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Siestas and Sierras

By Malcolm Rogers

Just round a bend in the road, and there it is — a great slab of limestone, El Picacho, standing 2,500 feet, and shimmering almost purple in the afternoon sun.

About an hour’s drive from Cadiz, less from Jerez, the guide book calls this area “the last Mediterranean jungle” and from the road it seems an apt description — tangled woods and scrubland cover an uneven rocky landscape stretching to the distant horizon.

In reality, however, any walk in the Sierra de Aljibe is more like an ascending journey through hundreds of landscaped rock gardens. Little rockeries which would cost you upwards of £5,000 to get them blended into your garden back home in Britain — the olive trees, juniper, honeysuckle and Judas trees alone would set you back a packet, and that’s before you even consider the jacaranda and oleanders tastefully arranged round waterfalls, alongside babbling brooks and spilling into deep glades.

But these precious little rockeries are not the first thing that hits you as you begin your walk up the foothills of the cordilla of peaks which make up this range. I’m on the trail known as the Sendero de El Picacho, which, referring to my guide book again, is 6 kilometres long and rises to 882 metres. Onwards and upwards, then.

The lower reaches of the walk are through an olive grove surrounded by a tangle of wild roses. I quickly climb past some palmeras, and my ears become attuned to a peculiar screeching sound. The screeches are accompanied by a percussive whine — like the sound you get when you skiff a stone across a frozen lake. But no ice here in temperatures now edging above 25 degrees centrigrade.

This cacophony might fool you into thinking it’s a colony of parrots going at it full throttle — that was my best guess. Until, that is, I approached the first lake on the path and the noise ceased. The frogs had spotted me and immediately ceased their clamour.

These little lagunas that dot the route are not only home to the very noisy marsh frog, but you can also spot the odd aquatic grass snake patrolling the water. Like some miniature Loch Ness Monster on the lookout for any amphibian that has forsaken vigilance for chattering with his mate. Anthropomorhism? Not a bit of it, as I said to a passing long-horned cow also staring at the lake in incredulity.

As the pond receded into the distance behind me I could hear the all-clear being given and the raucous banter beginning again.

I made my way up from the lake along a dusty, rutted path whose history can be guessed at — hunters have tramped along here, fugitives too, because this is the lower reaches of one of the main mountain passes in the south. Farmers, deer, cattle and even the odd tourist have helped to hard-pack the walking surface.

The path, strewn with acorns, gets steeper, and it’s good to see the valley falling away on the left and the faraway hills tumbling down towards the Mediterranean.

The way ahead now looks different, and I am surrounded by oak trees with their bark stripped off, each one to the same height, revealing the black inner lignum. A strange sight — as far as the eye can see, black tree trunks. About two metres up each tree the standard mottled light brown bark begins again, unmistakable in appearance, for these are cork oak trees.

This is, after all, the Parque Natural Los Acornacales — the Park of Cork Oak Trees — and it does exactly what it says on the bottle. Here is one of the two principal producers of the world’s corking needs. The precious material is harvested every nine years, although why nine rather than a nice EU friendly 10, no-one was around to explain.

As I walk on, the cork trees become more sparse, the evergreen oaks grow smaller, now resembling little bushes merging into the scrub with the gorse. And although the great pine forests of the Mediterranean are further to the south, there’s still a fair selection of small conifers. Eventually, the trees grow thinner and the open mountainside is in sight. Heather, myrtle and juniper now dominate the terrain, and the open view across Andalusia is dramatic. Above me are vast blue skies streaked with cirrus trails, and all around is a high-rise landscape of mountains and rocks.

Look south and you can see the formidable crags of the southern tip of the Andaluz sierra nudge the Mediterranean. Looking west the town of Alcala de los Gazules appears like a confetti pile of white houses tumbling over the hills. The town has been held by Carthaginians, Romans, Visigoths, Moors, Castillians, Royalists, Franco’s forces. In the past rubbing along with your neighbours seems to have been as exotic a concept as in Ireland.

Rivers babble their way down the mountainside — this part of Spain, even though not on the proverbial plain — gets more than its share of rain. Everywhere is a combination of colour, light and moving water. This is spiritually about as far removed from Tenerife’s pulsating high rise resorts as it’s possible to get on the planet; nobody here drinking themselves into duty-free comas — in fact, nobody here at all. The only signs of life are a couple of Griffon vultures wheeling overhead checking out my health. Concluding that I look robust enough and unlikely to provide early dinner, they languorously change direction and soar away to the north.

It’s mid-afternoon, and I sit on a rock munching on my sandwiches filled with the local manchego cheese and smoked serrano ham. There’s nothing to disturb the tranquillity except the distant sound of cowbells and babbling trout streams. A bit of shade, and the rocks are damned comfortable... maybe a siesta would be in order.

An old man at the local bar had told me the correct method for taking a siesta — as opposed to a fully-fledged kip. You drink enough wine to feel drowsy, then make yourself comfortable in your favourite armchair with one arm hanging over the side of the chair, holding a metal spoon. When your snoozing turns into a deeper sleep, the hand relaxes, dropping the spoon on the floor, conveniently waking you. Repeat as necessary.

But thoughts of a siesta are banished by the sudden appearance of a quartet of red deer rutting their stuff not more than a couple of hundred yards away in a glade. I’m surprised to see them so late in the day — but not half as surprised, evidently, as they are to see me, and they bolt as fast as their cloven hooves can carry them.

Walking isn’t a big thing in Andalusia. As in Ireland, until recently life in these parts was far too hard for anyone to consider hiking as a pastime. Therefore, no greatly developed network of paths exists, only trails that the locals (human and animal) have fashioned over the centuries.

To further complicate matters, walking in most parts of the Sierra de Grazelema, of which Aljibe is part, requires a permit. There are no rights-of-way and few public amenity walks. The permits aren’t hard to come by, and are free. The local office of the Junta de Andalucia issues them on the spot.

I’m not sure what sanctions would be brought against you if you attempted to walk along any of these forest trails without a permit. In three weeks I met maybe half a dozen people, none of whom looked in the least likely to say, “Papers, por favor”.

On the other hand it’s such an easy task to get the permit, and you usually get some friendly advice from the office, that it seems churlish not to bother. This particular corner of the Sierra is covered by the Alcala de los Gazules office. It’s at the top of the town, opposite a devilishly enticing café where the afore-mentioned sandwiches can be ordered.

If you pay a visit after your walk, then the tapas and local vino are an unbeatable combination. And they’d probably lend you a spoo if you wanted a quick siesta.