Wednesday 13thFeb – El Chorro: “Solid as a rock…”

It’s been two days of… rock.

  • Rock music played by M, we drove down through France to Meatloaf and Alice Cooper and he’s picked up the the rock theme again, although going for a softer version this time
  • Aiming to visit El Caminito del Ray – an amazing walk through the gorges at El Chorro.  
  • Getting my hands on rock.

There’s nothing quite as disappointing as buying a new rope and a guide book to the local crags, to discover that you’re not going to use either.  Which is where we were on Tuesday morning.  It’s like getting all geared up for Christmas, only to discover you’ve overslept, its Boxing Day; everyone’s gone home, and they’ve taken your presents with them.  I exaggerate not…

We’ve got used to the eternal summer of Spain’s winter.  The temperatures are almost always in double figures, rain is rare, and the tourists haven’t really turned up yet so we’re only slightly encroaching on the locals.  

Imagine then, yesterday morning, having poured over the crag guide and readied our climbing gear, got out the rope and – well – everything – imagine  my dismay on waking up to the sound of sleeting rain and howling wind.  

It’s a bit of a shocker when winter actually shows its teeth over here.  

Glum…

Still, we needed shopping, stuff needed doing for the van and I got lots of work done…

11 o’clock – grey wet,  yuk – we went to Alhora, there’s a Mercodona Supermarket

12 o’clock – grey wet,  yuk – still shopping

1 o’clock – grey wet yuk – on the way back from shopping

2 o’clock – less grey, no wet – hmmm…

3 o’clock – blue and grey, dry, better…

And the loveliest husband in the world, who doesn’t want to climb himself, but does want me to use the book and the rope, suggests (without me even hinting…) that we could go climbing since it had cleared up.

I wait perhaps a millisecond: “Okay!”

After the last debacle climbing where I just scared myself silly and left the rock-face feeling miserable; I was nervous.  In the guidebook, there are perhaps 6 of 283 pages  that list climbs I feel happy to start on.  We head for the most accessible crag, Fontales area, just above the village of El Chorro.

Two hours later…

I am a rock climber reborn.  

The rock is firm, it’s got lots of edges (this is a good thing), positive and lovely to grip, and the warm breeze that floats around me neither pushes nor shoves, just reminds me that I need to keep my jacket on.  M belays me up and down four routes, holding me steady, offering endless encouragement.

I keep waiting for the whisper of fear in my ear, but it doesn’t come.  Images of falling, failing to clip into the bolts, falling, banging limbs, don’t appear in my mind’s eye.  The icy grip of terror that has been known to wrap itself around my insides, doesn’t squeeze.  I’m in my element, in the place I feel connected and assured, even in moments when I’m hunting for the next hand hold, stuck between clips.  I am in the best of places: I am on rock.

Jubilant we come back to our home-on-wheels, supper is in a new spot, a mile down the hill from our last.  This new place is equally lovely but lacks other vans and local ‘deposits’.  So, Stan gets to wander on a much longer leash, find sticks to chew and have thrown for him.  All is well with the world.  Tomorrow, we have tickets for the Caminito de Ray to walk the gorge, and are planning to go back in the morning for the longest route I’ve ever climbed (35m) that’s three grades up from today’s achievement…

Wednesday 13thFeb

Communication is a wonderful thing.  I’ve written about it before.  About the value of asking questions over the merits of making assumptions.  Had I done this, we’d have been climbing earlier, before the bus was due to take us to the start of the Caminito del Ray, for the walk we’ve been wanting to do for days.

Instead of climbing, then lunching, then Caminito-ing.  We spend ages getting sorted, then finding a parking place for the van, then discovering that the walk has been cancelled due to high wind.

Bummer.

The sun is out though…

We ‘rock’ up at the crag (pun, geddit?!) to find lots of Europeans and one American couple crowded round our easy’ area of routes.  Chatting becomes a lot easier as soon as we openly state that Brexit is a disaster and we wish we had the political constitution of the countries represented by the climbers around us.  The US couple declare that their country is, just about, more screwed than ours. All nationalities present agree: the US is marginally worse than the UK, Europe is clearly better and on this basis, cordial relations are established.

Belayed by M, I do 5a route (equivalent to HVS or an easy Extreme1 climb if on trad) – the kind of warm up I’d run up at the indoor wall at home).  It feels ok.  I’m umming and arring about what to do next when M points out that the 6a (E2) route is now free and why don’t I just do that instead?

30 minutes and 35 metres later, I am as triumphant as Stan with a new plastic bottle. Yah-bloody-hoo.  At last, I’m getting my ‘head’ back, letting go of debilitating fears and finally, finally, climbing again.  

It was wonderful.  I’m incredibly grateful, for the opportunity ,for the support that M offers me in attempting the things I want to acheive, for this whole trip.

We’re going to come back another trip for Caminito del Ray.  Our journey has effectively carved Spain into two parts.  The Western reaches and Portugal will have to be done next time.  This visit, we’re going to head East, inland, to hold onto as much warmth as we can, before facing the chilly North.  

Yes, next time.

We’ve learnt a lot about ourselves and the van in the past six weeks.  

  1. The hand-luggage sized lockers (excluding footwear and toiletries) have too many things in them, we could have done with ½ what we’ve brought
  2. Our elasticated washing lines have been fabulous.  Today, only today, we discover that the cab’s ceiling handles make a great indoor washing line holders for stuff that’s not quite finished outside. This means that our living quarters don’t end up like a laundry room
  3. We haven’t, not once, thought that this was too much, too little, or not comfortable.  42 days coming up and we’re mourning our last 24 days.  We could do this for longer – next time
  4. There’s a million places we haven’t been yet…

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