Now that it is getting cooler I’m wondering why I missed out on walking. It may seem like midsummer madness but you can hike right through July and August. You can’t just head out the door and up the nearest peak at midday – not without serious risk of sun-stroke anyway, but if you could you would miss most of the wildlife, which tends to adapt, using dawn and dusk more and midday less. Walkers adapt too.
I think I first walked the goat path with Janet and David back in 2003, possibly the first time they visited Cómpeta. I had walked with them hundreds of times in the Lake District and Scotland but never before in Spain. Another couple of grasshoppers who liked hopping about hills and wild places, both were terrific walkers. Both loved wildlife: Janet was especially keen on birds and flowers. The April day I’m thinking of was beautiful – we saw violet-winged carpenter bees feeding on the Jerusalem sage’s pink blooms under the old olive trees. David and Janet were tickled when we meet goats on the goat path (how unlikely!) and, though they had no Spanish, enjoyed saying hello through me to Antonio, the goat herd. If I remember rightly when we got to Canillas we found a bar, drowned our tapas in wine, and staggered merrily out for a taxi to get back to Cómpeta quoting a walking song to each other:
“Before the Romans came to Rye or out to Severn strode The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road…”
Went back to Sedella this week for another stroll above the village. Fascinated to see a Booted Eagle being attacked, repeatedly a common kestrel. This went on for a good 5 minutes or more with both birds flying right across the sky. This is probably territorial defence – the kestrel doesn’t want a big competitor clearing the area of prey – which sounds very sensible, but was shocking to see – the tiny attacking hurtling in at a much larger bird.
Lovely flowers in abundance too, especially Spotted Rock-Rose and fields full of Umbrella Milkwort. There were also agave cactus putting up flower spikes at about 15 at this stage with more to go, beautiful big Broom, Mallow-leaved Bindweed, Creeping Jenny, Purple Viper’s Bugloss, Wild Artichokes and much more!
There were bugs and butterflies too, including dozens more Owly Sulphers – only seen these near Sedella. I caught a couple again: the singles don’t stay still for long enough! But nothing topped the aerial display at the end of the walk!
I must add a thanks for your company to Mychaela, Pauline, Keith and especially Sybil.
The first day was on the silk route, so called because it is one of two routes to the Puerto de Cómpeta – the pass between Sierra Almijara and Sierra Tejada into Granada province. The silk industry flourished in Al-Andalus from the 9th century and the Axarquía has a climate ideal for mulberry trees, so silkworm coccoons (and many other things) were traded using this route and Granada silk was brought back for export from Torrox, the closest harbour.
This walk, open with views all the way down to the coast (where you can glimpse Torrox Costa), also gives you stunning views of the dramatic Sierra Almijara. In May the scene is splashed with the bright yellow of Spanish Broom, spilling down the hillside. And beside the path, everywhere you looked there were flowers.
I was interested to see the difference, between two types of Jerusalem Sage . I rarely see the yellow ‘Wooly’ Jerusalem Sage, while the purple variety is everywhere. Nice to see the latter’s furry visitor, too.
One of the other walkers spotted this young pinecone thistle too, a curious looking item but very distinctive.
We walked to the Venta Pradillos, which was once a fair sized Inn, with it’s own terraces, spring, stabling and threshing circle. Sadly, in the 40s the Civil Guard, in an effort to quash the last resistance to Franco, closed it and took the roof off to make it unusable, but it is in the most beautiful spot imaginable. You can just see it here among the pines. It makes a wonderful spot for a picnic.
That, in fact, seemed to be something everyone agreed on. As we headed back we were met by a couple of Spaniards, then a small party of British walkers, then a large party of very friendly Irish walkers and finally a Danish family (the girl was afraid of our gentle but friendly dog) – all coming the other way and heading for the venta. I felt rather smug that we had got there first!
I generally prefer circular walks but there are advantages to a linear walk in a landscape this dramatic. The reverse view can be surprisingly different. Coming back the rocky outcrop of the Atalaya rose above us.
