Daisy is disappointed because she just wants to go to the park and chase her ball, she doesn’t think much of my walks up mountains to look at views she seems unable to see. Maybe she can see the view, but she definitely doesn’t get what all the fuss is about, it’s just hills and trees and shit to her, no important things like balls or snacks. Even if she can see across the valley to the enormous cross on the hill at Valle de Cuelgamuros (previously known as Valle de los Caidos) she probably doesn’t get its historical significance, let alone the controversy.
I’ll explain it to her later, when we get up there.
I first need to get into my rhythm. The initial climb up the track out the car park is the worst bit. It’s quite steep and I end up out of breath immediately. This saps at my confidence, can I really make it up a mountain if I struggle to get out the car park?
We are also nervous about the cows. When I do this route in the summer, there are no cattle around, but this is common land, and in the Autumn farmers let their livestock loose to graze it. I fear the bloody things will chase Daisy or otherwise cause us bovine-related problems. Hopefully they’ll be sticking to the more open spaces lower down the mountain, and be less drawn to the wooded paths higher up.
We go through the gate and I cautiously let Daisy off the lead. She’s a reactive dog, which is exhausting and has the potential to spoil the nicest of walks. I have done my bit to be the alpha of her little world, and so she’s better with me than with anyone else, but I can’t just relax and let her wander, I need eyes in the back of my head in case any other dogs pop up and she decides to have a go.
We’re safe for now.
The sun is shining, we’re out in nature and it’s beautifully chilly, but I’m not feeling the buzz of adventure. I’m trying to get good at this walking stuff so I can tackle something big like the Camino de Santiago one day, so I usually feel a bit of a thrill when I break my routine of staying inside and typing things into a computer, to get outside and walk up a hill.
Not today.
Not yet anyway.
The lower section is open, easy walking, with short trees scattered around and a gentle slope running across the path. The path itself slopes upward too, but it’s not too taxing, not even for a lump like me.
Daisy does a poo, but because there are no bins anywhere near here, we bag it up and leave it hidden to collect on the way back.
We pass the fire-break. Forest fires in bone-dry Spanish summers are a constant threat, and mountains all over the country are now criss-crossed with gaps that stop the fires spreading. They also give good access for firefighters, and make a useful cheeky shortcut if you are a total idiot and like to risk a twisted ankle by clambering up the steep shingle and scree surface – or worse, try to descend it. It’s treacherous, far worse than the photos make it look – believe me, I know, I’ve done it twice.
We ignore the dodgy shortcut, and follow the main path. It gets nicer from here as we climb higher and the trees get bigger, making it feel more like a proper hike in the woods. I saw a deer here once, and the place is probably crawling with wild boar (though I’ve never seen one), perhaps wolves too, although that seems less likely this close to town. There are wolves in the nearby Guadarrama mountains, so it’s not inconceivable they’ve sneaked over here, especially if they heard about the wild boar on offer.
We’re getting higher, and no sign of any cows! Also the views are getting good:
As discussed previously, Daisy is not the world’s number one fan of lengthy hikes, or indeed any outdoor activities that don’t involve a ball, but she seems to be getting into it …
… as am I, I’m fully in my rhythm now as we walk through the woods, on and on, gently climbing, enjoying the space and the silence, vapour trails crossing the sky – one, the older more-dispersed one, probably a plane leaving Madrid heading west; the other, the tighter line crossing it, higher and more recent, maybe a plane from Casablanca heading to Paris. I don’t think to check my FlightRadar app, so we’ll never know.
I pick weekdays to do this sort of thing precisely to avoid Other People, but today’s perfectly cool but sunny weather is encouraging the OPs out of their houses and on to the hills. There aren’t many, but there are enough to mean we keep needing to re-attach Daisy’s lead and slow our pace to let them get further away.
There are also hundreds of pine processionary nests, the nasty little bastard caterpillars that ruin forests and are a danger to dogs. They are everywhere, and in the Spring this area will be off-limits to Daisy and her canine pals, although Daisy won’t be bothered, her argument for us remaining in the park with a ball will be strengthened.
We’re getting higher and the trees are thinning out. This isn’t because of the height really (we’re not that high, only a little over 1300m), it’s more because they cut the trees down on the top so the telegraph is visible – it is, after all, an optical telegraph.
We see a mountain biker set off down the hill, straight down over the terrain, not zig-zagging along the path like we are. The starting point for this hairy direct descent is helpfully marked with a “No cycling off the paths” sign.
We can see over most of the trees now, and the view is breathtaking:
The clouds sticking to the jagged ridge of the Siete Picos (seven peaks) mountain:
A few more minutes and we’re over the cattle grid and at the top, or at least, the Telegraph – I think the actual summit is a few hundred yards off, somewhere in the woods, but this spot must have been more visible to the chain of stations either side.
This telegraph was built in 1832 as part of the Spanish royal family’s private network. It linked Madrid to their palace of San Ildefonso in Segovia, just over the mountains, and later to their Rio Frio pad, a few miles further up the road.
Optical telegraphs had been in use for centuries, but until the invention of the telescope, they were little more than beacons, and consequently only able to communicate in binary: they were either lit or not. The telescope allowed each station to watch those either side and read a more complex message, usually using some variation of angled panels creating semaphore shapes. The method was pioneered in France, and they got pretty good at it, able to pass messages between Strasbourg and Paris in minutes – like many inventions, it was driven by war, but it also allowed them to synchronize their clocks, something impossible without real-time communication. The Spanish developed their network a few decades later, and this little one up to their summer palace was presumably to give the household forewarning of the impending arrival of Their Majesties so they had time to push the hoover round and put the kettle on.
We rest for a few minutes, and because there’s a nice Uruguayan man with a gorgeous golden retriever, I forget to lecture Daisy on the history of Valle de los Caidos, its huge cross visible in the hazy distance. Oh well, there will be plenty more opportunities.
We decide, rather than retrace our steps, we’ll take the quick route down, cutting through the fire-breaks to more directly reconnect with the path back to the car. This means veering off the gravel path onto a wide section of bare earth.
It’s easy to forget how difficult these descents are. They are not just unmade earth tracks, uneven with channels made by the rain, they are also covered with stones and twigs and other slippery unstable stuff that together make this decision completely ridiculous.
The first descent (from the top) is the easiest to avoid because the main track connects back up with the bottom of it, but we don’t think of that, and instead idiotically just go for it. It’s hard work picking out a route, looking for stable surfaces and avoiding ankle-turning roots, rocks and rivulets. My calves are stinging with the effort of trying to control such an angled descent on such a slippery surface.
We make it, and turn the corner to descend the second – the shortest and easiest, then the third – perhaps the hardest of the three, but at least there’s an end in sight.
We struggle down this last one, careful not to rush, picking our slow way down, relying heavily on my trekking stick to act as a third leg – not as good as Daisy’s four, but better than my usual two.
We make it, and are back on dry land, walking along the main path back to the car. I remember to collect the little bag of dog poo I’d hidden, and hold it at arm’s length as we drop down the last section, rain-damaged and uneven, but no biggie. We’re hardened grizzled veterans of dodgy descents now, and this little section isn’t going to offer us much in the way of trouble. We approach the village, with its unnecessarily flash covered bullring, and in moments are back in the car.
Not the world’s most-intrepid adventure, but another step toward building up my hiking chops, ready for something truly epic one day.
MrJohn 