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Alpujarra Riding Another Day at the Office Sometimes you don’t want to share a secret. Sometimes a ride is so good you want it to belong to you and you alone. To start with I thought this ride should be just that, my secret. But people are always saying to me, “Why don’t you write about the rides you do and publish it”. Great I think. Then every Tom, Dick & Harry will be invading my patch. But now I’ve decided to go public for the first time. Mainly because the ride I’m describing isn’t on “my patch”, it is in southern Spain. The second reason is that there were two others with me and one of them is going to be telling all his friends about it back in England, ‘cos its one of those rides that stays in the memory for a long time, a very long time. Start point is Neguelas. Where? I hear you say. Well think of Granada, no not the cruddy service station of dehydrated all day breakfasts, but southern Spain. One of the country’s greatest cities and in the past, capital not only of Spain but also the Moor’s from North Africa - a race that controlled this area of Spain for hundreds of years. A race whose mark has been well and truly stamped on the area with evidence of their era remaining everywhere you look. We journey to this small village set on the south western edge of the Alpujarra’s from our base in the mountains by van and pass through Lanjaron, commonly described as the gateway to the area, but it is not the area’s main town. This is Orgiva, further to the east. Lanjaron is famed as a Spa town of renowned bottled water. But it is so much more than that. A link to the new motorway from the coast to Granada, takes us past an old bridge that once carried the principle road into the area. Legend has it that during the second uprising of the Moriscos (mixed race Spanish and Moors), the bridge was destroyed in an attempt to prevent the Christian armies from entering their territory. However a Christian monk is said to have leapt the gorge, complete with sword and crucifix in hand, and together with the remaining soldier who followed him, braved volleys of arrows to place timber planks across the divide, thus opening the bridge again – yeh right! Once on the motorway, heading north, it is only a short time before we can see Neguelas and the mountains behind, through which we will be riding. An imposing backdrop as we drive along the valley floor. We arrive at our start point. Driving up through the narrow streets we wend our way to the main square, the church dominating one side, as is common in nearly all villages in this area. Women, young and old, are cleaning flower vases from the church in the large circular fountain outside in the mid-morning sun. The church continues to hold significant power in this part of Spain. Three lycra-clad mountain bike riders could not create a greater contrast. We fill our water bottles in the local fuente (fresh water fountain), make a note of the altitude (938metres) and ride uphill from the square to turn right, following a wooden sign saying Lanjaron, down a narrow street into, and across, a dried up river bed. It’s the end of August and the snow-melt which feeds the river has long ceased to reach this far down stream. We begin a long climb on a dirt pister (road) and survey our surroundings. High rock faces close in on us on both sides and the temperature is a relatively cool 28°C.
After this first hour the scenery takes on a new dimension. The high rock faces have given way to a thin pine forest. Plants that people use to shut out the nosey neighbour grow wild here, creating a homely feel high above the valley. At the head of the climb we can see a rock sticking up like a sentinel. Wind and rain have shaped it into either a woman or an Egyptian Pharaoh depending on your own interpretation. We stay on the main pister, following signs to Fuente Fria ignoring the turn off to La Magara, and the link to another epic ride with a group of Spanish riders - but that’s another story! Here the landscape changes again. The land is parched and the surface gravely. All around us the hills wear grey faces, but a few kilometres on and the land changes again, this time to moor land. How many more faces does this gorge have? At the next junction we bear right at a sign posted Neguelas. Route finding is tricky, it’s new territory for us, and at the next left-hand hairpin, we hesitate and make a wrong turn, before deciding to ignore the track to the right and climb. At the time of our ride, the road was all but washed away, still climbing, climbing - we reach a sharp bend in the road at just over 2000 metres. I reach it shortly before the other two and move to a natural mirador (viewing point). The valley lies spread out before me, with the Rio Torrente at its base. The views are breathtaking. Looking down, I spot an Ibex or wild goat on an outcrop below with two young beside her. An extra special glimpse of this rare and shy animal. From here, it’s a short ride to the head of the gorge and our highest point at just over 2200 metres - the start of the descent. We again admire the Vale De Lecrin laid out