A Little Spanish City and Little Else

We spent close to a week just in the city of Sabinanigo. We didn't do too much in all honesty. I got my blog up to speed during our once a day visits to the city's many bars. We relaxed in the parks for a good portion of the day and we quickly learned what our favourite siesta spots were. And we discovered some good camping with a soccer oval next door. On one day I climbed one of the light posts that would have been 30m high or so. I put my harness on and climbed the ladder but still I'll freely admit it, it felt very airy.

Towards the end of the week we drove back to Torla where Pablo rented a via ferrata kit from the rude guides that work in the city and had previously taken the others for some barranquismo. I'll be blunt. They really aren't nice people and to do business with them really feels like a scratch on one's concious. But we did. Out of little choice and price comparisons, nothing else.

Once Pablo had a kit we drove 5km down the valley to the picturesque town of Broto and parked on the fringes. A steep gorge with a large waterfall tumbling into it sits almost in the centre of town. We walked the five minutes to the base and gazed up for a while before clipping in. 

The first sections weren't the best. Low down the climbing wasn't technical, exposed, loose or slippery and I didn't even clip in for the first few sections. Then it crossed sections compromised by water; slippery, loose and simply bad climbing. It wasn't the best section of via Ferrata I had done.

Higher up the route traversed a shower of sorts. Water drips off the rock in plentiful enough quantities to get you soaked by the end. I took it very fast, trying to prevent that from happening. I'll just say I succeeded to an extent. Pablo wasn't so lucky, coming out very wet at the other end after giving the slippery ground more care than I did.

Following this there were several ladders on vertical rock and a tunnel. Some serious chimney skills were needed to stop your feet from entering the fast flowing water pounding across the “floor”. We both came out the other end with dry feet I'm happy to say.

As we popped out some guys in neoprene suits were swimming through the gorge, headed for the abseil point that marks the most technical bit of the barranco that sometimes follows the same route as the via ferrata. I watched them enviously, their presence arousing some kind of longing in me to have that kind of independence in the mountains. Europe would be a great place to get into it with well written up routes and plenty of fixed abseil points. 

The route crossed the gorge and followed its steep sides, revealing several spectacular waterfalls. We went for a walk in one section where the climbing stopped and while trying to traverse to another gorge Pablo managed to fall in up to his hips, saturating a good portion of his body for the remainder of the trip.

The sun was setting by the time we got back to Broto. The track pops out in the town through an alley that unusal passes practically through someone's house. Don't ask me.

Days later we had to return to the guides in Torla that we swore never to visit again. We had just rented ice axes and crampons and needed helmets as a safety precaution in the mountains, something we could seem to obtain anywhere else. I was not happy to support their business again.

This weather had to go before we entered the mountains

Los Pirineos

Pablo and I drove out of the valley of Albarracin late in the evening, once again winding through its lower reaches to gain the plains below, a long flat expanse housing a commercial airport for some strange reason. No towns of significance is close but weirdly I saw the planes of domestic airlines sitting on the tarmac.

We made good progress along the national road towards Zaragoza, stopping again in Burbaguena, the town with the impressive cathedral where I got the car stuck, and Daroca, the beautiful city that sits in an arid depression against mud cliffs. This time we headed down into the city itself and discovered it is actually popular with tourists and the Ayuntamiento has truly recognised their city's attributes, installing paid parking and various other amenities. We parked outside the walls and strolled through the streets, first stopping at the six-spout fountain outside the gate then passing through the arch providing the main access to the city, strung between two towers. It was late. We walked around a little, bought an empenada to share and sat by one of the city's five churches of substantial size, disproportionate for its small size.

Half an hour up the road we found camping in a desert-like valley on the fringes of a small Aragonese town. We set up the tent on good ground but as per usual I had to spend a little time removing a couple of prickly plants, capable of holing tent floors, from underneath. It was 11pm or so. After bad sleep the night before I had a tablet which sedated me into a deep sleep quickly.

