Spain (3)

	It was nice to have mum along for a time so she could see how everything was working out with the truck. We headed off from Hort de Gloria the next morning (see page 2) and drove up to Echo Valley. The road rises steeply on good concrete up the valley and then turns to rough gravel. Still nursing hangovers we carried on past the climbing spots and to the top of the pass. We shook the heavy heads off with a short ridge walk which turned out to involve some good scrambling and a healthy exfoliation of mum’s legs by the gorse bushes (whilst she assured us this was quite healthy and people pay a lot of money for this kind of treatment).

We moved on the next day and stopped in at Guadeleste, a small town built into a rock outcrop. Jools had papers to read for a Journal, so mum and I went exploring. It was well worth the visit and a wonderful discovery. One advantage we have at the moment is that we are outside the tourist season and so places are very quiet. We may have had a different experience here if it was full of Shaz and Baz from the coast.

	From the castle at Guadeleste I could see the mountain pass behind which we were going to take to Castelles. It was recommended to us by Jonathan, but we would need to go round the intervening village of Beniarda as it was too tight for our truck. We spent the rest of the afternoon abusing olive trees down narrow tracks trying to get round the town. Finally we gave up and just asked a local if we would fit through the town. “Si, si”. (It were tight I tell thee).

We spent 3 days with Anne, Flash (the dog) and mum walking and jibber jabbering in Castelle . Anne and Jeff have bought a wee place in the sun to renovate, thankfully miles from the coast but in good reach of excellent biking, walking and climbing. Jools had a cracking full body massage from Anne and mum stuck pins in anything that moved (except Flash). After mum returned to UK we carried on in totally the wrong direction for Africa.

On recommendation from Anne we headed to another climbing area. Chulilla is a small village perched on the side of a large rock ourcrop in a george surmounted by a Roman/Moor/castle/fort/ruin/banana. It was quiet in the village as we arrived but some preparations were being made in the town plaza for a fiesta.

	I was quite optimistic we were in for an evening of dancing, music and fireworks. We sat quietly eating our tapas and drinking our beer soaking in the Spanish atmos whilst two amigos set about putting up the fireworks. Somehow quietly and dare I say a little underhandedly, the locals sitting around with us got up and moved way. It was then that we heard the first explosion.

	Not a bang, no cap guns go bang, penny bangers bang, this was an explosion. I nearly shat. We grabbed our beers (if I’m going to die I want a last drink) and ran for the safety of the bar. It was 1.00pm and obviously time to blow up the village. I have thankfully never been in war zone, as I began to experience the loudest noises I have ever heard. No EU directives here, just enough explosives to make the bar staff steady the bottles on the shelves and small drops of blood from the ears. I enquired after the ringing stopped what the f**k was going on. Apparently It was the local area’s Patron Saint’s day. This explains why when I was cowering in the bar plugging my ears with my fingers, that one of the regulars gesticulated that I shouldn’t. I think it was some sort of penetance. We returned, shell shocked, to the truck. We climbed the next day on Dec 5th in shorts and t-shirts.