The Spanish Adventure (Part 1)
Somehow my trip to Spain has come and gone more fleetingly than I thought possible. Despite the sensation that time crept up and stole away the moments, my memories paint a different picture; a blend of emotions, physical intensity and new-found friendships.
Rather than do the injustice of reducing them down to a single post, I'll instead break them down into the separate, strikingly individual experiences that they were for me. So, keep your eyes open - there's a lot to tell.
The journey began, as journeys often do, in a state of palpable tension and excitement. We'd gathered at Leo's house in Manchester, ready for an early morning flight to Malaga. We ate, drank, and talked enthusiastically about the coming days of foreign sport climbing; which crag would we visit first, and what routes would we do? Was Emily's typically awe-inspiring level of planning enough to counteract any doom that might occur whilst away? We could but hope...
Morning dawned at 3:30am, with the characteristic jingle of my phone's alarm. 'Alarm clocks are the devil's work,' I thought to myself, fumbling blearily for the off button. Thirty minutes and a pot of coffee later, however, and spirits were raised once more. Taking a swift taxi to the airport, we wound our way through the check-in queue and congratulated ourselves at being so organised.
Moments later, Leo's face dropped; he'd forgotten his hand luggage, containing harness, shoes and clothes for the entire trip. Panic stricken, he thrust his hold bag into our arms and sprinted off towards the airport exit. We didn't see him again until we'd made our way through customs and were relaxing in duty-free, ready for departure. Half an hour or so later, we boarded the plane. We were on our way!
Malaga dawned in intense heat that was a far cry from the chilly English autumn. We picked up our hire cars and set off to grab supplies for the coming days. Joe had managed to miss his flight, and so would not be getting in until 2:00pm.
Fully supplied, fuelled and organised, we jumped in the cars and set off to the true destination; The Olive Branch, El Chorro. Upon arriving, we quickly unpacked our bags, grabbed various bits of gear and headed off up the hill to Las Encantadas to make the most of the evening conditions.
My first ever experience of Spanish limestone came in the form of 'Para Que Disfrute La Canalla' (6b), followed by 'La ley del Cateto' (6c+). Both were interesting routes, and good introduction to the style of climbing on Spanish limestone, which is noticeably different to that of UK lime. Instead of undercuts and sidepulls there were pockets and jugs, and sharp, edgy footwork was replaced by friction reliant smears.
Noticing the light was fading, I gathered gear quickly and headed further round to the right hand side of the crag, where I was keen to try my first Spanish 7a, 'Redders'.
I set off as dusk settled over the mountains, casting the landscape in a deep, orange backlight. The moves flowed easily, carrying me through the first section of the route and up under the overhanging bulge. The gathering darkness threatened to extinguish my view of the coming holds, so I screamed my way through the steep climbing to a gratuitous but short-lived rest in the cave above.
As I dropped my hand into a deep slotted hold, a small bat scurried out from within, crawled over my chalked hand and launched itself into the twilight with a high pitched squeal.
I wanted to rest for longer but knew that my now slim chance of on-sighting the route would be reduced to zero should I lose the last sliver of light that peeked out from the horizon. Arms still pumped, I pulled out onto the final bulge. A few swift moves on crimps dropped my left hand high into a two-finger pocket, just as the last of the light vanished. I could just about see the chains glinting above me, and knew it was all or nothing. I slapped upwards desperately with my right hand, scrabbled, and fell.
Little did I know, but the hold I'd been hoping for was a mere half a foot to the left of where I'd grabbed in desperation. The next morning I was kicking myself as I cruised up the route and clipped the chains with a rueful grin.
As it was, the level was set, and the trip had begun. This was just the start.
Stay tuned!
Mischa.
Rather than do the injustice of reducing them down to a single post, I'll instead break them down into the separate, strikingly individual experiences that they were for me. So, keep your eyes open - there's a lot to tell.
 |
| Below the towering dominance of Desplomilandia. (Left to right: Ian, Joe, Li, Mischa) |
The journey began, as journeys often do, in a state of palpable tension and excitement. We'd gathered at Leo's house in Manchester, ready for an early morning flight to Malaga. We ate, drank, and talked enthusiastically about the coming days of foreign sport climbing; which crag would we visit first, and what routes would we do? Was Emily's typically awe-inspiring level of planning enough to counteract any doom that might occur whilst away? We could but hope...
Morning dawned at 3:30am, with the characteristic jingle of my phone's alarm. 'Alarm clocks are the devil's work,' I thought to myself, fumbling blearily for the off button. Thirty minutes and a pot of coffee later, however, and spirits were raised once more. Taking a swift taxi to the airport, we wound our way through the check-in queue and congratulated ourselves at being so organised.
Moments later, Leo's face dropped; he'd forgotten his hand luggage, containing harness, shoes and clothes for the entire trip. Panic stricken, he thrust his hold bag into our arms and sprinted off towards the airport exit. We didn't see him again until we'd made our way through customs and were relaxing in duty-free, ready for departure. Half an hour or so later, we boarded the plane. We were on our way!
Malaga dawned in intense heat that was a far cry from the chilly English autumn. We picked up our hire cars and set off to grab supplies for the coming days. Joe had managed to miss his flight, and so would not be getting in until 2:00pm.
 |
| Soaking up the Spanish sun. |
Fully supplied, fuelled and organised, we jumped in the cars and set off to the true destination; The Olive Branch, El Chorro. Upon arriving, we quickly unpacked our bags, grabbed various bits of gear and headed off up the hill to Las Encantadas to make the most of the evening conditions.
 |
| The Local. Las Encantadas, 'The Enchanted Crag' lies a mere five minute walk from the Olive Branch. |
My first ever experience of Spanish limestone came in the form of 'Para Que Disfrute La Canalla' (6b), followed by 'La ley del Cateto' (6c+). Both were interesting routes, and good introduction to the style of climbing on Spanish limestone, which is noticeably different to that of UK lime. Instead of undercuts and sidepulls there were pockets and jugs, and sharp, edgy footwork was replaced by friction reliant smears.
Noticing the light was fading, I gathered gear quickly and headed further round to the right hand side of the crag, where I was keen to try my first Spanish 7a, 'Redders'.
I set off as dusk settled over the mountains, casting the landscape in a deep, orange backlight. The moves flowed easily, carrying me through the first section of the route and up under the overhanging bulge. The gathering darkness threatened to extinguish my view of the coming holds, so I screamed my way through the steep climbing to a gratuitous but short-lived rest in the cave above.
As I dropped my hand into a deep slotted hold, a small bat scurried out from within, crawled over my chalked hand and launched itself into the twilight with a high pitched squeal.
I wanted to rest for longer but knew that my now slim chance of on-sighting the route would be reduced to zero should I lose the last sliver of light that peeked out from the horizon. Arms still pumped, I pulled out onto the final bulge. A few swift moves on crimps dropped my left hand high into a two-finger pocket, just as the last of the light vanished. I could just about see the chains glinting above me, and knew it was all or nothing. I slapped upwards desperately with my right hand, scrabbled, and fell.
Little did I know, but the hold I'd been hoping for was a mere half a foot to the left of where I'd grabbed in desperation. The next morning I was kicking myself as I cruised up the route and clipped the chains with a rueful grin.
As it was, the level was set, and the trip had begun. This was just the start.
Stay tuned!
Mischa.
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