ALPUJARRAS, SPAIN


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Europe

For close to 800 years the Moors, Arab and Berber peoples from North Africa, ruled Spain where they developed an enlightened culture that became, in its time, the most advanced center of learning, science, the arts and religious tolerance in all of Medieval Europe. Moslem Spain became known as Al Andalus, and the jewel of this diadem was the Alhambra Palace in the Moorish Kingdom of Granada. After the reconquest of Spain by Visigothic kings Ferdinand and Isabella, many Moors escaped into the mountains.

Visitors can see the Sierra Nevada mountains from the Alhambra in Granada. When the Moors left in 1492 they moved to the remote areas in the southern part of these mountains and by the use of terracing and irrigation transformed the valleys into some of the most fertile in the whole of Spain. Grapes, oranges, figs, and bananas were all grown in this area now known as Las Alpujarras - derived from the Arabic word for grassland: al-Busherata.

There are around 80 villages and hamlets in the Alpujarras together with isolated manor houses and farms, all of which are connected by trails. This is a personal trek to explore these little-visited places and to do some serious hiking. Some of the tracks are old caminos reales, the highways of medieval Spain. The variety of trails in Las Alpujarras is the main reason for hiking there. There are easy river walks, hikes between white mountain villages and stiff ascents of some of the highest peaks in Western Europe to choose from.

Bubion was the first place we were going to stay in Las Alpujarras. We arrived in mid-morning and after grabbing fruit, vegetables, and bread from the mobile shops on their daily visit to the village, we set off on a local walk making sure to fill our water bottles at the fountain where potable water poured from 3 spouts.

In the fields the complex system of irrigation channels introduced by the Moors were still being used and were full of water, due to an exceptionally late snowfall in May, three months prior to our visit. Occasional stone threshing platforms and high walls of rocks that supported terraces lined the route.

The village of Pampaneira was a suitable stop for a coffee and a chance to sample some of the local wines and sherries. Even in a simple bodega, customers still get served with tapas cut from the hams that were being air-dried on the premises, a source of wealth for some of the mountain villages in Las Alpujarras.

The path continued to a small valley and started to ascend its side with a line of white houses on a ridge as the destination. An old mill lay in ruins by the stream, evidence that the communal nature of food production in Las Alpujarras is declining. The mill would have been used by the community for grinding corn and the terraced holding ponds were still intact on the hillside. There was no shortage of groundwater to power the mill even on the steep track.

Another manifestation of decline is that at one time people would band together to rebuild broken-down terrace walls, but this no longer happens as often. The loss of people to the big cities is hurting the villages and the people who replace them only maintain a seasonal presence, which in turn hits local businesses. When they close, the village is no longer as attractive to visitors, who then either sell up and leave or just don’t come as often.

This trend combined with the aging population could lead to villages gradually being abandoned. Of all the pupils from Las Alpujarras who go to boarding school in Granada and the other Andalucian cities, only two percent return to live in their village when their education is complete.

The drying of hams in the wonderful mountain air is one powerful economic reason that may stop this happening. Another is the increasing number of outdoor types who hike the trails and ride on the mule tracks. Back on the upward climb we passed a house whose garden was full of vegetables, sunflowers, and fruit trees. There was no road to be seen and the only trail was the one we were on.

At the edge of the village an English family were discussing, in their terraced garden, how to ensure they get a good crop of beans. We still said, "Hola" to them.

After downing a refreshing beer--plus more tapas--at one of the two bars in the village, we did some more shopping for nuts and pure chocolate at the village store and then headed downhill back to Bubion.

From Bubion an ascent of Mulhacen, mainland Spain's highest point at 3,482 metres, can be undertaken. The peak is named after Muljey-Hacen, Granada’s penultimate caliph who according to legend was buried in a glacier on the top of the mountain.

Don't be put off by the height as a National Park bus, starting from Capileira, will do a lot of the hard work, dropping passengers off at around 2,700 metres, leaving only 782 metres to the top. Visitors should book their tickets in advance, especially for the return journey as it's not a good idea to be stuck up there at around 5:30pm, although there is a refuge with 60 beds in a nearby valley.