The following day we drove the remaining hour into Zaragoza. It was a Sunday meaning my favourite bargain supermarket was not open but we still stayed in the park I found the last time and an adjacent cafe for most of the say. I did some research, called a friend from back home I hadn't spoken to in a long time and emailed my family who (well in all honesty only one of them) were worrying after a week of silence, instigated by the seemingly impossible prospect of finding WiFi in Albarracin.

We left the city at four and guessed our way out of the city, successfully navigating onto the Autovia that one takes to Huesca. One and a half hours later we were nearing our destination. For a long time before the immense mass of the 3000m peaks of the Pyrenees loomed over the hills and them in turn over the plains we were driving through.

Torla

We took an interesting route from Sabinañigo to Torla. I don't think it was the shortest but it got us there. It was tight and windy, many corners demanding speeds of a mere 50km/hour. Once in Torla itself it took a while to find the camping. Well that's what we said. We did take several false turns and had to ask a couple of people but it might have gone a little faster if we weren't cruising round the town at 20km an hour listening to music, enjoying the surroundings and taking in the crisp Pyrenean air.

Once we found the camping it took a lap around just to find the people we were looking. As we came back round we found Pablo's friends camping on a slope right by the entrance. I have no idea how we missed them. I was introduced to everyone. There was Diego and Cristina, who were a couple and two of Cristina's cousins. That being said over half the people were practically a family. Then there was Nerea, the only person already there from outside the “family”.

We left the car outside to avoid the excessive parking fee, our choice costing us a 50m walk each time we wanted to visit the car. We grabbed some food and went back in to join them for dinner. The sun had already set, yet again. Since I've been in Spain I don't think I've once eaten dinner before sunset or slept before 11:30. My body is definitely adjusted to the Mediterranean lifestyle.

The next day we went took a bus from the centre of Torla that deposited us higher up the valley, within the confines of the national park. The seven of us starting hiking, wandering along a road like “track”, gazing up at the towering crags and massifs of the Monte Perdido group. The glacial scarring in the valley was obvious and we took side trips to numerous dramatic waterfalls, plunging from pool to pool, making their way down to the more gentle part of the valley where Torla is situated.

It was definitely more gentle mountain activity than I am used to. We set out at about 2pm and finished up at about 8:30, allowing plenty of time to sit in the wake of the majestic waterfalls, the breath of the colossal volume lightly moistening your face. At one point Pablo and I deviated from the track, dashing down to the river and following its rocky shallows until yet another waterfall barred progress. A traverse above the fast flowing waters of the river and a bit of a scramble gave way to tufts of grass, providing an exit. We also spent a lot of time in the alpine meadows higher up, not pushing beyond the cirque that makes the beginning of the ascent to Monte Perdido proper. The occasional animal, difficult to determine exactly what it was, frolicked in the distance and the evening light played in the low grasses, illuminating the faces of wildflowers.

The next day we drove up the valley of Bujaruelo. Again we left late. A few kilometres before the end of the valley the road changes to dirt and everybody seems to lose the ability to drive. After seven overtakes and a few uses of the horn to alert other drivers to my presence we were at the end of the road, along with another hundred cars or something ridiculous, some camping, others hiking in the mountains.

After walking a little way into the mountains we came back down and I took a swim in the river underneath Ponte Bujaruelo, throwing myself head first into the icy, crystal clear waters underneath. After a few seconds I gasped and quickly swam to the shingle bank, pulling every part of my body from the snow melt. Suddenly I felt warm. What was otherwise a cold day had turned warm in contrast to the water temperature. For some reason I went in another three times. I learnt the length of time the water was bearable for and swam accordingly. I felt refreshed afterwards, lying on the grass, sub-summits of three thousand metre peaks poking over the top of the boreal forests lining the valleys.