I pointed out that Atalaya looks like a planetary land turtle, that has swum up from the molten core all the way through the outer layers of rock and soil to take a quick gulp of air at the surface. You can even see the lower jaw. Imagine my surprise when other walkers thought it looked more like a camel, or even an owl. It’s quite obvious to me that it is a turtle (I am typing this after a couple of glasses of wine, though).
The most exciting wildlife on the walk was only seen by a few of our us. Neil spotted Ibex running up a slope – probably to get away from Sybil, the lovely dog we had with us. They blend in so well that we wouldn’t have seen them unless they were running, so Sybil did us a favour.
That said we did see a wolf. Well… I saw a hole beside the footpath with a little network of needles and stones around the entrance. Easy to overlook, but I had seen this before. I teased a pine-needle into the doorway a little and was rewarded, by the home-maker’s brief appearance: a wolf spider. Is a wolf spider more exciting than ibex?
These are impressive spiders and can be quite big, so I was all the more surprised to say hello to another, smaller specimen, the following day near Sedella. Perhaps a male (they’re smaller) looking for a mate.
That was another fabulous walk. We took a turn around the town (Sedella is very attractive) before heading up to the old Mill, where you can see system for milling with water from the open water tank at the back to the channelling system for bringing it in and the old grind stones within the building itself. We strolled up from here to where the track splits beside a building for water purification, with the sensible party heading off to the picnic site and the rest of us heading over to the old hide where we looked out on what had been the vulture sanctuary and, as usual, saw no birds.
Wonderful flowers though. I was pleased to see both Spotted Rock Rose and Umbrella Milkwort, which someone had once i.d. for me the wrong way round causing me great confusion.
Then we went to the picnic site and re-joined the others. There’s one vulture there who is reliably available and readily posed for photographs.
Sadly the site has been paved, which is probably good for access but for my taste diminishes it: I liked the wooden tables and benches under the pines, with pine-needles underfoot. These are on the way out – the benches are mostly rotten – which seems a pity. Still, perched on a wobbly bench, eating our sandwiches, we watched a pair of eagles floating across the valley with great delight. A couple of us saw Sardinian Warblers and we all saw Serins and Goldfinches, but the eagles were the stars of the day.
I was a bit cautious giving i.d.s because (I hate to say this) I hadn’t taken my binoculars (Ow! just kicked myself). Also on the silk route Maddy and Neil told me they’d seen 5 eagles (five!) eagles the day before – they were two pairs of Short-toed (Snake) Eagles, and then a fifth later on. Again they were told Short-toed, but were surprised: the bird seemed smaller and had a very clear white body and wings with an outer rim of black. Now, I know how very easy it is to reach for your first gut-instinct i.d. (especially something you have just seen) without thinking and then be embarrassed by a mistake – I’ve done it myself – but this sounds very much like a Booted Eagle to me. Size usually gives it – Snake Eagles head up towards a 6 foot wingspan; even Booted females aren’t much more than 4 foot. But having confirmed this on one day I didn’t want to get something wrong on the next.
The first eagle we saw while walking: a seriously big bird. I didn’t think it was as big as an adult Golden (around 7 foot wingspan!); I thought this was probably another Snake Eagle was best guess on balance of probability. But the two eagles that played out for us by the picnic ground for some 20 minutes seemed to me to be smaller – definitely bigger than the petite Booted, but not convincing me as Snake Eagles unless they were juveniles. The only bird that I have seen in the area that fits this would be a Bonneli’s Eagle – certainly a possibility. But I have to say, at that distance without binoculars, an educated guess is all you do.
Full of picnic we went down to the main road on the zigzag path. At one point there are hives on a sidetrack and someone had dangerously put one up on the main track (not heard of anaphylactic shock?). But mostly I enjoyed saying hello to lots of small pollinators, not to mention butterflies and crickets. The best of all were new to me – a gorgeous pair of antlion relatives with the lovely name of Owly Sulphurs. What better way to finish a wilding walk?
