A snake came to my water trough… and other surprises.
One thing I’ve never fully understood is why, when we escape from our daily routines, life is suddenly full of surprises. That being the case, our year in the Pyrenees should have provided more than its fair share of the unexpected. And so it has. In particular, discovering the treasure trove of Aragon, the province of Spain on the other side of the mountain, has turned out to be a adventure that, frankly, we didn’t see coming. As everyone knows, who has the most rudimentary knowledge of geography, the Pyrenees define the boundary between France and Spain. To the South, as to the North, the mountains give way to fertile silt plains where pastoral activities are replaced by arable farming. On the French side we would probably be passing through fields of maze. There would be dairy cattle, exploitations of kiwi fruit and maybe some cereals. But here, as we turn North from Huesca, heading towards the hills of the Sierra de Guara, we traverse a fertile landscape that the ancients would, no doubt, have seen as a cornucopia. The newly-acquired Yeti, with me, Kathy, and Alf on board, head towards a collection of giant rock pillars that look like the gates to a mythical world worthy of Tolkein. But first, we must pass through an agricultural zone where, in mid-July, the wheat harvest is already stowed away. Only straw needs to be baled up as bedding for the animals. And it’s here, without warning, we come across our first surprise. There is something strange in the wheat fields. I drive the car up on to the verge and, before I have time to engage the hand brake Kathy and Alf are spilling out, cameras at the ready. I am just behind. In fact, the buff shapes that we’d seen scattered over the field are vultures. At the approach of the two photographers, they lumber away, struggling to get their bloated bodies airborne. It is obvious they have gorged on something and, scanning the field, I think I recognise the remains of a deer. But I’m wrong as, moving closer, we discover the clapped out cadaver of a wild boar. It is as though its bristling, muscular body has been abruptly deflated by Vultures struggling to get airborne some powerful puncture; for all that remains are the skin and the bones and the coarse hair. Such is the brutality, but also the tidy perfection of Nature. Beyond the wheat fields, our journey takes us through almond groves, olive groves and vineyards. What luck there should be an abundance of everything needed for a good life: bread, wine, olives
and olive oil, almonds and almond flour. And with abundant water pouring down from the Pyrenees, with the sun and the fertile soil of the plain, we discover compact oases of fruit and vegetables that, in Spring, launch out of the soil as though in a hurry to get it all over with. The invaders of this favoured land - principally the Romans and the Moors- must have thought themselves in paradise. Flat fertile land, however, ends abruptly and, after threading through a narrow gorge, the first destination is reached. The lake of Vadiello was created by damning the ravine at its most constricted point. It’s one of numerous such projects on the southern side of the range, many instigated by Franco and serving an additional purpose of flooding Republican villages. Here is what the tourist brochure has to say about it: This solitary, idyllic spot with the dam, the river and its gorges and the monumental ridged rocks surrounding it, is a must for anyone really interested in the Guara Natural Park. There you can drink in the silence of the countryside at only fifteen minutes*1 from the city of Huesca. It occupies part of the River Guatizalema gorge, at the foot of the Ligüerri Synclines. Close to the Dam you will find the Escomentué gorge, the Diablo, the Lazas and the Palomo Canal, where there are numerous eagle nests. The visitor can trek to points such as the San Chinés rock cave hermitage or the caves at San Cosme and San Damián. Or he can watch the many birds of prey that live there. For the most daring, two exciting activities are to climb the synclines or to venture into the caves in the area. Not a bad description, but one that doesn’t quite prepare us for the mind-boggling grandeur we encounter.
Vadiello
To begin with, the geology here is quite remarkable. It’s a landscape of limestone and conglomerate shaped by wind and, more importantly, by water. The Sierra de Guara is gouged through with a crazy network of gorges where, seasonally, snow-melt will wear away just a bit more of the already deep river beds, thus perpetuating a million-year process of erosion. The conglomerate which has only recently, in geological time, emerged from a drowned existence, bears the scars of its past life: the marmites, for example, great holes pummelled away by the rolling of trapped boulders in river currents or tidal zones, or the strata of pudding stone with its mineral mix of river-bed pebbles cemented colourfully together. Weird pillars that appear to have emerged from the ground as a result of some fantasy construction project are, in fact, the result of the collapse of such natural masonry.
