WALKING FROM FRIGILIANA
The largely
ancient village of Frigiliana stands on one side of a fertile valley in the
foothills of the Almijaras mountain range near Nerja, in the province of
Granada in Spain. The valley is thickly dotted with modern houses, and one or
two older farm buildings. ( Photographs from the 1980s show uninterrupted
cultivated fields and groves.) At the back of the village is a steep rock, upon
which once stood a Moorish keep or fort, the site of a desperate late c16
siege. On the other side is a precipitous gorge, in which flows or, in dry
periods trickles, the Rio Higueron.
The gorge marks a
sharp boundary between timeless, rugged, rural Spain and the “Costa” Spain of
tourist and retiree development. Most of
the hilly or mountainous land around Frigiliana lies in a National Park, so
there are no buildings to desecrate the pine-covered slopes and valleys, unless
you count ancient Moorish stone watercourses (acequias) and ruined shepherds’ huts.
Thus, on one side
of the Higueron gorge near Frigiliana the landscape is green and wild. But on
the other side, modern expansion of the village has roared right up to the lip
of the gorge, there to halt precariously, with a screech of architectural
brakes, and await the day when the face of the cliff (a mixture of limestone
and softer rock) will surely crumble and send swimming pools
and terraces into the abyss. (At the siege mentioned above, by Christian troops
of Moorish rebels, many of the defeated Moors did throw themselves into the
gorge – see blog…)
One odd effect of
this arrangement, “Costa” crowded up against “Campo”, is that one can be
walking on the Park side of the gorge, picking a way along the ridge, with
wonderful views of mountains to the East and North and sea to the South, when
suddenly the view to the West opens up: a row of stacked white holiday
apartments at the same eye level and seemingly only a long stone’s throw away.
This is disconcerting; but also provokes the thought that, should one suffer an
accident, help could be halloo’d for, if the wind stood right- and the season
was one when the apartments are occupied.
The gorge of the
Higueron is deep, but mostly wide enough not to provoke claustrophobia. There
is at least one exception: to the south of Frigiliana the gorge (though no
longer extremely high) narrows to a vicious canyon (I am prejudiced by vertigo)
where there is no way forward for a walker, or mule, except by an artificial
open ledge on the rock face, ending in a long, arching, open on both sides, stone
stair over the torrent.
By contrast, the
valley floor North of Frigiliana is, for several kilometres, wide enough at
most seasons for the river to share space with a dry stony track, though the
proportions of river and dryness alter very frequently.
On either side the
cliffs, covered in vegetation and tough trees, rise up, mostly pretty
vertically. But there are opportunities here and there for steep paths.
One of these goes
up not far North of Frigiliana, just past what is claimed to be a Moorish
reservoir, which has the present appearance of a ruined and mis-measured lido
(big notices forbidding swimming reinforcing the illusion).
This path is part
of the “Gran Senda de Malaga” (a big circular trail) and also serves a network
of local walks. It is steep and twisting, and involves some rocky scrambling.
Walking up is a 200m plus ascent, with a slow emergence into the sunlight
towards the top. Pine trees and wildflowers and herbs, and a changing vista
back across the gorge are the pleasures of the climb.
One doesn’t often
meet any other hikers, so a sense of romantic isolation is rapidly manufactured
(remember Frigiliana is not far away).
There has been
recently one notable interruption to this idyll. As we walked one day up the
gorge towards the path, a small convoy of four or five off-road motorbikes
roared past in a smelly cloud. When we turned up the climb, we could still,
annoyingly, hear their echoes in the gorge. As we laboured up the path, we
gradually realised that the revvings and
stutterings were coming from above: the wretched machines were somehow being ridden
or coaxed up the trail we were also climbing.
The mechanical
ascent must involved a lot of dismounting and manhandling bikes over rocks, so
we foot-sloggers were in fact overtaking the bikes. This meant that, in
addition to the ghastly noise of distressed engines, we were eventually
inhaling, not the clean smells of the valley side, but undispersed diesel
fumes.
We had to halt
several times several times to allow the vandal column time to get ahead to a
tolerable nasal and aural distance. When we emerged at the top onto the valley
ridge with its spectacular views, there the riders all sat, eating oranges. A
Spanish-speaking member of our party remonstrated with them politely concerning
their various pollutions (not to mention the damage caused to the path).
They shrugged and,
discarding the orange peel, soon revved off down the Gran Senda. Luckily we
were then headed in a different direction.
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