La Maroma is my constant backdrop. The edge of the Axarquia includes the intersection of two mountain ranges The easterly range is the Sierra Almijara with its spiky peaks and steep valleys. This range is rising due to tectonic plate pressure from the south. Then there is the Sierra Tejada, a limestone range of mountains thrust up ages upon ages ago from the sea-floor – rocks formed deep below the waves now rise up to make long whale-backed ridges. This range is, milimetre by milimetre, losing height but is the higher of the two. The biggest mountain in it is Maroma, a great ridge of stone above the high green hills, with it’s south side, our side, patterned with dramatic cliffs. It’s highest point is at the western end, 2,068m high.
I’ve climbed it before, coming from Canillas de Aceituno and enduring a steep climb and bitterly cold strong winds. Exciting but exhausting. So when a visiting friend said, emphatically, that he wanted to do Maroma and nothing else would do, I decided to come from the other side, going from Fogarate, working up to the high meadows at about 1100m, then tackling the main ridge east to west.
We set out early on a beautiful day: bright and clear and the six of us were buzzing to be off. We saw the black-and-white swirl of hoopoes’ wings in the pine woods on the forest path, which zigzags, deeply rutted, steeply uphill, and opens now and again to glorious views.
On the high meadows there’s a small herd of feral horses – friends have seen them on Maroma itself – but they weren’t interested in us. They lifted their heads, stared, snorted and turned their backs. This big green field, the end of the long grassy ridge that rises from the pine forest, felt like Base Camp.
Looking to the south west I could see the land on the other side of Lake La Viñuela, with specks of the villages – Comares, Cútar, Benomacarra. On the other side I noticed the round humped cushions of Hedgehog Broom, looking attractively soft and comfortable.
They are quite the opposite. A friend told me they are known as Monk’s Cushion because it’s a penance to sit on them: the stiff leaves make rigid sharp spikes.
But Hedgehog Broom also sums it up. Its prickly hummocks swell out of the rocks all over the mountain. In full bloom they are a gorgeous lilac blue making up for the brutal spikes around the flowers. Beautiful. Provided that you don’t sit on them, of course.
Now we were off. The rocky path to a bleaker landscape was before us. With little plant cover, extremes of weather and a trail leading through and over outcrops of weathered rock the landscape is immensely dramatic and a touch bleak. It couldn’t have been more beautiful.
I loved the swirling lines you see sweeping across the ridge, made I guess by fault lines in the rock affecting the pattern of plant growth.
Drought dominates the plants here: although this mountain catches every cloud much rainfall sinks through the rock or runs off. And in summer there are months without rainfall and, even up here, baking temperatures. So the norm is small plants and small-leaved plants, often protecting themselves from grazers with spines and spikes, such as the brooms, thistles and gorse. The only trees are are pines.
However, we passed a stone water trough, which must be filled by a local spring, the water dribbling out and down a little narrow gully. In this tiny narrow spot, and here only, there were water loving plants like rhodedendron, brambles, hellibore and the like.
The trough may once have been a watering point for mules brought to collect ice from the mountain – it was packed into a well or caves in winter and hacked out in summer by men who descended on ropes of woven grass called ‘maroma’ – that’s where the name came from, or so I am told. There would have been quite a market for ice in the summer! It must have been tough work and the race against the inevitable melting of the ice frustrating or dangerous but for centuries ice in Malaga’s summer would be water in the desert and worth the effort.
The views on this day were superb. We were lucky: it was not (quite) too hot and since heat makes everything hazy we were delighted – stunning views of a glorious landscape all around. As we worked up onto the saddle (the low dip at the eastern end of the stony ridge) we could see right across the plain of Granada, with a glimpse or two of the blue surface of Los Bermejales, the reservoir,
and far beyond were mountains with clouds at their feet, the snow-capped Sierra Nevada among them. Looking back to the south east I could see the dramatic outline of our own Sierra Almijara, spiky marble peaks vying with each other, their colours shaded subtly from black to grey to blue.
Neil who is an artist would stop to paint the view in his sketch book at the drop of a walking stick. He has done this in the Alps and Nepal and astonished me by the speed with which he could capture the scene before us.
