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.