The following day we pretty much just went for a drive. Most of it was narrow and windy, demonstrated in the many signs claiming “Adelantemientos Peligrosos”. Not a single overtake was taken. Except the three that were done on a straight in a gorge. Oh, and the straights before the towns. But never through them. Ever. Entering Ainsa a very weird thing happened. There was a random traffic light with no intersection or pedestrian crossing. It was red. I saw it at the last moment and went straight through.

Later I'd see a sign saying that if you go over the limit the light appears red. The car in front of me most definitely was and not without reason, the road suddenly changed from 90 to 50. I'm not exactly sure what the lights are supposed to do other than make the act of speeding more dangerous. It could easily cause someone to slam on their brakes, skidding and doing additional damage.

Ainsa is a beautiful town, perched on a low hill above a silty, wide river valley, the Pyrenees appearing as one wall of steep slopes capped with barren, rocky outcrops. We had lunch in the square and walked on the city walls. The wall is divided into two, forcing one to descend and then reascend to gain the other section. But not Pablo and I. We climbed up a few metres, walked across a narrow, 10m section with no railings then did a down climb. It was a little technical and I helped Pablo work out how to lower himself off the edge and find the tiny edges you have to use as footing.

Leaving the town we passed through rolling country side before turning directly into the bulk of the mountains themselves. All of a sudden the road rounded a blind corner and entered a very tight gorge, a chasm almost, with an equally tight road providing passage through it. For a long while I sounded my horn round corners and drove very cautiously, expecting a car to come the other way any minute. There was only a couple of spots on the whole road cars could fit through side by side. But other cars never came. After a while I saw a sign saying that it was one way. I had nothing to worry about any more.

We pulled over at a carpark at the entrance to the gorge only to discover that Diego had obviously stopped early. We weren't sure what to do so we called them and discovered that they had stopped for a hike. We went for one of our own and soon noticed them on the other side of the gorge, far below. They had managed to park in a place that made their desired hike a bit longer and we had coincidently found the right car park. We met them outside a little hermita, nestled into the cliff face. Underneath there was a very tight passage in the rock with an even tighter hole in the ceiling providing an exit. Everyone had fun grappling to get through the hole in the ceiling and working out how to pull their whole body through against the marauding force of the overhang.

On another day everyone else booked on a tour to practice barranquismo, the Spanish word for canyoning, but I declined. It was through an easy canyon and was quite expensive for a mere three hours. I couldn't see it being worth it. I spent the time writing, reading and doing a little climbing on the wall of a local bridge. This actually proved to offer great climbing.

When the others came back they told stories of how erratically the guides had driven on the tiny roads to access the barranco and of how rude they were. They hurried them through the canyon in a curt manner, interested only in money, not the value of offering a quality experience.

The next day the others headed back to their respective homes in the general vicinity of Madrid and in the adjacent region of La Mancha. We ate together one last time and then they left but Pablo remained. Having no real plans he decided to travel with me a little longer.

Bouldering in Medieval Spain

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As we passed through the tunnel, re-entering Albarracin, it was already late afternoon. We drove straight up the hill onto the plateau and I parked at the main parking, wanting to climb on a block a mere 50m from the car. I sent a 6a on the first block with an aggressive heel hook to slopey top out. I would later send the neighbouring 6c but I knew from the very start that it would take several sessions. The moves are very strong and need to be thought out and experimented with.

In a natural alleyway of sorts I went on to do an easy feeling 6a+ and a 6b that needed a very technical but static twist of the foot to grab one of the upper holds, leading to a heartbreaking top out, so typical of Albarracin. Once you grab the lip the work is far from done.

My week in Albarracin all kind of blends together. We found great camping close to a rocky outcrop with spectacular views into the valley. I climbed once to twice a day for two to three hours a session. We spent a lot of time lying on crash pads by the river where I camped on my first night, a place which seems well known for offering a great siesta. On any given day at least five cars stay there for hours, doing little but eating, sleeping, reading and listening to the sound of the fast moving water. Occasionally the smell of weed smoke drifts in with a breath of warm air.

