Rambling in the Rambla

I know I hinted that I might write about the Caminito del Ray, but the moment has passed and we have moved on. So instead I will talk about a 15 mile hike we did from the coast to allegedly Spain’s prettiest village.

We hiked up a dry riverbed, or much more poetically, rambled up a rambla.

Ramble: verb (or noun. Take your pick)

A walk taken for pleasure in the countryside

Rambla: noun

(In Spain) A dry riverbed used as a road or thoroughfare

An ‘interesting’ view of the rambla

Ramblas are as common in Spain as streams are in the UK. Mrs P and I find that they can be rather bleak places though. After all, they are just dry riverbeds. Can you imagine what your average English stream would look like if it were dry for nine months of every year? Rusty old bikes and shopping trolleys tangled amongst the undergrowth along alongside bits of tree washed untidily downstream. The bottom a churned up mess of stones and rubble. Well, that’s a bit what Ramblas look like.. Dusty and forlorn and containing more rubbish than you would usually expect to see on a ‘scenic’ hike. I’m being unfair though. They are compelling places filled with interesting sights and wildlife.

It’s not all dust and detritus in the rambla

But, ramblas go places and this one, out of Nerja, in southern Spain, led up to Figiliana, described as ‘The prettiest village in Spain.’

Rambling Rose a.k.a. Mrs P

So, we donned our hiking boots and set out along this dusty rambla. Past the wrecking yards, ramshackle homes and businesses on the outskirts of town and under the huge viaduct that carries the A-7 motorway, ever deeper into the river gorge. Outside the town and beyond the industrial fringe of Nerja the character of the walk perked up.

Why is everywhere we go in the top of a bloomin’ great hill!?

We passed semi-abandoned mules and multiple gateways leading to homes hidden behind walls of dense bamboo. Occasionally, we were passed by cars as they rattled and shook their way along the rough river bed heading for who knows where and leaving two ever dustier hikers in their wake. We spotted other hikers, notable by of their looks of grim determination beneath fine layers of dust.

No. We can’t take him home with us.

After about one-and-a-half hours and six miles, we plunged deep into a narrow, and shady part of the river bed. A high sided gorge.

Gorgeous gorge and even more gorgeous Mrs P

An enjoyable scramble along the gorge ended in a very steep track up to the fabled “prettiest village in Spain” Frigiliana.

After the peace and quiet of the rambla I just don’t think we were in the right mood for such a hotspot. and our sudden entrance into the hustle and bustle of this tourist magnet came as quite a shock. Coach loads of visitors thronged an area that really didn’t feel big enough to comfortably accommodate them.

Don’t get me wrong. It was all terribly pretty and highly photogenic. Well, the two or three car free streets that we tourists dutifully circulated around were. It was fun though, to watch the multiple, newly-wed couples we saw bedecked in their finest wedding attire, tottering down improbably steep streets, the bride in her dangerously high heels, following in the wake of ever demanding wedding photographers. I imagined their abiding memory of their wedding day being a broken ankle and a visit to the hospital.

Frigiliana. The view from above

Quick! Take a picture before another bride and groom photobomb the shot.

A quiet corner

Dusty and unkempt as it was, we were only too happy to escape back to the peaceful rambla and start the long walk back to the coast.

Mrs P, trying to order an Uber while I’m not looking

After a couple rather hot hours we arrived back at Nerja and the sea, where, in stark contradiction of our earlier snub of Frigiliana’s lack of authenticity, we positively bathed in the atmosphere of the tourist bar we immediately dived into.

A fantastic sunset made for a great end to a long but fun day. Even better, I got to see a man who totally misread the waves, get a soaking

Note man on right who is about to get wet.

Back at the campsite we performed our usual evening trick of trashing the inside of Gandalf by seemingly emptying every cupboard in an attempt to cook a meal comprising just a few ingredients.

Gordon Ramsey would be horrified

Next, we head for the cold, cold mountains, where we always feel most at home. From +28 degrees C to +2 degrees C less than a two hour drive away.

WHY, OH WHY!?