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Before leaving I bought some guide books and maps, and I made contact with Elma Thomson, an expat Brit who had explored many abandoned or under-used tracks and mule trails at the eastern end of the Costa del Sol and begun introducing them to an eager walking public. In the company of Elma and her group, I spent a splendid day hiking among the mountainsides and defiles of the Parque Natural Sierras Tejedas, Almijara y Alhama. It’s a bit of a mouthful but, put simply, it comprises that mountainous and pine-wooded upland that extends over three provinces between Granada and Malaga, almost touching the coast at Nerja. Ah Nerja! How well I remember it, before the apartments and villas spread in every direction and the streets filled with boutiques and bars. I recall standing on the Balcón de Europa, that sublime belvedere to the sea, on a winter’s day with only a mechanical horse - a children’s ride – for company. Its metallic whinny was torn from its painted mouth by the chilly wind that kept everyone else indoors. Those dark sierras rose enticingly beyond the bay but I knew from experience they were not easy to get at. One sortie had already ended unexpectedly at a building site, another at some eccentric, junk-littered homestead guarded by a fierce dog. A third attempt, more successful, saw me striking farther inland, past Frigiliana, following the course of a stony riverbed. My progress was only interrupted by a family group, enjoying a picnic in the shade of the poplars, calling me over to join them and plying me with wine, saying “there’s nothing up there but goats and thorns!” That was 1980. Returning at the start of 2004 I found that Nerja had grown beyond recognition around its margins and earthmovers were nudging a new coastal motorway slowly eastwards, but the Balcón remained unchanged, jutting boldly into the Mediterranean and guarded by the same two rusty cannon. The metal horse had disappeared but the picturesque fishermen’s beach was still down below, much the same as before but neater and tidier by far. Here in semi-familiar surroundings I reviewed my rough plans for the next few days. I had hoped to join a group of Spanish walkers on one of the monthly expeditions organised by the town hall (Patronato Desportes department), but I found that I had missed one, and the next was several weeks away. I had arranged to meet Elma on the following day for one of her scheduled jaunts, and in the meantime I consulted my maps and guide books - publications that had not existed, or were not readily available, on my earlier visits. With a car at my disposal I decided to try a modest circuit on the south-western side of the Parque (incidentally, a Parque Natural is one designated by the region, in this case Andalucía, as opposed to a Parque Nacional, designated by central government) and headed into the hills past Cómpeta. It only took me a moment to say that: “past Cómpeta”, but it took over half an hour to drive that short-looking distance – a couple of inches on the map – because of the spectacular twists and turns of this busy road. Continuing this same writhing strip of tarmac a little further I came at last upon the neat little town of Canillas de Albaida and soon located the faded sign to La Fábrica de Luz, an old hydro electric generating plant above the town. This was more
like it, a quiet track with no traffic, climbing through a wooded valley
with a torrent and with only a quarry to mar the view. I should add that,
on the way return leg I managed to coincide with the lorries going back
on shift, but my upward journey was smooth. The old fábrica nestled
in an idyllic spot at a confluence of mountain streams, whose rush and
tumble over rounded boulders was clearly audible even before I turned off
the engine. This was far more in the way of gushing water than I was anticipating,
so close to the parched coast, and the greenery along this enchanted valley
I was now climbing was dense and luxuriant.