We spent a lot of time in the town. One day we spent two hours wandering amongst the walls, marvelling at the occupational health and safety. Or rather lack of it. Albarracin's walls are still an exciting place. In one bit you can walk along the top with fifteen metre drops on each side and no railings. In others the stair cases are just incredibly narrow with an unprotected drop on one side. In a video I'd seen climbers jumping from one tooth of the wall to the next. Although easy it seemed crazy while there with huge consequences should you overbalance. The city seems compact from this high up, as if you could walk from side to side in two minutes. People feel absent, hidden in the depths of the city's alleyways. We stayed until an hour and a half before sunset, long enough to watch a light come over the city, changing the tone of the walls from cream to an earthy orange. 

With each day of climbing I felt the pads on the tips of my fingers becoming stronger. Not once did I draw blood on Albarracin's red sandstone. I pushed many problems at 6a and a considerable amount of 6b, including one very scary 6b+ highball. The line was vertical and crimpy, sporting many interesting moves high above the ground and a crux that scared me enough that I didn't feel like trying it the first time I reached the hold beneath it. Its a monster, some 6.5m high. When I topped it and looked down at the pads far below I couldn't believe I'd topped something that high with such small, technical moves. 

On one day we headed up to the town safety fortress. You can't usually enter it except via special arrangement. This is enforced by a solid steel door guarding the only probable entrance. I took my thongs off and climbed up onto some rocks. My feet were two metres above the ground before I reached the wall proper. I climbed up another 2.5m on small holds before I could grab the top of the wall. I hurled myself over. I felt so exposed now inside, as if the whole town could see me. A couple walked up towards the entrance and saw me. “Entrada?” They asked. “Mas o menos.” I replied. More or less. There is an entrance if you want to climb up 4.5m like I just did. 

I dashed around on top, admiring this unique perspective of the town. The town is definitely at its most impressive from here, the fortress being close to the very centre and at the perfect height. I did a full lap, keeping only my head poking out over the top of the wall, trying not to attract unnecessary attention. There's little inside besides wooden walkways, designed to protect archeological projects, and the ruins of a few buildings that would have once housed weapons and supplies.

Getting back down was easier than I expected. I grabbed the inside of two blocks making up the wall and lowered myself down. My feet found two small holds from where I could grab the lip. I delicately lowered myself back onto the rocks from where I could get back to ground level. I was in the clear. I love a good little urban climb from time to time.

When Pablo had been talking to someone in town they recommended we check out a certain bar that attracts a young crowd. On the night we chose to do this we walked to the terraced square above the cathedral before descending a flight of stairs into the alleyway below. On a lower terrace we got talking to an artist with incredible skill in monochrome that had immigrated to Spain from Cuba. We found him sitting, painting on the balcony outside his house, listening to music through a speaker attached to his computer. His taste in music was defined and strong. At times I found myself struggling to listen to what people were saying because the music was rigorously stimulating my thoughts. 

 He had a good grasp of English and a clear accent which he used to give some interesting insights into how he sees Spain. He told us how he hates traditional Spain because judgments formed the first time you see people and disputes can last a life time. He told us about how people clearly know about you and have a strong opinion of you before they have even met you. I agreed with him that these elements of traditional life seem good for nothing. I'd seen the same thing in the Italian community back home and have always thought of it as petty and small minded, immature even.

On one of the nights I set out at about 7:30 to climb alone. Some guys approached me and asked me if I was going to Arrastradero, a sector literally meaning “the dragger”. I said yes. They'd had trouble finding English speakers to ask. It turns out that they themselves were from Germany. We got talking, found the sector together and ended up climbing together until it was dark. One of them climbed at an extremely elite level, 8a. It was impressive just to watch him climb. To flash Esperanza, a very technical 6c, as if it was nothing. 