The path headed down to the north, just enough to dip towards the pine woods growing up the slope. These woods are growing far higher than they do on the exposed south side, but may exist partially due to planting: we passed fenced areas filled with what looked like tree guards, though there weren’t any seedlings. Perhaps our very dry spring has lead to a failed planting.
As we came up away from the pines we heard red-billed choughs calling and saw a pair. We kept hearing them now and again while we were on the ridge and above the cliffs saw a small flock dipping and floating in the void. I also saw a couple of larks, probably Thekla larks and, right on the summit, a wheatear. Otherwise birds seemed rather absent – the constant twitter of little flocks of goldfinches or siskins that you hear on the lower slopes was missing.
The most dramatic point of the ridge is not the summit itself but the point at which the path comes close to the south-side cliffs. It is not difficult – basic common sense will keep you safe – but you see instantly why the mountain top could be a dangerous place in bad weather.
There was still a way to go to the summit from the cliffs, though. I tried not to stop too often to hunt shots of lizards and flowers to avoid being left far behind and needing to jog to keep up. It is the burden of the wilding geek – to do the very best long walks in good company sometimes you have to put the camera away. This was especially important as we were beginning to see other walkers on the trail. In fact, due to a short rest near the cliffs (with me taking photographs, Neil painting and sensible people have a snack) we were – horror of horrors – overtaken. Some walkers are like storm troopers, but you don’t see the views or the wildlife. So, no sour grapes at all, then, when I say “I bet the walkers who beat us didn’t enjoy it as much as us!”
Finally we reached the summit. I’ve previously said it is like the surface of the moon to indicate a dramatic, broad, barren landscape. It was magnificent but felt, in the hot sunshine, less isolated than in that windswept November. There are shallow stone rings, likely where people put tents up on midsummer’s eve (yes, really, people come up to spend the shortest night up here) and we took one over to picnic. There is a sign to indicate the presence of the snow-gatherers’ well (a hole in the ground) and a great pillar as Trig. Point, with a couple of plaques cemented to it in memory of deceased walkers and with steel rungs on the side by which it can be climbed. This inevitably means that a queue of walkers head up and down for photos and views. It was a pity that by this time the heat had drawn up more of a haze and faint skeins of cloud were gently drifting over.
I don’t judge the people climbing the pillar (in fact I climbed it myself) or taking selfies or asking for group shots. The cameraderie you get in a gang of walkers who’ve done a tough walk to this fabulous summit – perhaps a once-in-a-lifetime event – merits celebration. We gathered for our own grinning group shot but it was on Jon’s camera so I can’t post it here.
After lunch it was time to head back; we did the walk as a linear jaunt, but on the second leg we were very much relaxed and glad we had been earlier rather than the herds of walkers now heading up (probably no more than a dozen, but still). We enjoyed another brief sojourn at the cliff edges. I am not a climber and am fairly cautious but am deeply grateful I don’t suffer from vertijo, which could stop me enjoying scenes like these.
In addition to more choughs, lizards, and lots of tiny flowers on the way back I especially enjoyed finding a fellow grasshopper, (orange, with a ridged pronotum) attempting to hide in asphodel leaves. I have yet to i.d. it. But you know me, I love a challenge.
And then we were down and heading, with aching feet, weary muscles, and a touch of sunburn, for a few beers at El Curros in Árchez. It was generally agreed to have been a brilliant day: good walking, great views, good company. Special thanks to Steve Gilkes, and everyone else. Next time you want to do a mountain, Jon, just give me a shout!
Yes, it’s official, I’m a fool for April. More than any other month seems the perfect blend of warmer weather with an abundance of life driven by the kind rains in spring. This is a problem: I want to do everything – all my favourite day-long hikes. As for most people, that’s not fully practical, because of lack of time. What’s more, all the wilding can mean very slow progress: more time crouched over flowers but or aiming binoculars at the bushes. But at least April merits paying attention: a very short walk can be well worth it.
So, April Fool’s Day and an errand to run to the Finca Cerrillo. This just means heading down the zigzag mule path past Pepe’s smelly goatshed, crossing the Puente Romano and zigzagging up the other side. Barely worth the mention but for two things. I took a youngster with me who was immensely enthusiastic over wilding. And I took my camera of course.
