Vacation in Las Alpujarras

Feeling a desperate need to escape the heat in Granada, David and I did what most Europeans do in August: we took a vacation. Folks around these parts can be divided into two basic groups—beach vacationers and mountain vacationers—and since we both get bored out of our minds after a day or two of lounging seaside, we definitely count ourselves in the latter group. So on Aug. 5 we packed up our camping gear and hopped on a bus to the Alpujarras, a region of mountains and valleys on the southern slopes of the Sierra Nevada that's been described as the "Switzerland of Spain."

Thanks to the snow melt from the sierras, the lands of the Alpujarras remain well watered through the summer. When the Moors began to settle the region in the 12th century, they implemented their hallmark terracing and irrigation systems to take advantage of this abundance of water and, as my Rough Guide to Andalucia says, "they transformed the Alpujarras into an earthly paradise." After the fall of Granada to the Catholic monarchs in 1492, the Alpujarras became the Moors' last refuge until their complete expulsion about a century later. (Well, almost complete expulsion: according to my guide book, two Moorish families were required to stay in each village to teach the new residents—Christian peasants from Galicia and Asturias who were sent to repopulate the region—how to operate the complex irrigation systems.)

Our first destination was Trevélez, the highest recognized municipality in Spain, with an elevation of 4,875 feet and a population of around 800. We stayed at Camping Trevélez, a slightly cramped but friendly place about a kilometer outside the village.

Our first night, I enjoyed an exceptional meal at the campground's restaurant, which had a pretty dining terrace with views of the Trevélez valley. Eager to partake of some of the local specialties, I ordered fresh-caught river trout stuffed with the famous local ham. My plate arrived with a whole, pan-fried trout, topped with thin slices of the sweet, air-cured ham, and with sides of habas con jamon (broad beans with little chunks of ham) and patatas a lo pobre (sliced potatoes and bits of green pepper slow roasted in olive oil). The ham inside the trout was part crispy, part rendered and melty, mingling beautifully with the fresh flavor of the trout. To top it off, this enormous plate of food was only about $10.

We'd been considering joining in a campground-sponsored guided hike to  Mulhacén—which, at about 11,000 feet, is the tallest peak on the Iberian Peninsula—so the next morning we asked the knowledgeable gal at reception if there was a hike she could recommend to get us primed for the Mulhacén trek. She was happy to oblige with a hand-drawn map of a loop that ascended the heights above the Trevélez valley, then dropped down to the river below before returning to the town. A three- to four-hour journey, she said.

We learned an important lesson that day: we were in no shape to climb an 11,000-foot mountain! It took us seven hours to complete the hike. Turns out the heat we'd been experiencing in Granada wasn't just the typical August thing—it was a full-on heat wave rising up from Africa, and its effects were felt up in the Alpujarras as well.  The heat and beating sun definitely slowed us down, but the truth is, we're a little out of shape too. (In my case, maybe a lot out of shape.)

That said, the hike was incredible. We wound our way up out of the village, along a path through little plots of farm and fenced-off pasture, past many traditional Alpujarran mountainside dwellings—little stacked-stone affairs with sod-topped roofs, built half into the hillside. Most were abandoned or in partial/seasonal use, especially as we climbed higher. The landscape was mostly open—tall tufts of grass, low shrubs, flowers—with periodic patches of shade trees and frequent streams, waterfalls or overflows from the ubiquitous acequias (irrigation channels built by the Moors) crossing or even joining the path for a time. Butterflies and pretty little turquoise-winged grasshoppers were constantly fluttering across the path at our feet.

At one point, after a large cascade of water across the trail, the terrain got scrubbier, rockier, drier and devoid of trees. We were high above the valley; it was a windy, lonely place, and the only sign of civilization were a few stone houses improbably clinging to the mountainside on the opposite side of the valley, far in the distance. We continued to climb up into the barren rockiness.