One of the others climbed at a grade that was similar to mine which was nice. They were all very friendly, fun people to be around and I ran into them every day from then on. On my last day in Albrarracin one of them came to struggle with El Cocodrilo with me, a one move 6b problem that is all of half a metre high. You start on your back before lifting up your weight and turning yourself completely upside down to arrive on top, straddling the head of the crocodile. It's definitely an interesting problem.

I was definitely sad to be leaving Albarracin at the end of our week there but I'm sure I'll be back. This year even. Its perfect in so many ways. You have an amazing historic town coupled with some of Europe, if not the world's best bouldering. It has so much to offer. Now I know all the ins and outs of the place. Where the best of the camping is. Which sectors I like to climb in. The ones I missed out on. My favourite problems. Where you can find friendly locals that sit out the front of there house all day, every day. There's not many places outside of my own state I know like that and its a special experience to feel that kind of connection to a foreign place.

Meetings in the Strangest of Places

The sun was still strong as I passed through the dusty valley, blaring down relentlessly despite being a mere two hours off sunset. As I exited its gates a section of tooth-topped wall appeared over a hill. I was very close now. I was excited to say the least. Signs demanding you slow down for the town started appearing and after two more bends I was gazing up at it. High walls lower down, mainly serving to retain dirt, were capped with houses and in turn churches and public buildings on top of that. A fortress sat at the left fringe, once a refuge for the town's population in case of attack. A high, improbable wall on an adjacent hill serves to fortify the right side of the city where I stand.

Albarracin has to be one of the most beautiful towns I've seen in Europe. It sits in an arid landscape, the only trees limited to a plateau like area 5km out of the city and around the rivers. Once it would have been one of the biggest centres in the region, reflected in the strength of its engineering and the grandeur of its landmarks. Today under 2000 people remain in this beautiful, albeit isolated monument to the Aragon of old.

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I did not have time to explore the town when I first arrived. I frantically drove around, trying to find signs of where the bouldering might be through trial and error. I passed through the tunnel under the town and drove 3km through a spectacular ravine which would have once helped to protect the city from intruders. The floor of the ravine is perhaps the only easy access to the town that would have existed from that side. I could see no sign of the bouldering. I found a place to make a three point turn and quickly retreated.

The next road I took lead to the tree covered plateau and somehow managed to be correct. As I drove higher an outcrop of rich red rocks beaconed to me, sitting high above the surrounding landscape under the full grasp of the intensity of the sun, a mere fragment of the perfect sandstone that exists here. At the moment Albarracin has about five thousand problems that are actually written up in the guide. It seems there would easily be scope for that many again. 

I easily found the climbing once on that road. Shortly after the road leveled off I found a carpark on the left with a few vans and people that were clearly climbers. I parked here, quickly grabbed the crash pads and my gear and sprinted off to make the most of the daylight I had left. By daylight I'm talking 15mins until the sun set and maybe another 45mins of twilight after that. 

I stopped at the first climbing area with other climbers and started trying a random problem. I asked someone what grade it was and he said 6b. I got my hands on the lip second go but from there could push no further. The top out was incredibly slopey and had at least three more moves until you could get your body above the lip, all desperate slaps for slopes high above the ground.

I gave that one a rest and instead climbed a 6a. The top out was still slopey but it felt manageable. I had it done within three pushes. By that time it was dark so I packed my things and headed back to the river where I rested earlier. I set up my tent on the other side and started cooking at about 10:30, just enjoying the sound of the breeze in the trees and the water rustling the rocks on the river floor, all alone.

The next day I woke late and headed into town. Parking in Albarracin is free and easy to find which is always nice. I walked up a few steep, tight, cobble-stone laneways which deposited me besides the colonnades ringing the town square. The Ayuntamiento sits on the outside, displaying both the national and regional flags. Tourists, all seemingly domestic, stand on the tiled floor next to it, posing for pictures against the pillars with the surrounding landscape extending behind. 

