm what I suspected. I’m at the base of the Mare’s Seat where I’d started this stage over an hour ago. Then I checked the back of my hand. Wow! Never realized it was so hairy!
What a lousy navigator I am. Having a long standing appreciation of quality comics I’ve come to the conclusion that each week I try to impersonate a character from Viz. Last week after polishing off a bag of figs half-way up the Mare’s seat I was Johnny Fartpants. Today I’ve converted into Terry Fuckwit. Hope there’s somebody close enough to follow in 4 weeks time. Couldn’t be arsed to climb Pico One Eye again and risk getting lost forever. Will come back next week when hopefully I’ll be able to see where I’m going.
Stage 5.1
Approx. distance; 3 kms
Time taken; 28 minutes.
Total ascent; 225 m
Total descent; 300 m
All that hassle to cover 3 measly kilometres of the Aquilianos route. And did I produce anything that resembled a run? Well, here the dividing line between “run” and “walk” becomes blurred. Who decides? Is there a technical definition stashed away in a manual somewhere? Most of the time it feels more like a brisk walk, with occasional spasms of a certain running inclination on the descents. But a purist wouldn’t call it running and I’m glad nobody was around to see me. I get a bit self conscious you see (“daddy, why’s that strange man running like he’s on fire?”
It wasn’t a complete waste of time though. The total route from where I left the car and back probably topped 12 kms and that’s with about 900m of ascent, so it was all good training even if I didn’t finish the stage as intended.
This is rapidly becoming my favourite place to visit on the forum.
Despite your obvious knowledge of the route this is still some adventure, BB.
But if ever I do join you for an extended mountain plod in this wonderland, I'll pass on the figs, thanks
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Maybe those guys behind Heras way back then were ashen faced because Bobbie/bobo was fuelled by figs. They're on the IOC banned list because they destroy the brain cells related to navigating on mountains.
On that note Johnb permit me to direct you to an anti-fig web site where you may, if you wish, converse with fellow fig haters...http://www.godhatesfigs.com :p
Travesía Integral de los Montes Aquiianos
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