Instead of wandering off to the pub down the road, as we have for the last decade, we wandered off to Spain.
In fact, we went to Spain to walk. I’m getting into hiking as I’m no longer able to jog painlessly due to backache.
So if I want to keep on fishing in the back country in my dotage, walking is the best way to keep fit.
Through the wonders of the Internet, management found an outfit called Walk Andalusia, who organise guided hikes in the Andalusian mountains. Generally I am not great on doing guided stuff as I feel you are constrained. But believe me, in Andalusia you’ll miss out on virtually everything without local knowledge.
Any fears of a rah-rah, group-hug holiday were instantly expelled when we were met by Walk Andalusia owners Paul and Vicki. They were superb – totally relaxed, warm, friendly and really happy to be taking people out walking in the sunshine.
Initially we thought we were going to be staying in a hotel, but Vicki put us in one of the houses that are typical of Mediterranean villages; whitewashed stone walls overlooking narrow streets and a veranda on the roof where you can sip a brewski as the sun dips over the Sierras.
No sooner had we dropped rucksacks when we were pointed in the direction of a taverna, which served up foaming jugs and Tappas, followed by a siesta (natch) and then a New Year’s Eve party.
I knew the game was on when the band, two English expats and a Spanish bass player, struck up the chords to the Rolling Stones 1964 classic ‘Tell Me’. I hadn’t heard that for about 40 years; nor it seems had anyone else as the dance floor was soon heaving.
Then we went to the Plaza to see the New Year in. It was surreal; at 11.50 the square was deserted, 10 minutes later you couldn’t move as Cava corks popped and crackers lit up the sky.
As the church bells chimed, we sang Auld Lang Syne, but only us foreigners, as anyone called Paco wisely wouldn’t be seen dead warbling out-of-tune Gaelic lyrics.
Bird-eye views
The next day we did what we had come to do; go walking. The mountains plummet almost straight into the sea, so most panoramic vistas of beaches are from several hundred metres up. Everything is a bird-eye view.
But what struck me most was the winter sun. It had been freezing when we left England barely 24 hours ago, and here I was in a T-shirt and sweating. I kid you not; the Costa del Sol has something like 300 days of sunshine a year as the mountains form their own ecosystem blocking rain clouds. You need to carry at least a litre of water as you may dehydrate.
We walked for four hours, sometimes along tracks that seemed almost vertical, and management did start to wilt slightly at one stage. Nothing serious – I just beat her up the path with a stick promising cold cerveza and more tappas at the top. She recovered with alacrity.
The next day management opted for an easier route, which was about an hour shorter. We trekked up a slope and then down into a canyon and it was some of the best countryside I’ve witnessed, which is saying something when you come from Africa.
It is also wild; you can see where boar have been rooting and sometimes Ibex look down from crags so steep you wonder if they have wings.
The final day we hiked up a bubbling mountain stream, which is unusual as the Costa del Sol is arid. That is their only drawback; there is no fly-fishing.
But once again, it was magnificent – aromatic pine trees and rocky cliffs covered with stretches of feral scrubland reminiscent of those classic Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns.
All too soon, we landed back at Gatwick Airport where the temperature was -3C.
I started work at 7am the next day. But I was up for it. I need to earn more money to do it again next year.