I searched for WiFi but found nothing. A few months before a friend back home who had spent close to a year on exchange in Spain had introduced me to one of his friends that lives in Escorial, just outside Madrid. I wanted WiFi for the sole purpose of checking on our meeting arrangements. Oh well, I would have to drive an additional 60km to the arranged meeting time and risk having to wait a long time. It was no big deal.

I walked through the streets, saying hello to a few of the numerous locals who sit on ledges outside their houses for most of the daylight hours. I gazed up at the cathedral, standing on its terraced square. I crossed town, delving into its depths, getting into alleyways where I started to see no tourists at all, purely residential areas of town with no car access. I simply wandered. 

I spent three hours in the town just enjoying the atmosphere before I moved. At 2pm I got back in the car and begun the drive to Huelamo. Little did I know at the time but Huelamo is a village of around 200 people. Pablo, who I was meeting in Huelamo, would later tell me that the locals had said, “So you're from Madrid and he's from Australia? You're meeting in Huelamo?! He won't show up!”

I spent most of the drive to Huelamo guessing. Huelamo didn't appear on any of the signs so I was relying on my poorly loaded phone maps. I had a vague screen shot of a route so roughly new a couple of towns I needed to pass through. It took one hour to drive the 57km but all of a sudden I found it. A sign on the left pointed to Huelamo which stood on a hill one kilometre away. I don't know how I arrived there but I did. As I drove up the hill I saw a lone figure silhouetted against the sky, standing on the summit of a pillar of rock, towering above the city.

I started walking through the town, contemplating what to do next. I asked a few locals about WiFi and they directed me to one of the the town's two bars. They have one bar for every one hundred heads of population. I also asked if they'd seen any “extranjeros”. Outsiders. They said no. Being a small town I was hoping that word would have spread fast when someone from out of town had arrived. Maybe he wasn't here yet.

On WiFi at the bar I discover that Pablo had arrived the night before and was staying in a place called, “El Baile”. I was a little confused as I guessed it was a dance studio.

I knocked on the door. No answer. I sat down, thinking I'd give him ten minutes before I try and find him some other way. He turned up within five and introduced himself. It turned had the villagers had indeed put him up in the local dance studio. We had a standing offer to do the same that night which we gladly accepted.

We sat down at the bar, at that point two complete strangers, to get to know each other a little. The hospitality afforded to us was unmatched. Before long we a pitcher of water was brought over and we were given a plate of pasta each and some meatballs. I soon found out that the owner also wanted to take us to a neighbouring village to watch a traditional game of bowling.

In the evening we were seated in Agus', the owner of the bar and a real personality, four wheel drive. The drive to the next village took about half an hour. The game was certainly interesting. Two teams play off at once in a small, dirt arena. Using big balls they aim for ten pins, widely spaced, with the intention of knocking as many over as possible. The distance they shoot from is rather close and on their second shot even closer as they get to throw from behind.

View from our "accommodation"

On the way back we took the mountain road where Agus showed us his skills with the handbrake and told us about how he never pays fines because the only thing in his name is his car. “And the police won't take that!”, he ensured us.

Back in Huelamo we spent a bit of time at the bar before going to a barbeque with the town's young people. There is a small group of people in their twenties of so, a few kids and a few in their thirties. Huelamo, sadly, definitely has an ageing population. It was two in the morning before we were in bed on the floor of the dance studio. As I was getting off to sleep I couldn't help but think about how accommodating the whole village had been to us as outsiders and how far out of their ways they'd gone for us.

In the morning as we were leaving they said we should return for their festival later in the year. I told them I'd love to. The truth is I would but probably won't get to.

For the Love of the Open Road

I fly past three trucks in one go, courtesy of a huge straight stretch of tarmac plastered on the arid landscape of Aragon. Aragon is almost like a desert. Huge open skies. Large expanses of sandy or sepia toned earth. Barren hills.

