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16 August
1998 Walk
This Way Are
the concepts 'walking' and 'holiday' mutually exclusive? Not if the scenery
is lovely, the food good, the beds soft, and the company a hoot, says SIMON
WILLIS, as he hotfoots it across the Spanish Pyrenees. A"Walking
Holiday" is, according to my wife, an oxymoron. I suspect she's not
alone in her view. It's a rare couple indeed who enjoy hill walking in equal
measure, matching each other's enthusiasm for the great outdoors stride for
stride. To get
around this, we booked ourselves on an organized, group walking holiday, the
sort of thing I'd sneeringly thought was only for duffers who couldn't find
their way around the mountains without someone leading them by their boot
laces. This trip, however, sounded rather special. It promised to combine
excellent walking in a high, wild area, with comfortable accommodation in
out-of-the-way villages . It would either be the perfect compromise, or
neither of us would be happy. Watching another miniature Niagara Falls splash
onto Mrs Willis' forehead I could only imagine what she thought of it so far.
Nevertheless, she made determined progress up the slope in front of me, as
the rain turned to snow, heading towards the sheer wall of rock which
separates Spain from France. The
Benasque valley ends in a dramatic, sweeping curve of rock, like a massive
jaw bone set with immense stone teeth. One of these, however, has been
knocked out, leaving a notch in the skyline and, several hours after leaving
the road, we were standing in this gaping geological dental detail. At 8000
feet, we were up among swirling clouds, on the very crest of the ridge which
divides the two countries, standing with one foot in each, staring down into
France and Spain. The sense of elemental exposure was exhilarating, and I
confessed my delight, "It doesn't come much wilder than this". Four hours
later, we were sipping hot chocolate inside a cuckoo clock. Spain and
Switzerland appear to have collided in Benasque, Alpine styles crashing head
to head with Iberian simplicity. Our hotel was a curious mixture of white
walls and tile floors, topped with heavy woodwork and pointy roofs. The food
was better than anything I'd previously ever eaten in this country; wild
boar, hearty soups, and locally made sausages, so fresh the waiter said he
could tell us the name of the pig. Over this simple but delicious traditional
meal, our group of twelve began to get to know one another. When we'd
booked, the only niggle in the back of my mind was whether we'd get along
with the rest of the people on the trip. Who actually goes on an organized
walking holiday? I don't know whether we were exceptionally lucky but, had we
been putting together a dinner party, we couldn't have planned a more diverse
and interesting group. A real life spy master, who told me things about the
intelligence service which belong in an entirely different section of this
newspaper; the couple who once ran a bar in Southern Spain, sold it, and now
built luxury homes on the Coast Blanca; and the folks from the council with
encyclopedic knowledge of every twig, bird and creepy crawly for a hundred
miles. All in all, they were a highly entertaining group. Our two
English guides had actually met each other not far from this town. Nikki
Forsyth and Richard Cash had each come here to work because they liked the
mountains and wanted to improve their Spanish, so it seemed natural that they
start a business which allowed them to live in Aragon and indulge both
passions. Each year they introduce a growing numbers of Britons to the
scenery and wildlife of a land they now call home. Looking at
their brochure before we left, what appealed to me was the walking. I'd
always wanted to explore this part of Europe, but found planning a trip
simply too difficult. Public transport is virtually non existent, and Spanish
military maps are notoriously unreliable for hiking. Just getting here and
finding a good walk would consume most of a one week holiday. No sooner would
you arrive then it would be time to leave! What
appealed to Mrs Willis were the showers. Don't dismiss this as a trivial
matter; by insisting on showers, she ensures a certain level of comfort for
the whole holiday, automatically excluding my crazier ideas such as camping
on a glacier for three nights. On this trip, we'd reach the high, wild places
which I love, and we'd also enjoy the charm and comfort of three small
mountain communities, with someone else to sort out all the transport and
other hassles. Benasque is
trying to become the Chamonix of the Pyrenees, which is not surprising since
the high mountains of the range are clustered around it, and more and more
people are coming to climb them. The village of Plan, by contrast, is so
quiet it's almost in suspended animation, which makes it perfect for
wildlife. On a steaming hot afternoon, in the hills above the town, we
stopped to watch Griffon Vultures ride the air currents close to a large,
shimmering wall of sandstone when I suddenly realised we too were being
watched. I wheeled around, and there, just feet from the edge of the path,
gliding through the air, was a creature the size of a Alsatian dog, with a
wingspan wider than a car. While we had been watching his friends, he had
come around behind, just to check us out. With two beats of his wings, the
vulture was a thousand feet away. Well
chosen walks and dramatic changes in the weather meant that no two days were
ever alike, from snow in the high mountains to furnace like heat in the
Ainsclo canyon just two days later. That morning we tackled a steep climb to
the abandoned hill top village of Sercue, one of many settlements in the area
which were deserted after the civil war. Franco's troops pushed the
Republicans into the mountains, bombed them into submission, and then
compulsorily purchased much of the land for commercial forestry. Sercue had
escaped the conifers, but with all the neighbouring villages gone, its people
found they could not survive in isolation. We walked through their ruined
streets, ducking under the branches which poked through the empty windows,
and found shade inside the church, the only building which still had a roof.
