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We had a room for the night at a plush hotel in the middle of the famous La Rambla district. Driving there proved no easy task, in a strange car, at night, in an unfamiliar and bustling city. I cannot recommend it.
Nightlife on La Rambla, at 2 o’clock in the morning, seemed to chiefly comprise low life, street life and the vulnerable. I’m sure we were doing Barcelona a tremendous injustice but we resolved, henceforth, not to hang around. We left early next morning.
Parador de Cardona, a medieval fortress updated to meet the needs of tourism, was our first destination and it felt like a million miles from the big city. (Which it might have been, given my erroneous belief that I could navigate out of Barcelona without recourse to map or motorway.)
Our arrival seemed a just cause of celebration, because somewhere a brass band struck up with gusto. A far cry from the Costas, I thought, as tunes of antiquity and culture rustled the leaves in the trees, echoing across that vast Don Quixote land. The musicians paused momentarily for breath then started again. I found this next rendition vaguely recognisable, an odd arrangement. Was it the work of Rodrigo, Albeniz, Granados? No! I recoiled in horror, it was Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da!
We made our way down from the castle, following our ears, to investigate the crime.
The town of Cardona was in festive spirits - it was fiesta week. All the shops were shut and a bullring filled the Town Square. (Actually it was not so much a bull-ring as, under the circumstances, sensibly rectangular.) Families and friends filled each balcony above, legs dangling, no vantage-point wasted, to observe the spectacle below.
Happily, we did not witness the demise of any bulls. This sorry event was scheduled for another day. In this instance it was entertaining enough to watch young men clinging bareback to mules while another chased the beasts with a stick. There were winners and always one loser biting the dust, to the immense pleasure of the crowd.
Cardona proved a charming and engaging place but as the heat of the noonday sun bore down through wispy clouds we soon missed the sea. Worse still, unsightly sunburn and paler patches already evident about my vest and shorts unfairly branded me a member of the textile persuasion!
After Cardona we pressed on eagerly towards the Pyrénées. The weather was glorious, there were lakes, reservoirs and mountains to negotiate, and I imagined many opportunities to repair my uneven tan occurring along the way. Except ‘the way’ was rather longer than I expected and left no time for sunbathing.
Spanish roads are often excellent. However, when you spot a squiggly, half-hearted sort of line on the map, that is exactly what it is. You simply can’t take what appears the most direct route and expect to get there quicker. The reality is you spend hours spiralling around wonderful lumps of time-consuming scenery.
Our ‘squiggly, half-hearted sort of a line’ resembled a road for a mile, then someone’s drive, and finally, rough track. I was concerned that it wasn’t nearly wide enough for oncoming traffic but needn’t have worried. For a full two hours of the duration, there wasn’t any.
Heading for Arties, a town high in the Pyrénées, rough track became decent road once more. Our spirits rose – and so did we. Higher and higher, bend after dizzy bend, ears popping with the altitude. Then it seemed the air conditioning was malfunctioning. It had gone into overdrive, blasting chilly air into the cabin. No, I stared at the dashboard incredulously: It wasn’t even on. The thermometer revealed the temperature had plunged 14 degrees C in the last hour.
By the next bend we were into cloud and snow-capped peaks.
Arties was not boasting the sort of weather I had come to associate with Spain. In fact it didn’t look very much like Spain either – it was Austria, without the lederhosen, thigh slapping and apple strudel. In other respects it had much in common with Northern England - dank and grey with a fine mist of rain in the air.
At dinner that evening we decided our ‘walking’ holiday, thus far, had turned out to be a ‘driving’ one, and one of unconscionable excess. We vowed, no matter what the weather, to rise early and climb a mountain – or expire in the attempt.
Dawn next day percolated through the curtains in a very promising way. Throwing back the drapes revealed blue sky and wall to wall sunshine. We rejoiced – it was Spain again (with odd overtones of the Alps).
In the car ten minutes later, a local tourist map only began to make sense when we realised it had been printed upside down – North was at the bottom of the page and South at the top. From Arties we followed a river into the hills for several kilometres. After parking a challenging walk loomed ahead. Soon we were immersed in nature’s most pleasing accomplishments; the noise of crickets alone was nearly deafening. With the constant accompaniment of tumbling water, lizards scattering underfoot, the sun caressing our skin until it blushed, it was no wonder that Carol soon cast off unnecessary clothing. And as she became more convinced of our solitude, the rest came off too.
Now I cannot pretend that we ran with unfettered abandon through this magical, mountainous country. For a start, I was burdened (as usual) with a rucksack full of weatherproofs (a wise precaution in this changeable climate), cameras, maps, chocolate, notepaper etc. Nor were we quite alone. At times we came across workers clearing a track for vehicle access – it was a national park after all. There were also other hikers. But we could generally hear approaching human traffic long before we saw any and prepared ourselves accordingly. However, as the climb became more intense, we had to focus on getting there and, of course, returning before nightfall.
Minimal clothing, maximum exertion and sheer enjoyment carried us to the peak, where the views alone justified every bead of sweat and aching ligament. It was spectacular. It was a postcard. But pictures alone could never tell the whole story – you had to smell the air.
Still, there’s an important principle here regarding mountains and how they relate to discreet naturism. It may seem blindingly obvious but I shall state it anyway: Mountains, being broad at the base, are invariably narrower at the top. Consequently, if all hikers from outlying areas take the upward path the chance of their meeting increases exponentially with altitude. Ultimately, on a fine day, you may find a plethora of rucksacks, ruddy faces, friendly nods and greetings, waiting for you at the end of your arduous climb.
Naturally, in the pioneering spirit, we attempted to claim the Pyrénées as an area of ‘special naturist interest’. But we had first to collect the evidence and judge the moment well. It was merely a shutter click of the camera away; a point frozen in time, recording one of us naked, as nature intended, in a place of outstanding natural beauty.
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