As the bus travels through the holm oak and pine forests the onboard park ranger shows the passengers all the animals and birds that reside on the slopes of Mulhacen. Ibexes and eagles can be seen on a daily basis; vultures, foxes, and genets are rarer sightings.

The walk is through moorland like scenery and is not particularly steep at any point; it's just a bit of a slog on occasions that zig-zags through the grass and scree that litter the slopes. There are cairns marking the way, but it's best just to head for the highest point on the horizon, two of which are false.

It was misty at the top and the only clear views were of the rapidly shrinking glacial lakes in the cirques below. The peak of the second highest point, Pico Veleta, could be seen to the west and that of Alcazaba, the third highest, is just to the north-west connected to Mulhacen by a crumbling ridge that should not be attempted. This crumbling rock makes rock climbing a non-starter here--Pico Veleta is far better--but when it snows and the ice pinnacles form, the ice-climbing is supposed to be excellent.

Mulhacen should be treated with respect in the autumn and winter months. In the two previous years people have died on its slopes; avalanches are not uncommon as can be witnessed by some of the inclines. There are exposed ridges too and the winds have blown climbers to their deaths. Conversely, the snow that does fall here can make descending to the seven glacial lakes from the peak simpler than it is in summer.

As if to illustrate the changing nature of the area, as we descended in bright sunshine with just a light breeze for company, high nimbus clouds were forming over Alcazaba, a portent of rain.

Around 4am the rain started soon followed by an extensive thunder and lightning storm. The power was cut at around 6am so breakfast was by candlelight. The trail heading from Bubion meandered up the hillside before descending to the village of Pitres. This is another suitable stop for a coffee and tapas of olives, bread, and ham, all the while listening to the pealing bells of the church.

After filling up the water bottles from a gushing fountain, we headed southwards through terraces of olive trees with lemon and fig trees lining the path in places. Red peppers hung on the walls of the hamlets and other houses had two or three geraniums in pots in window boxes behind an iron grille. A roman bridge clung to a gorge side though we crossed the stream in spate at a different point.

The air smelled especially clean here and the birds were twittering in the bushes. Just before our intended destination Busquistar, a steep path to the left led to a ruined mosque and with views over the surrounding valley, we gained an appreciation of Busquistar's position on the side of a hill.

From Busquistar we caught a bus to Trevelez, the final destination for the day. At 1,500 metres, this is the highest village in Spain and is famed for its air-dried hams, which hang in special rooms like ham museums. It must have some of the steepest streets in any town in the world, one of which would be called a dry-ski slope in some resorts. How anyone walks down that street in icy weather I have no idea.

Another pleasant surprise was the restaurant La Frague, which was owned by the hotel we stayed at. The menu was extensive and the food was uniformly excellent ranging from an Alpujarran cooked breakfast of eggs, ham, and fried potatoes, through stuffed aubergines, to light chocolate tarts.

To walk off some of the calories, the following morning we hiked up another 1,000 metres to a small peak called Penabon. This ascent criss-crossed the hillside and went through the forest and across scree slopes before ending at the peak with uninterrupted views of the terraced hillsides, white villages, and the serrated sides of the valley. On the far horizon were the peaks of Mulhacen and Alcazaba.

With quite a bit of energy still left, we decided to walk over into the next valley following the GR7 or E4 route to the village of Juviles, where a scheduled bus service would be leaving at 17:15 that would bring us back to Trevelez. Following the signposts in the other direction eventually leads to Greece, so it's important to go the right way. Luckily the GR7 was marked with a white horizontal stripe over a red horizontal stripe and we followed these signs successfully, ignoring the other paths that split off from the trail every few hundred metres. Crossing through a firebreak in the trees there was a sign that indicated Juviles was 6.3 kilometres away.

This was the last sign for what seemed like 6.3 miles--the track twisted and turned and we just hoped we were going the right way. Cows were lowing and the wind was beginning to pick up in speed; although the ridges were clear, nimbus clouds were again forming over the higher mountains. Eventually another GR7 marker came into view and we walked through an orchard to the road into the village.