like carpet before us. As we swoop down the drop we notice that many fincas are occupied and being renovated with straw roofs, rather than the more usual launa. They do not appear to have any electric or mod cons in a valley where the 21st Century still awaits admission to a world steeped in the depths of history - but for a few men in lycra on their cycling machines. This region of subsistence farming is a place where the long arms of the EC don’t reach. Farming here is all but self-sufficient in an environment that, on the day we passed through, was idyllic, but could in winter become extremely harsh and isolated. We have some trouble locating the correct turn as we drop downhill. If we continue to descend we will end up back at Neguelas - not our intention at all. We spot the turn off to Sierra De Lanjaron painted onto a rusty metal arrow and climb slightly, before a fast descent to a wire gate in the fence of the Sierra Nevada Natural park. We meet another track on a hairpin bend and turn right, dropping a couple more hairpins before picking up a sign to Tello. Now we know we are on the correct route. Taking the right at the next fork in the road, we pass through another wire gate and drop downhill on a track that becomes less defined as we drop, disturbing more Ibex as we do so. The run finishes with a rocky technical switch back through trees into a woodland glade, that could easily be in the French Alps or Scotland. Yet another contrast in scenery. Casa Forestal de Tello is deserted, but an impressive group of buildings nonetheless. We sit in the glade and top up on food. The sun is shining and there is no sound other than the birds and the wind blowing gently through the trees. Tranquillo is a favourite Spanish expression, and places like this sum up the phrase perfectly; “take it easy”. We ride away on a feint track leading from the bottom of the glade, slightly downhill, through a wood and across a stream, then cycle steeply uphill to emerge on a path leading to the front of a remote finca. Water is taken on board from the fuente in front of the house and we exchange pleasantries with the inhabitant, a wiry man in his late forties, deep-tanned from years of sun, and probably as hardy as they come. Finally we make our way out and up the dirt pister. It’s a sharp climb up to the main pister on a winding track past a finca that seems to have been in renovation for years. A caravan with an English number plate sits empty alongside the main building. Another long-term “dream”...? Eventually we meet another track climbing out of Lanheron, and turn left to join it. A short sharp climb brings us to the main high level pister by a gate in the park fence. Turning right we are now heading towards Puente Palo rest area on a fairly level track, although the altimeter shows we are still climbing, very gradually. Progress is speedy though, thanks to the relatively smooth surface in this section. We pass the sign indicating 2km to our next port of call. Ignoring all the little turns left and right we arrive at the woodland picnic area, popular with locals at the weekend, but only accessible by hire car, 4x4 or those unmindful of their car’s suspension. With 44km completed, I guess we have around another 26 to do. There is little opportunity therefore to enjoy another Spanish idyll, not least on finding, as is usually the case - the café is closed. So we stock up with fresh water and press on. Downhills can be fast, they can be technical, they can be a combination of the two. This one drops from roughly 1700 metres to 950 in 12.5kms. So it’s fast. It’s also on wide dirt pister, but it’s as rough as hell, especially at 50kph. On a full suss, it’s no sweat, but on a hardtail, it’s a buffeting, jolting ride, a bit like the original Kamikaze on Mammoth mountain in the States, I guess. (A little aside here, why was everyone so surprised Myles Rockwell won the worlds at Sierra Nevada last year? Didn’t he win the Kamikazee run a few years ago? The similarity in terrain should have put him favourite.) The sense of excitement is increased by the ever-present threat of cars coming in the opposite direction around the next bend. We hug the right hand side, only moving over when we can see the coast is clear. At the end of the downhill, we have hit the road coming up from Orgiva into the Alpujarra mountains. We turn left to join it as it makes its way up through Pampaneira and the other white villages of the region. 71kms from where we started home now awaits us, and it is with relief that we roll into our village’s familiar arms, weary but elated at a day truly lived. Another day at the office. |
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The climbing is steep, relieved only by a short section of downhill, and continuing past a modern interpretation of Moorish architecture. We cycle through a tree-lined stretch and across a river bed. A car passes us and the occupants smile a disbelieving smile. We catch glimpses of the car as it climbs ever higher until it disappears from view, and exchange knowing glances at what this means for us. In the first hour we climb 1500metres in 6.7 km.