Children are surprisingly good at hiking. They are usually carrying less weight, in terms of both packs and body, so all day walks are fine as long as they don’t get bored. Wilding is more of a challenge. Neither silence nor stillness are common habits among the nymphs, which is especially frustrating in terms of birding. Even eagerness can be a limitation: the urge to trap, poke, or pick up can be so destructive. Still, I took the nymph, code name is Sporty, along with me. I found I was expected to know the name and nature of every green thing within a 5 mile radius, which stretched my ability to hop blithely over gaps in my knowledge. That and the requirement to look out for Dangerous Wild Animals was a little outside my normal wilding walk.
It was pretty good. I was pleased to find that every blossom elicited a scream of delight and a multitude of questions. I was also impressed that, when I pointed out an RnB bug with the point of my stick, I was told very sternly not to touch, hurt or upset the ‘beetle’.
This wise philosophy didn’t entirely hold my companion back from, say, trying to catch a butterfly, but the thought was there.
What else did we see? Well, start as you mean to go on and point out that cracks in the town paving sprout lovely flowers if allowed to do so. Ivy-leaved toadflax is a med. native, and though it was so familiar from the brickwalls of my childhood close up it does have an exotic look.
Nettle-leaved figwort, near the nettle-patch below the goats’ shed provided a good chance to explain how the plant is bluffing that it might sting without having to go to the trouble of getting the weapons. Sporty tenderly told the plant it was safe from predation from us. We also saw some very lovely thistles, whose flowers are so often overlooked, before getting down to the road and the Roman bridge. The lovely dramatic sound of the rushing water fills the air; the bank is astonishingly rich with life; the giant cane bursts upwards, metres into the air, the brambles lace the banks, the tiniest flowers star every loose rock.
There were pretty bunches of three-cornered leeks on the bank scenting the air with garlic, and a couple of big fig trees growing up past the bridge from the riverside, laden with fruitbuds and bright leaves.
I thought some of the smallest plants, seen on the rocks on the stony path up, such as stonecrops, which can make a start in any sliver of soil, or the strange but beautiful patterns of lichens, were good to look at. The nymph was perhaps a bit more impressed by pretty flowers, but I can’t blame her. Many an adult overlooks the attractions of purple clover or pink catchfly by people used to enormous and handsome but unnatural flowers seen in shops and garden centres: I hope the nymph will keep using her eyes.
I reached the Finca, which always looks stunning, and popped in to say hello to David, Christine and Gordon and do my errand (Thanks, all). On the way out I was thrilled to see a hoopoe fly up to perch high on the lovely poplar trees near the gates. I couldn’t get a recognisable shot – it chose its branches too well and I missed its fan-winged flight. But they are one of those birds that put a smiley face on the day, a pleasure to see.
Back down to the river and we took a look at the plants beside it: great thick oleander bushes, huge clumps of giant cane, and willow bushes covered in spring catkins. There were horsetails growing into the water looking suitably medieval (see my horsetail blog) – I can’t believe I used to think they weren’t common here! I must have had my eyes closed!
With a little help from a friend (thanks, Jill) I pinned down this lovely vetch as Vicia lutea subsp lutea. I love that my shot captures the wildlife on it, tiny as they are, a reminder that its part of a complex network of life, not just a single flower.
That was it. It was time to go. Sporty looked for, but failed to find any frogs, then we headed back to the bridge. I had pointed out earlier how you could see the light shine on specks of insects afloat in the air over the stream and that there were birds flying out of the bushes to catch them (yellow wagtails and a swallow or two) but not they seemed to have disappeared. Then we heard a high cry, kee-kee-kee, from above. The kestrel flew in to perch on the sand-coloured cliffs above the Puente Romano. She flew and called, perched, and flew again. I didn’t see a partner but I wondered who she was calling to: perhaps they are thinking of nesting. Not a bad spot. I was very happy with her – she was settled enough to let Sporty look at her through the binoculars, watch her fly, hear her call. Not a bad start to a birding career, I hope! And the nymph seemed happy: she shrieked for joy. Another April fool.