 The trucks were probably going about ninety. In the interest of saving fuel I probably should have sat behind them, but I didn't. I love being able to stare out over the open, unobstructed landscape in front of me. Despite the journey between Lleida and Zaragoza not being that interesting I thoroughly enjoyed the drive. It felt like freedom. That might sound cliche but I don't know how else to describe it. The rush of warm air through the two open windows while going over 100km an hour, the distance I can see over the dead flat plains in front of me.

I camped in the desert that night, wedged between two sand hills. After setting up my tent in the dark I laid out on a crash pad for a long time, enjoying what the night sky looks like with no light pollution for the first time in ages.

In the morning the heat hit early. Lizards skimpered across the baked earth, perhaps also looking for asylum in the shade. I quickly packed up and drove the remaining distance into Zaragoza. I passed along wide boulevards, one terminating in a round-a-bout with a huge obelisk at its centre. Eventually I managed to find a park in a quite residential area, a mere 500m from the river opposite the city's iconic cathedral. I spent most of the day under the shade of the oaks, by a fountain, amongst high buildings. At about one pm the city entirely cleared out, the heat causing the population to flee for the air conditioned comfort of their homes. In the peak of the heat I ended up dozing off, my head resting in a weirdly comfortable root of a huge tree.

In the evening I finally left the city. I bought some food at a supermarket that had strangely good prices. Five kilos of a combination of nectarines and two varieties of peaches cost me all of two euros fifty.

I struggled to navigate while driving, looking at my phone every so often but mainly just aiming for the outskirts of the city hoping to see signs to the Teruel, the capital of a province by the same name. I did soon enough. Then a hail storm hit. The intensity was ridiculous. The wind screen wipers couldn't cope with the intensity and I just had to stop and wait it out. It lasted about 15mins. I got out of the car, expecting to see torrents of water gushing through the sandy earth. There was nothing. No evidence at all of the intensity of the storm.

For some reason none of the signs for the national roads pointed to Teruel. Only the Autovia signs. After being tricked into getting onto the Autovia several times I finally just commited to the national road. It took me where I wanted to go. It seems the signs are a clever ploy to try and get you to pay tolls. Thankfully I didn't have to pay any.

About 40mins out of Zaragoza the drive improves drastically. It enters a semi narrow valley with several nice towns before reaching the beautiful historic city of Daroca. Very little of the city is modern. It's amazingly well preserved. The city is built in a depression against the fragile mud cliffs of Aragon, also the material of the city walls. Most of the city walls are a mere shadow of their former constructions, the only available building material, a gravelly kind of mud, having been eroded away by hundreds of winter thawings and the ravages of wind and rain. 

There are also several towers made from imported stone, same as the city gates, but the vast majority of the city has a kind of cohesion to it, a fusion that only comes when the only building materials are excavated from the near vicinity.

I stopped at a couple of other spots that caught my fancy. First a tower on a hill guarding the town in the valley below. For some reason all the towers in Aragon seem to be locked. I never succeeded in getting up any of them. Then a very distinct, Aragonese style, cathedral appeared over the top of the buildings of a small town. It seemed so grand for a town of that size so I went and had a look at the statues feeling the niches on its facade. 

From here I saw a fortress on the hill. I found a street leading towards it and took it. At the top it turned to dirt. I drove a little further then parked, exploring the fortress and towers on foot. For a small, unknown village this place seemed to have a lot to offer. I got some curious stares from the locals, perhaps because they aren't used to tourists in Czech cars driving into the upper reaches of their town.

When I returned to the car and attempted to drive off it was stuck. I cursed. One of the wheels was repeatedly spinning, almost in air, on a sleek rock. I had somehow managed to park it in a place where it couldn't get traction. After fifteen odd goes I got it free before driving very carefully back down to meet the sealed road.

I got within 4km of my final destination before seeing a river which forced me to stop. After several days in the intense heat it was well overdue. I laid down on the smooth stones of its shallow, fast moving water, soaking my whole body. Its hard to describe how good it felt after the time I'd spent in the desert like landscape of that region. I spent two odd hours there, the sun threatening to set on me before I had time to explore the place I'd come here for.