Rock formations bearing the marks of previous sub-aqua life I’d been hearing about the Sierra de Guara for years, mainly as a destination for those who are attracted to the sport of canyoning - the descent of canyons involving abseiling, jumping off sometimes high ledges into pools of water far below, swimming, wading and walking. Not my cup of tea but big business in an area that until recently had been in decline. Indeed, the abandoned village of Rodellar has been completely resurrected thanks to the growth in mountain sports. The discovery that there was also some good walking in the Park, however, increased the imperative to take a look. We booked an apartment for a couple of nights, enlisted the support of our good friend and set off on a voyage of discovery. Leaving the car by the dam, we set out on our first trek of the trip - the Hermitages de Vadiello. For the first half hour of the route, overwhelmed by the geology, cameras were almost obsessively engaged in capturing images of our bizarre surroundings. And it was only, perhaps, the tedium of the dull trudge up a wide track lined with a monotony of rosemary and small pines that eventually subdued the initial excitement. After an hour or so of this, a hairpin turn-back brought us on to a rougher path heading towards the famous cluster of hermitages, shrines and monasteries. It requires a forceful flex of the imagination’s muscle to picture life here a hundred years ago as, today, many of the buildings are in ruins with little of interest still intact. Only at the water trough at the hermitage of San Damien were we temporarily diverted by a party of French walkers doing the same route but in the opposite direction. But then, less expected, as we stooped to replenish our
water bottles - a long slender snake cooling its body in the pool. Relaxed, apparently unaware of, or indifferent to, our presence it was looking so much at home that I couldn’t help but be reminded of the lines of D H Thomas: A snake came to my water-trough On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat, To drink there. In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree I came down the steps with my pitcher And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before me. *2 And we did wait. We waited until the creature had completed its watery business which it followed with a baffling disappearing act. Our next surprise was waiting just a few hundred metres further along the trail. The Sanctuaire de San Cosme is a long structure built, like many such hermitages, directly into a conglomerate cliff. It’s plastered cadmium yellow walls appear to glow warm, even on a dull day and along with the tall cigar-shaped cypresses flourishing in its grounds they emanate something of the mediterranean. The impression is contradicted, though, by the great wall rising above it. Wind-streaked and stained with the guava of nesting vultures, this natural edifice speaks confidently of Aragon, rather than of the sea. Such a shame that on approaching the sanctuary’s iron gates we find them locked and bearing a warning that trespassers will risk the jaws of a, no doubt, religiously-trained guard dog. We turn away just as dull transforms itself into damp and a fine drizzle encourages us to quicken our steps along the path back to the dam and the shelter of the car. A little over an hour later we round a hill to get a first sight of our next destination - the hilltop town of Alquézar - and we seem to have travelled back to a hot Spanish summer. Alquézar could, justifiably, be described as the tourist capital of the Sierra de Guara. With its multiple hotels and guest houses, its numerous mountain guides clamouring for business, its
Alquézar
well-maintained paths and lofty walkways stapled to the cliffs, its cafes and restaurants.… It’s a town that knows when its on to a good thing and how to make the best of it. Setting eyes on it for the first time, however, we are again taken unawares - not simply by the way the cluster of pink and ochre buildings appears to have grown out of the mountainside but how it seems in perfect harmony with the austere and empty spaces of the Sierra. Dominated by the fortified structure at its highest point, the raggle-taggle collection of buildings sheltering below provide evidence of a surge in activity, and consequent population growth, during the mediaeval period. Tall houses, narrow winding streets, squares and arcades provide more than a passing nod to the Moorish culture which dominated this area between the eighth and eleventh centuries AD. Indeed, the name Alquézar comes from the Arabic, variously translated as, palace, fort, or stronghold; all of which make perfect sense. Very pleasant it is, too, to explore the meandering streets, to lose oneself in the network of shady thoroughfares, to arrive without warning in a sunlit square or on a boulevard treating us to views of olive groves or contorted rock formations. It was not until 1067 that Sanchez Ramiro (son of Ramiro I, first king of Aragon) finally ousted the Moors, who by this time had been severely weakened by civil wars and internal power struggles. The fort was transformed into a Christian stronghold and a Catholic church was Open courtyard inside the fortress established so that, now, a visit to the Castillo reveals an abundance of evidence of its multicultural past. We linger in the cool of the building in no hurry to abandon the richness of its interior - the carved mediaeval capitols, the metre upon metre of frescos illustrating biblical scene, the soft hues of its very fabric and the gallery of vaguely menacing religious art and artefacts. From high up we look over the town, observing the apparent chaos of rooftops, as would the kites that patrol the air around us. The first day of our trip to the Sierra de Guara, is almost over. We must head off now to the village of Alberuela de Laliena to find our lodgings. It has been a full day; a day with, at every turn, a new sight, a new experience, something new to learn, something to puzzle over. Tomorrow we will tackle the ascent of a gorge near Rodellar. We have no idea what to expect.
*1
More like 45 minutes!
July 25th, 2016
*2
From the poem “Snake”.