If you follow the blog and have read Pratfall you will know I had a disastrous slip into a rockpool and thought the sea had done for my camera. I’m delighted to tell you that the camera, following careful convalescence, seems to be recovering well. So here are the rescued photos to enjoy.
Beautiful evening at Algarrobo costa. Low tide. Some kids out at the end of the jetty tempted me to go have a look.
I never knew that sea urchins come in different colours. Hunting in rockpools off the Scottish coast I was more used to seeing the empty shells than the living creatures. Beautiful, aren’t they? Some kids told me that the black urchin is venemous and the other not. I said they were ‘increíble’.
Then there were the anemones. More familiar from my childhood. They look magnificent but so different in and out of the water.
And limpets, another old friend – I believe some species when they find a good place to settle down eat their brains, which they have no further use for. I’ve known a lot of people like that.
Then this. I think this may be the shot I took accidentally, while blinking my eye…
Splash-down. Somewhere in my frantic attempts to bring my camera round I had it on with a completely blank screen and attempted to take a shot in spite of a white-out screen and random pathetic beepings. The result is rather good:
I really enjoyed the unexpected discovery of access to the shoreline creatures. I’m always a fan of easy-access wilding, though I wouldn’t recommend anyone whose doubtful of their balance to scramble on the rocks.
I am also ecstatic that I have recovered these shots and, just possibly, the camera too. But I take note of the moral of the story:
Watch your step and WEAR THE RIGHT FOOTWEAR!
(No climbing over rocks in gripless old sandals)
Well, yesterday I was hopping about by the shore, low tide, sunset, fabulously beautiful and on the jetty (Algarrobo costa) found dozens of rockpools full of interest: sea urchins black, sea urchins purple; anemones out of the water like splodges of dark-red jelly; anemones in the water with a forest of fronds waving in the current. I even saw a black fish, just 8cm or so, looking a little like a rabbitfish – but I don’t know fish at all, so can’t really guess.
Seeing me with camera in hand a gang of youngsters came crowding round to show me the hermit crabs they had found (though all, at this point, had retreated to the back of their shells). Still, I liked the kids’ enthusiasm and gamely took a couple of photos of the apparently inhabited shells, saying, “You’ll put them back now, ¿no?”
Trouble is, I didn’t know that the tide was low or the jetty rich in sealife. Leaving the car I swapped into old sandals because I’d probably be walking on the beach and might enjoy cooling my toes in the surf.
I was careful, but even the thinnest skin of seaweed, barely visible, is like ice. Result: feet out from under me, arms flailing, landing arse-down in the rockpool and scaring all the beasties in it half to death. First thought – glad I wasn’t one rock further on (the sea and lots of nasty things to smash on). Second thought – completely overcoming pain, cold and embarrassment – MY CAMERA! MY CAMERA! MY CAMERA!
I gave it briefly to a kid so I’d have hands free to ease my old bones up and rebalance. I scrambled up and started frantically drying it on my T-shirt and then (unwisely – I’ve found out since you don’t do this) tried to turn it on. Nothing. 15 minutes later still drying it, taking batteries out and in – got a white screen – lens out but nothing visible. 10 more minutes and it begged for mercy with a “Warning. Turn the camera off” message. You apologise for the offensive language but feel it is merited, at this point to express my frustration and annoyance with my stupid self: BUGGER-BUGGER-BUGGER!!!
I’ve now, of course, have followed advice – strip out batteries and memory card, dry it as carefully as humanly possible, (possibly packing in rice, or using a hairdryer gently on cool). Oh, and pray. Salt water is not just wet it is corrosive so hopes are not high.
And all those shots of those wonderful creatures. Alas! I’ve download one or two (thanks Wiki!) to show you something like what I enjoyed admiring but… it is just not the same.
I even lost the butterfly and jumping spider I’d seen in the afternoon. Here are two I shot early (so to speak). Enjoy them as I go into mourning for my lovely camera.
What another will I do when I go walking tomorrow? I’m bound to see the most exciting wildlife imaginable. Have you got an SLR with good macro lense? Do you want to come?