As we rounded a bend, we encountered an engraved plaque set into the rock: a memorial to two members of the Spanish Civil Guard "killed in the line of duty" in 1957 by "bandilleros." These so-called bandits were almost certainly anti-Franco guerrillas—remnants of Republican fighters from the Civil War—who took refuge in the mountains. The word "bandilleros" was all but entirely scraped off, perhaps a statement by those who would not have their freedom fighters reduced to highway robbers. It was strange to find a memorial in such a lonesome, out-of-the-way place. I could imagine the gun fight that killed these two men as they ventured into the mountains to rout out the leftist guerrillas. I wondered if any "bandilleros" had fallen as well; of course, they wouldn't have merited an engraved memorial.

Shortly beyond the memorial, our trail began to wind down into the valley, marked periodically with small cairns. We hiked this stretch, with no shade to speak of, in the strongest mid-afternoon heat, so we gratefully hopped into the bubbling river that greeted us when we reached the bottom. The remainder of the hike followed the river and was mostly shaded, ultimately leading us back into the barrio medio of Trevélez. On top of the heat and our out-of-shapeness, we'd also failed to carry enough water, so we were beyond parched by the time we staggered up to a fountain in one of the plazas and started guzzling. (David had actually refilled his bottle at a waterfall on the upper portion of the hike, but we'd taken only cautious sips, uncertain as to whether we'd prefer giardia over dehydration.)

Not surprisingly, we decided to skip the Mulhacén summit and instead spent the next day exploring Trevélez and indulging in more ham. (David called this his "Trevélez exception.") The following day, we hitchhiked to the town of Pitres, about 30 minutes away; a sweet hippy family from Barcelona picked us up in their van, just as I was starting to fear we were going to have to wait an extra three hours to take the bus. The campground, Balcón de Pitres, was a nice place, a bit more spacious and upscale than the one in Trevélez. We had lunch at the restaurant there, sharing a plato alpujarreño—an artery-clogging delight that includes Trevélez ham, pork loin, two types of sausage, fried potatoes and a fried egg—then kicked back with a little siesta.

Our weekend, however, didn't turn out to be quite as peaceful as we'd expected. First, a team of mountain bikers and their famlies showed up that evening, cramming tents into any open space they could find (the assigned-site concept doesn't appear to have caught on at campgrounds here) and one group had even brought a TV. David in particular had a little anti-Spaniard moment as we struggled to tune out blaring TV ads while we sat down to our Shabbat dinner.

Then, just as we'd tucked into our sleeping bags a little after midnight, a live concert got going. Although it was loud enough that it could've been coming from within the campground, the performance was in fact being staged in a village in the valley below—a valley with stunning acoustics. The full band, which featured both male and female singers and a prominent synthesizer, started out with flamenco, salsa and cumbia numbers, but ultimately transitioned to primarily English-language pop hits from the past four decades, sung very badly. At one point, I dozed off and was awakened by "It's Not Unusual," followed by "It's in His Kiss" (or rather, "Eeet's een hees kees"). This went on until 5 a.m. Yes, 5 a.m. And then it happened again the next night.

These inconveniences, though, were ultimately amusing, and I think we both agree that it was a pretty perfect vacation. On our last day we took another fantastic hike—a circuit of four villages down in the valley, including the two that hosted the insomnia-inducing concerts. We took loads of pictures on that walk, so I'll let them tell the story. Photos of that hike, plus our day exploring Trevélez and a few other random shots, can be found in our flickr set. (By the way, these towns appear mostly devoid of people because we passed through on a Sunday afternoon, when most folks were indoors having lunch and taking siestas.)

Comments

[Amberly]

A caveat to my claim about not being much of a beach vacationer: I could happily live out the rest of my life on Havelock Island, in the Andamans! http://www.flickr.com/photos/chickenet/tags/andamans/

[lisa]

phht.....11000 ft!!

just kidding--that's quite an elevation gain!

LOVE YOU GUYS!!!