As the mornings have gone on, it’s been slowly less dark by the time Stan whimpers for his food or a walk first thing. The sky was a grey-yellow hue this morning as I opened the door and peered out, lead clamped firmly to the reprobate’s collar (no surreptitious wanderings for you, my boy). Behind me, over the nearby ridge, like a volcano of exploding colour, light was shooting up into the bank of low cloud that shrouded us.
I struggled to make out what was happening with the light, sleepily wandering up the lane, toward the road and the ridge. Squinting, I encouraged myopic retina to focus on what was ahead. At the top of the path, the sun suddenly escaped through the valley opening. As if dawn’s laser had burnt a hole, a ray of pure gold tunneled through the v-shaped rock walls, beneath the cloud’s heavy weight, flashing past my groggy eyes and straight across the lake. It landed, like a firebrand on the opposite shore, a shot of brilliance that dispersed low-lake mist and left those fields ablaze.
Gaping, open mouthed, I ignored Stan’s tugging on the lead and just looked. Gazing from the source, where eventually the morning sun would rise, to the lakeside, a bright pinpoint of colour in the mist-grey landscape, and back again. Like an umpire in a tennis match, my head turning left to right, desperate not to miss one tiny scrap of what might be evolving.
Just as suddenly, it was finished. The light dispersed, the fields of flame dulled back to grey and green and the dawn was subsumed by nubula. Gone. And not gone, caught in my imagination, trapped in optical nerves and synapses, held by dint of will, keeping the image safe inside my brain.
Back at the camper, the morning resumed it’s easy routine – tea, work, ready. The plan had been to go to the Caminito del Rey – a rockside route around the El Churro gorge where hanging bridges allow fee-paying tourists to totter and imagine what would happen if their rope bridges… But this required booking, which we hadn’t realized.
An English bloke (about our age?) was leading a group of climbers back down the crag-face to his car. I heard English voices and always greedy for information, I went to steal some from their knowledge bases.
They were generous, not just then, but later when we were hunting for the camping spot he described and the climbing shop where I could buy the local climbing book. The book was easily obtained, the dust-ruble track at 35 degrees was simply not going to happen for us. We found a spot to stop, below another huge crag of rock, begging to be touched and clipped to, where we finished lunch and I poured over my new climbing guide.
A long crag of easy routes (confidence builders) hung above the next town along. That’s where we’d head, which we did.
Tiny bends we are getting better at. Steep hills take their time, but the van gets there in the end, it’s 2.2 engine doing the work of the 2.8 version we’d have preferred. But in the tiny town of Valle de Abdalajis, where the roads were barely van-wide, with right hand corners, and steep, steep slopes of pressed concrete long ago worn smooth, there, we nearly came unstuck.
A generous local lady nodded in blasé acceptance of us definitely making it down her precipitous lane, past two diametrically parked cars and onto the next hazard-laden street that was out of view. We were less sure. M put his foot on the main break, van in gear and used the handbrake, for security. Which he needed, because, despite these measures, the van kept sliding downwards. Slowly, you understand, but it hadn’t stopped. I looked at him; he looked at me. We were still not-stopped, still responding better to gravity than Peugeot’s engineering.
So, six feet into the lane, we had no chance of reversing. We were committed. Do or die, or in the case of our gearbox, possibly both?
She was quite correct, we did inch our way down and squeeze our way between two battered vehicles, nudging our way forward. And along, and left at a right angle, and right at another right angle and round.
Just as I’d decided it was safe to breathe again, our road definitely being wide enough for one vehicle in the two-way traffic, M mentioned what the guidebook said.
“It’s a sharp right turn, up a steep track”
‘Oh, is it? Like we’ve been gliding around on smooth, flat-plane roads so far then?’ I keep these thoughts to myself, they’ve proved unhelpful in the past.
“Aha” is all I comment. Until we draw level with said track.
No way. Not even for the best camping spot in the universe. It’s not happening, and neither, by default is my climb here tomorrow. The crag’s parking spot is another 2.9 miles, uphill, before further mile walk in. There’s nowhere to abandon the van if we don’t attempt the drive up there and no chance that engine will make it. Time for plan C.
Which sees us do some horrifically awful turns and angles in the van that audibly creaks, before we give in and go back to last nights beautiful (if slightly poo-y) stopover. The gearbox is juddering in emotional shock and the brakes are weeping and screeching with exhaustion and over heating.
Back at the path end, we chat to a lovely German couple in their camper, watch two cars come with awkward drivers who don’t stay long after they’ve visited the bushes, and M makes sure the dog’s on a really short lead.
The sunset is gorgeous, more peaceful than the day’s beginning, but we’ve had adventures enough in the past few hours – tranquil will suit us just fine.