Eucalyptus
and almond blossom. The church square and picnic zone look and smell
wonderful in the bright morning sun. The square is dotted with
tourists taking photos and enjoying the quiet of the simple but
attractive church and the trees bedecked in the pink of the blossom.
I do the same as I take my photos and enjoy the ambience but this is
probably my only connection with these holidaymakers. I look at my
watch, it is 10.50 am and I turn and leave the square and the idyllic
scene and take the first steps towards my destination.
The initial
part of the walk follows a newly created path alongside a busy road
and soon deposits me at the foot of a 900ft climb to a mountain pass.
I start climbing, conscious of the heavy weight on my back as I pass
through a grove of eucalyptus and eye the summit of the climb high
above me. I cross a stream-bed, a thin trickle of water still
tumbling down the hillsides after the recent heavy rain in parts of
the island and know that soon it will be dry again. Despite the
weight in my pack, I climb fairly comfortably, only stopping
occasionally.
Soon, I reach the forestry track that signals I am
close to the pass and I stop to look back to the village, now
hundreds of feet below me. Another ten minutes and I am on the pass,
the biggest climb of the day behind me. A landscape unfolds. A stormy
sea of rock stretching into the distance, frozen in time. Vast,
gaping valleys, soaring peaks standing silently, almost mocking,
challenging those who dare attempt to scale them. Ravens croak above,
swooping, tumbling, as they display their mastery of the air. In the
background, the Atlantic provides a beautiful backwash to this
natural masterpiece. I turn and continue on my way, passing a few
large groups of walkers before reaching the forest.
The comfortable
path enters a green tunnel in the laurels and heathers, the edges of
the path bedecked in huge, yellow sow-thistles', like giant flowers
from some horticultural 'Jurassic Park'.
Massive agave line the paths
and small but vivid cineraria and wild marigolds embroider the spaces
in between with an intricate web of colour. I reach a crossroads in
the path and sit some distance away to escape the large group of
walkers that arrive and shatter the peace.
After a while, I realise
that they are not going to leave anytime soon so I flee along the
path, back into the trees where I continue my reverie as the silence
returns once again. The ridge I am walking along delights with a
kaleidoscope of scenes passing in front of my eyes, like a slide show
of my favourite pictures. With my camera clicking furiously, I cross
the valley road by a small car park. Tourists, reluctant to stray too far from the sanctuary of their cars, watch as I head back into the
mountains, climbing towards a prominent peak. I reach a stone bench
at the side of the path and take a break. Sitting in the sun, the
lizards tentatively poke their heads from underneath the rocks and
plants at the side of the path. I drop pieces of banana and flapjack
and suddenly, there are dozens of them rushing from all directions,
their desire for the tasty treats overcoming their natural shyness. A
group of walkers pass me and the last of these wishes me 'buen
provecho' and, my appetite sated, I continue along the path, which
is now just a narrow, rocky ledge, high above the valley below.
As I
round a corner, the terrain changes slightly to a more open,
moor-like scene. Forests give way to a vast sweeping plateau, riven
with terraces and dotted with occasional lonely farmsteads. A
goatherd shouts as he drives his large flock up a steep terraced
hillside, a scene that probably hasn't changed for hundreds of years
Up
here is like being alone on top of the world. The land falling away
to the bright sparkling ocean below. Ancient tracks and paths lead
ever downwards towards the cliff edge and suddenly, there it is!
On
a rocky promontory, far, far below, lashed by the waves and the wind,
stands the lighthouse that marks the end of the world. I
stand and stare, my feelings ebbing and flowing like the waves
crashing on the rocks around the lighthouse. Here, I feel small and
insignificant, like a small boat bobbing in a stormy sea, searching
for a light to guide it home.
The
walk back is long and arduous. I am tired after my earlier exertions
but my body takes over and the hills are defeated one after another.
I know that I do not have enough daylight to complete the return walk
but this does not concern me. I watch the sun slowly sink behind the
islands in the west as the day draws to a close.
Soon, I am utterly alone. All of the day walkers have long gone and as the shadows
lengthen, I take ownership of the day. This is my time. I have earned
the right to be here in the dark of these magnificent mountains. I
switch on my head-torch, a small puddle of light engulfs me. I have
found a light to guide me and I turn the bow of my boat and head for
home.
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