instead of the authentic sports bag, I had brought with me a proper backpack, whereas Michael had borrowed a bright red cotton duffel bag, with straps that were just bits of string. This was authentic gear, and, even with just a toothbrush and some food, the straps were already cutting into his shoulders.
As we walked, the sun burst through a gap in the rolling black clouds and in an instant the air was thick with huge flying ants. There were so many of them that you couldn’t help breathe them in – although they were so large that they didn’t quite fit up your nostril and thus were able to make good their escape. It was an eerie scene, and the more so as the sun dried the vegetation and the very earth started to steam.
Soon we reached a venta – a roadside inn. ‘We could stop for a c-coffee here, perhaps, no?’ suggested Michael. ‘And we could ask the way…’
‘Heavens, man, we’ve only been walking for fifteen minutes… But yes, why not?’
So we stopped and dropped our packs. There was nobody about except for a fat lout who was propelling a mop about the place with a pronounced lack of enthusiasm. The lout looked at us without interest and shambled behind the bar to get a head of steam up in the coffee machine. Michael got the map out, and the notepad upon which Manolo had sketched the route. In the cold light of day and at the head of the trail it looked more baffling than ever. There was a sketch of what looked like railway sidings, a pine tree (beside which Manolo had written ‘ pino ’) and a rock (labelled ‘ tajo ’), then a long, wiggly dotted line that passed neatlythrough the spiral binding of my notebook to our destination on the next page.
‘Hmm,’ said Michael in an unconvincing sort of way.
‘What we know for sure,’ I assured him, ‘in fact the only thing we know for sure, is that we have to keep the peak of Aljibe on our right at all times.’
‘N-no, left,’ said Michael.
‘I’m sure he said right, Michael.’
‘N-no. He said we had to keep ourselves on the right of it… thus it’ll b-be on our left.’
‘I’m not so sure. But how are we to know which one Aljibe is?’
‘It’s got a radar d-dome on the top.’
‘No, that’s the Sierra de las Yeguas, and we have to keep either right or left of that…’
Michael looked uncertainly at the map and scratched his head. ‘What’s that p-pine tree there for?’
‘I can’t remember what Manolo said about the pine tree. It’s very nicely drawn. Maybe it’s just a particularly good one.’
We finished our coffee and Michael tried asking the lout for directions, but to no avail. Still, with our hearts full of ill-founded optimism, we plunged into the park. Within an hour, we had lost all trace of a path and were blundering about up to our chests in the exuberant vegetation of the cork oak forest.
Now, a cork oak forest may be a pleasant thing to look upon, with its exotic tangle of flowering cistus, dog roses and gorse, but it’s a rotten place to be blundering about in. It was no longer a matter of keeping peaks on our right or left; we couldn’t see beyond the next tree trunk, let alone out of the woods. Our boots had become caked with heavymud; we were scratched and bleeding, confused and a little irritated by the way things were going.
We came to the top of a rise, where we could see above the trees. ‘B-bloody hell,’ said Michael. ‘It looks like the middle of the Tasmanian rainforest.’
It was an odd parallel to draw, as neither of us had ever been anywhere near Tasmania, and what we were looking at was cork oaks. But I knew what he meant. On all sides of us stretched an unbroken forest of trees, seemingly trackless , without clearings or breaks. A small flock of vultures circled aimlessly above a distant rise. A little disenchanted, we plunged back into the trees, heading, insofar as possible , to the northeast – where in sixty kilometres or so the forest would come to an end.
We clambered
As we walked, the sun burst through a gap in the rolling black clouds and in an instant the air was thick with huge flying ants. There were so many of them that you couldn’t help breathe them in – although they were so large that they didn’t quite fit up your nostril and thus were able to make good their escape. It was an eerie scene, and the more so as the sun dried the vegetation and the very earth started to steam.
Soon we reached a venta – a roadside inn. ‘We could stop for a c-coffee here, perhaps, no?’ suggested Michael. ‘And we could ask the way…’
‘Heavens, man, we’ve only been walking for fifteen minutes… But yes, why not?’
So we stopped and dropped our packs. There was nobody about except for a fat lout who was propelling a mop about the place with a pronounced lack of enthusiasm. The lout looked at us without interest and shambled behind the bar to get a head of steam up in the coffee machine. Michael got the map out, and the notepad upon which Manolo had sketched the route. In the cold light of day and at the head of the trail it looked more baffling than ever. There was a sketch of what looked like railway sidings, a pine tree (beside which Manolo had written ‘ pino ’) and a rock (labelled ‘ tajo ’), then a long, wiggly dotted line that passed neatlythrough the spiral binding of my notebook to our destination on the next page.
‘Hmm,’ said Michael in an unconvincing sort of way.
‘What we know for sure,’ I assured him, ‘in fact the only thing we know for sure, is that we have to keep the peak of Aljibe on our right at all times.’
‘N-no, left,’ said Michael.
‘I’m sure he said right, Michael.’
‘N-no. He said we had to keep ourselves on the right of it… thus it’ll b-be on our left.’
‘I’m not so sure. But how are we to know which one Aljibe is?’
‘It’s got a radar d-dome on the top.’
‘No, that’s the Sierra de las Yeguas, and we have to keep either right or left of that…’
Michael looked uncertainly at the map and scratched his head. ‘What’s that p-pine tree there for?’
‘I can’t remember what Manolo said about the pine tree. It’s very nicely drawn. Maybe it’s just a particularly good one.’
We finished our coffee and Michael tried asking the lout for directions, but to no avail. Still, with our hearts full of ill-founded optimism, we plunged into the park. Within an hour, we had lost all trace of a path and were blundering about up to our chests in the exuberant vegetation of the cork oak forest.
Now, a cork oak forest may be a pleasant thing to look upon, with its exotic tangle of flowering cistus, dog roses and gorse, but it’s a rotten place to be blundering about in. It was no longer a matter of keeping peaks on our right or left; we couldn’t see beyond the next tree trunk, let alone out of the woods. Our boots had become caked with heavymud; we were scratched and bleeding, confused and a little irritated by the way things were going.
We came to the top of a rise, where we could see above the trees. ‘B-bloody hell,’ said Michael. ‘It looks like the middle of the Tasmanian rainforest.’
It was an odd parallel to draw, as neither of us had ever been anywhere near Tasmania, and what we were looking at was cork oaks. But I knew what he meant. On all sides of us stretched an unbroken forest of trees, seemingly trackless , without clearings or breaks. A small flock of vultures circled aimlessly above a distant rise. A little disenchanted, we plunged back into the trees, heading, insofar as possible , to the northeast – where in sixty kilometres or so the forest would come to an end.
We clambered
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