|Trevélez from the dirt track|
Today’s wanderings were more hiking than walking: “más senderismo que caminar”, you might say. In the apartment is a pamphlet showing a map of the town of Trevélez. It is not to scale, it might even be accused of being topographical. A path is shown leading out of the town, sort of eastward, to one Molino Altero – which might or might not mean Pile Mill as in piles of money. Off I set, believing, as all ex-airmen ought, in the map.
The way started as a fairly wide concreted camino rural sin numèro (Un-numbered country road, there are lots of those in Spain). The sign-post warned of the Junta de Andalucia’s contribution to its upkeep, so I wasn’t expecting much. A sign placed by the local council suggested a speed limit of 30 Kph and was recommending the route to cows or warning of their presence: one of the two.
After about a kilometre it became a dirt track, which remained fairly wide Whilst it remained so wide I passed a few horses and fields and fields of market gardening. As the track narrowed, the trees closed in. Races burbled down the hill, but still no sign of a Molino, of Piles or otherwise. One could imagine a trail of breadcrumbs or the flash of a red hood between the green trees.
|One of the many streams|
So beautiful, so peaceful, with the sound of the bells around the goats’ necks counterpointing the water rushing down the hillside. Eventually I saw a signpost, which indicated that I was travelling in the right direction. A source of some amazement, I confess. At this point the track become a narrow, rocky path, like something the smugglers in Moonfleet might have used. Often the streams and rills crossed the path making the rocks slippery or indeed covering them completely. I kept going until I had travelled about four kilometres. The track became wetter and wetter and ever more narrow. It did not peter out, but the woodland became more dense. I turned back. On the way back, I came across one contender for the title Molino Altero, it didn’t look close enough to the river or one of the many streams. No, it didn’t have sails, either.
I made my way back to the signpost, and followed the arrows in reverse. This was not the way I had come. There were some tremendous views over ths true valley and the lower quarter of town. Being afraid of heights and prone to feeling dizzy I felt quite brave taking the photos, it’s true. On this winding narrow path tacking round the contours I met the only other person out walking. A bandy-legged fellow of about 60, accompanied by 3 short-legged and vociferous dogs. He had an old flip-top motorola glued to his ear, but apart from that he could have been a goat-herd on his way down to have Franco’s greatest innovation for his lunch: Menú de Dia.
Eventually I made it back to civilisation. I hadn’t reached my goal, but so what? It was a beautiful walk on a beautiful day. It doesn’t come much better than that.