Our house builder admired the quality of the work. "It's about two
hundred and fifty years old", explained Nikki, "but it's built to a
design which goes back a thousand years. There's a real link to the past
here, and it's crumbling". Sercue is a sad, but fascinating place.
Someone threw a stone at the church bell, still hanging over the building,
and its mournful tone rolled down the hillside. As usual,
the picnic brightened us all up. It was the daily gastronomic conjuring
trick. Forget rabbits and hats, this involved two rucksacks and the very best
Aragon produce. Cheeses, smoked meats, olives, tomatoes and long lengths of
fresh bread all emerged from backpacks with a flourish. One day a delicious
tortilla appeared, and when a Caesar salad popped out, complete with croutons
and black pepper, it earned a round of applause. The wine was another matter
entirely. It was delicious, but to extract a mouthful from the goat skin wine
bag required mastering a technique of squirting the stuff at your face with a
constant pressure. However, after several mouthfuls, and numerous stains on
the t-shirt, it didn't seem to matter whether I missed. The
village of Torla was our base for the final two nights, a bustling little
town, rather like Keswick in the Lake District, catering to the visitors who
throng to the nearby National Park. The Parque Nacional de Ordessa y Monte
Perdido was founded by Royal decree in 1918, since when its boundaries have
been substantially widened. Although it's probably the most popular place in
the Pyrenees, it doesn't seem crowded because of its sheer size. There are
forests of pine, fir, larch, beech and poplar. Wild boar, chamois and
Pyrenean mountain goat roam the land. High mountain lakes, meadows and
glaciers lead to the summit of Monte Perdido, "The Lost Mountain".
And central to it all is the Ordessa Canyon itself, a stupendous rift in the
surface of the earth, a steep sided trench, gouged out by rivers and
glaciers. After
three days of glorious Spanish sun, we woke to the ominous percussion of
drumming rain and crashing thunder. It did not look good. Over breakfast,
Nikki and Richard outlined our route; we'd tackle the tough stuff right at
the start with a lung bursting climb out of the canyon, then we'd follow the
rim all the way to the end, before hiking out down the valley bottom. Yes,
we'd get soaked, but the paths were good, the scenery would be excellent and,
after all, it was our last day. Perhaps it was the thunder, perhaps it was
the thought of the climb, but whatever the reason, Mrs Willis decided not to
go. She'd done all the other walks and, she confessed, had enjoyed most of
them. Now, she insisted, she'd get the most out of her last day by exploring
the town, reading her book, and not getting struck by lightning. She made
the right decision. Staring up the vertical canyon walls it seemed
inconceivable that a path could ever to cling to their sheer faces, let alone
that we'd be able to climb the thing. In a storm. However, the old hunters in
these parts knew how to make a track, and slowly our group zigged and zagged
its way to the rim. Until now, rain and cloud had conspired to obscure any
view of the canyon, but as a reward for completing the climb, the scenery
slowly started to appear. It began
with glimpses of green meadow on the valley floor, seen through gaps in the
cloud, far below. Then the opposite wall of the canyon conjured itself out of
the mist, a flickering image at first, becoming more solid, then powerfully
substantial. Waterfalls, trees, cliffs all took shape, and suddenly we were
looking out over a magnificent panorama. The Ordessa is often called Europe's
Grand Canyon, but the comparison diminishes its unique quality. Standing on
the rim, watching it reveal itself to our group, was a magical experience, a
highlight of my holiday. And Mrs Willis missed it. Over our
last dinner together, we all discussed whether the holiday had been a good
compromise for the keener walkers and their less keen partners, and decided
that, yes, it probably was. If a partner did not want to do any walking then,
unless they're exceptionally keen painters or readers, they probably wouldn't
enjoy it, although the company offers to arrange alternative activities with
a little notice. However,
if they like even just a little walking, then an organised holiday would be
worthwhile. Nikki and Richard know enough about local plants and wildlife to
make the shortest walks interesting. If hikers of very different abilities
are on the same holiday then the group can split and tackle suitable routes.
Experienced walkers may feel frustrated at having to return to the valley
each night rather than heading for one of the many mountain huts, but should
look on this as a chance to see life in very different mountain communities,
something which adds an extra dimension to the holiday. But best of all, it
was wonderful to explore a really wild landscape with the woman I love, who,
without the help of a tour company, would simply not have considered going
there. Simon
Willis traveled as a guest of Alto Aragon Travel
Brief Holiday
Companies: There don't seem to be many companies offering
organised walking holidays in the Pyrenees in 1998. Alto Aragon: 01869 337339
Exodus: 0181 673 0859 Independent
Travel Fly from Gatwick to Zaragoza with Aviaco, then hire
a car for a six hour drive to Benasque. Public transport is poor. Maps to the
area can be bought from Stanfords: 0171 836 1321 Guidebooks
The Pyrenees. The Rough Guide by Paul Jenner and
Christine Smith. Classic Walks in the Pyrenees by Kev Reynolds. When to go Depends
upon where you plan to walk. Foothill tours are best tackled in May and
October before the sun is too fierce. High level hikes have to wait until the
snow clears. Although the Spanish side of the Pyrenees normally has better
weather than the French side, it is highly unpredictable at any time of the
year. |
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