We found the bus stop first and then had a quick beer; my bottle had obviously been stored in a cowshed or pigsty. Our fare to Trevelez was 1.35 Euros with the final destination being Granada. Unfortunately, we got off the bus at the wrong stop and had to climb the dry-ski slope back to our hotel. In many ways this was the hardest climb of the day. Sheep were blocking one street and there was a furniture manufacturer in the town producing doors of a high quality. Someone had a stash of hashish nearby.

The next morning horses' hooves reverberated on the cobbles - cowboys still live and work in the highest valleys of Las Alpujarras; with herds on both hillsides they need all the help they can get. This final day's walking was going to be the longest by far. The intention was to walk up Alcazaba, the third highest peak in the Sierra Nevada a gain of around 1,800 metres from Trevelez. Setting off just after dawn the path initially went alongside a stream with foliage hanging overhead. Cowbells sounded from the other side of the valley. Bees were gathering nectar from the blackberry bushes, the sky was cloudless and the sun was still behind the eastern mountains. The trail was heading for the seven glacial lakes that nestle in the cirque just below Mulhacen and Alcazaba. After about an hour, as the sun eventually appeared, the path went through a patch of planted conifers.

At this point, the path split into two and the only signpost indicated the path back to Trevelez. Following the path that was heading towards Alcazaba turned out to be the wrong option. Having crossed a barbed wire fence the path finished beneath a 3-tiered waterfall with the water rushing over the multi-coloured rocks. Walking up steep grassy slopes and then scree led to a well-worn path.

There were two options; follow this trail, which hopefully went towards the Seven Lakes or head up another grassy slope, through the grazing cattle, to a ridge, which looked as though it might give a view of Alcazaba. Heading to the ridge meant passing through the herd of cattle, and as they parted slightly their bells rang a few times, a noise that was quite welcome in the stillness. Reaching the ridge just gave a view of another ridge, so it was time to head to what seemed like the familiarity of the Lakes.

The opportunity to walk on the level for a few hundred metres was most welcome. Scrambling over large slabs of rock and following patches of greenery by streams eventually led to the head wall of rock that connects Mulhacen and Alcazaba. Of the seven lakes at the height of 3,000 metres, the one nearest this rock wall was the smallest consisting of three puddles that could be jumped over. There was no snow around not even in the most sheltered crevices. It was quite cold even though the sky above was pure blue.

The wind meant that clouds in the Trevelez valley were being whipped up high into the atmosphere though they never approached Mulhacen and Alcazaba, which would have meant me making a rapid withdrawal from the area. Other hikers were preparing to make their ascent to the summit of Mulhacen. Some were taking the ridge route, which would take around 2 hours from the lakes, while others were attempting to climb the steep slopes by the head wall.

The glacial lakes became progressively bigger towards the head of the valley. The water flowed out of one into another creating a waterfall by the top of the path down to Trevelez. The terrain was quite barren, with the only green areas being around the lakes and the streams between them and these areas contrasted with the mounds of loose, brown rock that covered the ground.

It was immensely quiet and people could be heard talking, but couldn't be seen in the vastness. Climbers on the top of Alcazaba were probably apparitions and were a result of my imagination playing tricks with my own ambition. It was now 2:30pm and it was time to go. It might take three hours to get back to Trevelez and the path was unfamiliar. The sun would disappear behind the mountains in those three hours and it might get chilly.

The trail down was an easier and better defined path. There were a few large blocks of rock and one or two dirt slopes without a suitable foothold, but nothing too bad. A threshing area made out of rock gave a view of the patch of conifers I had gone through earlier. The path I had taken earlier headed off to the left and I shook my head in disbelief at my lack of observational skills. Now knowing my location, I headed through the conifers, down to the stream. The trees by the stream were swaying slightly as the water gurgled along by my side towards Trevelez.

There was a café open in the oldest part of town. A beer disappeared in double-quick time. The smiling son of the owner brought me some bread and a little pot of freshly cooked stew made from beef and runner beans. Dipping the bread into the stew, I realized how hungry I was. Some bleating goats wandered along the street and were as curious about me as the locals who were sitting close by, gossiping and nodding in my direction. I took off my boots, stretched my legs out so that they rested on a railing, and just admired the view down the valley towards the Mediterranean Sea, which was somewhere in the distance. It didn't really matter as this felt like a blissful ending to a wonderfully exhausting day.

PHOTO CREDITS: Julian Worker


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