Striding in the Sierra

To the north of Madrid, still bearing patches of snow despite it being the middle of June, is the Sierra de Guadalajara, its peak visible from large areas of the city. It was to the Siete Picos, one of the mountains in the range, standing at 2138 metres, that our new expat friend, Jon enticed us with a minimum of persuasion. We don't get a huge amount of serious exercise and, while neither of us are huge hiking fans, we've got some decent boots and are always willing to explore new areas of Spain.


The trip didn't get off to a particularly good start. After Jon had mis-read the bus timetable, meaning we missed the bus at Plaza Castilla, we then collectively missed the train at Atocha, thanks to the reduced bank holiday Metro service. So despite our early start (7am) we didn't make it to our starting point of Puerta de Navacerrada until midday after three trains and a protracted coffee stop in Villalba. The journey, and company, was extremely pleasant though, the railway offering spectacular views of the countryside as we climbed to what is - in winter - one of the busiest ski-runs in the world (unsurprising, given its proximity to a city of 3.6 million people.)
After a steep start, we made it to the top of the ridge that runs between the peaks, lunching in the shade of the first. The path varied between a broad, sandy track that would have been fine for bikes to a rocky scramble, barely visible among flowering gorse bushes, boulders and twisted scotch pine. The sheer abundance of flora and fauna was wonderful, the ground strewn with wildflowers of all colors tended by some amazing insects, with birdsong the only sound further down the slopes as the topography changed and the trees became taller and thicker.Jon is an experienced walker and holds a Mountain Leader qualification, and was keeping us on the right track (even when it wasn't visible) with his map and trusty compass. We only made one minor wrong turn, and that was when we were faced with a path that looked much steeper than Jon had anticipated. A quick attempt to find another way down the mountain demonstrated that, short of abseiling or making a massive detour, it was in fact the path. It was pretty steep, but that increased the enjoyment as we scrambled over rocks and trees following a line of mini-cairns marking the route til we arrived at an ice-cold spring where we gratefully refilled our water-bottles. There was hardly any breeze and we were sweating buckets in the sunshine.
5pm saw us arriving in Cercedilla, the terminus of the mountain railway, sipping a well earned cold beer on a cafe terrace before catching the train back to Madrid. We were slightly foot-sore, with touches of sunburn in places, but otherwise unscathed. Jon had plans to go to the cinema before catching an overnight train to Lisbon - Kate and I could hardly keep our eyes open!!

to Bilbao

Suddenly we were in Spain.

It was as abrupt as that. Not that our arrival in Spain was unintended, but it was certainly unheralded. No passport control, no "Welcome to Spain" signs, just a sudden change in the style of the traffic lights and the languages on the signs becoming Spanish and the unintelligible Euskara. It was an abruptness that we found elsewhere in the Euskal Herria, or Basque Country, most obviously in the landscape, with there seeming no middle ground between mountain and sea, or countryside and town, the coast road to Bilbao perching on the narrowest of passages between towering, forested hills and the heaving Atlantic which even on this calm, sunny day breached the sea defenses at one point to give Sheena a good drenching. Goodness knows what the road is like on a stormy day.

Bilbao caught us by surprise. Suddenly we were there, an urban sprawl surrounded by peaks and hills, offering us no sense of location. We were so surprised that we hadn't had time to properly look over the directions given to us by Miguel and Beatriz, our hosts for the evening, and so promptly got lost and it took us a stressful hour to find our way back out of Bilbao and take another run at things. In the gloomy rain that had now descended, matched by our moods, Bilbao was looking far from attractive. However Miguel's directions turned out to be perfect, and he and Beatriz were superb hosts, as we sat around their kitchen sharing food and wine, attempting to communicate - Miguel spoke pretty decent English but as Beatriz didn't, and our Spanish is infantile as best, it was Miguel who did most of the talking!

After a good night's sleep Bilbao was looking more attractive in the bright sunshine of the next morning. Armed with Miguel's advice, we ventured into the city and found the stunning Guggenheim Museum, which definitely lives up to its hype; a row of beautiful bridges linked by a pleasant riverside promenade; a lovely old town full of gorgeous, balconied buildings and a score of May Day demos and marches.
In the afternoon we headed out to the coast, to be treated to more spectacular views of forested slopes crashing into the ocean as we puffed our way up winding mountain roads. We finished up at Gernika, the heart of the Euskla Herria, the site of the Basque Parliament and of the atrocities which heralded the advent of carpet bombing civilian targets when Hilter's Condor squadron practically destroyed the town during the Spanish Civil War. Then, after a siesta, a gentle drive back to another very warm welcome from Miguel and Beatriz, and an evening spent sharing beer and photos.

So definitely worth the stress of getting here.