Despite the cool freshness of my waterside trail, I soon began to feel the warmth of the November sun and peeled off a layer before emerging into the bare reaches of the upper valley. I was following the Sunflower Guide to Andalucía, and the directions together with the map were proving to be almost entirely idiot-proof. Suffice to say that I completed my climb to a remote white farmhouse, admired the mountain views from the heights, tracked around the mountain slope and made my descent to the car without getting lost. It was a super little stroll of no more than a couple of hours, including picnic time. The next day was reserved for my guided walk with Elma, in company with whoever else turned up on the day. Our group included homeowners and holidaymakers, a Yorkshire biker, an outdoor clothing salesman, garden centre manager and a German lady who walked with two ski sticks, an unnatural practice but one that is far more sensible than it looks. Strangers all, we struck up a lively chatter while waiting for the bus. By the time we had completed the short journey to Nerja Caves we had become acquainted with each other. Elma told me how she and her husband - tragically deceased some years before - came to this area twenty-odd years earlier, and they immediately began to reconnoitre the trails. Friends joined them on their walks and, through recommendation by word of mouth, friends of friends. Finally complete strangers began turning up in droves. Before they knew it they had up to 50 walkers arriving at the bus stop for their weekly stroll. Demand, quite clearly, was pent-up, and only needed some facilitating to be unleashed, potentially in floods. Soon the walks were re-organised on a more commercial basis and a small charge was levied. Around the same time, Elma and Denis published a book entitled: “Twelve Walks Around Nerja” and their first print-run disappeared from the shelves in weeks. 12,000 copies it sold – further evidence, if any were needed, of people’s desire to walk in Spain. As a consequence of these changes, the size of Elma’s twice-weekly groups had stabilised at around a dozen. The caves of Nerja are the biggest tourist attraction of this part of the coast but we were on our way to less crowded parts. We left the bus stop and began our walk along a broad stony track, passing the Park boundary almost immediately. After a few hundred yards I could see endless green mountain slopes and blue open sky ahead while, looking over my shoulder, the pylons and the sprawl of the margins of the resort were still visible. Once well into the park we dropped into a dark defile overhung with creepers and silent but for the tropical trill of the odd startled bird. It was faintly eerie, this, as we threaded forward in silent single file, like Victorian explorers. Eventually emerging into sunlight we began climbing in earnest, and reached a beautiful picnic place by mid day, with bold summits all around, a freshness in the air, a supply of fresh spring water, and the statue of and Ilex. The Spanish
Ilex, or Cabra Montes as it is known, is a fine sturdy fellow of striking
stance and boldly curving horns. This being the rutting season (according
to my Sunflower guide) we were hoping to catch a glimpse of one or more
“in frolicsome mood” but were, alas, to be disappointed. Never mind, the
views were fantastic, and the highest summit we could see was the impressive
1508-metre rocky horn of Cielo, just a handful of miles from the sea.
The next day I tried some shorter walks, staying close to Nerja and using some of Elma’s current walks leaflets. From the seaside village of Maro I traced the terraced fields and the coastal hillocks, meeting friendly dogs and a well-groomed donkey along the way, and I climbed up to the headland with the old Moorish watchtower that dominates the landscape hereabouts. It was a clear morning and the views were stunning both up and down the coast, the air was scented with the aromatic shrubs that thrive on the headland. It seemed like an awfully long way from the Costa del Sol. Getting Started The best general introduction to walking in Spain is a book of the same name, published by Lonely Planet in 2003. Walking in Spain provides an introduction to the whole of the country, then zooms-in on half-a-dozen prime walking regions with detailed descriptions and outline maps of 51 walks, including the classic Camino de Santiago. It costs £14.99 and is available from most book shops, or see www.lonelyplanet.com The maps to look for are the Mapa Guia series covering many of the Parques Naturales at a scale of 1:50,000, albeit obscurely drafted. Another possibility is the 1:10,000 Parques Naturales de Andalucía series. The Institut Cartografic Catalunya produces good 1:50,000 maps for that region. Although often out of date and prone to lapses, the Military series Cartografía Militar de España at least covers all the country at 1:50,000. These maps
are hard to find in Spain but are available (much cheaper than sources
in UK or US) at branches of Librería Indice in a few major cities.
The one in Malaga is at Panaderos 2, esq. Puerta de Mar, in the Centre.
In Nerja, Elma Thompson’s guided walks leave from the Bus Station at 0915 on Wednesdays and Thursdays from November through to May. This article
first appeared in Living Spain
magazine, a UK monthly publication.
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