For 12 years, we, four longtime friends, well past the first or even second bloom of youth, have hiked in Europe — on our own. We meticulously plan these forays stateside a year ahead, dividing the myriad tasks of self-travel between us. Next up was Andalusia, Spain. All the national park guidebooks had promised fantastic hikes near our three planned stops: Cordoba, Granada, and Seville. Although challenging, we still felt fit and capable.
Things started to go awry immediately. In Madrid, Clare’s purse, with her passport, cellphone, credit cards, and our communal kitty, was pilfered in our 4-star hotel. Forget sightseeing. Instead we stood in long lines at the police station and American embassy. Eventually, we moved on to Andalusia, more than a little shaken.
Our Madrid hotel had harbored a thief, but at least it was well appointed; our billet in Cordoba was abysmal. Monastic cells would have been an upgrade; lumpy thin mattresses and towels the size of diapers greeted us. Putting on makeup was literally a shot in the dark. Had I, in charge of accommodations, really chosen this hovel?
Hiking disaster numero uno occurred on our first hike outside of Cordoba. The national park trailhead parking lot was deserted; the doors bolted at the visitor’s center. When a “smokey-the-bear look-alike’’ eventually appeared, Donna, fluent in Spanish, took over. Si, the park was closed. Si, another trail existed 10 kilometers away. But it turned out to be a flea-infested, boring flat footpath. Whoa! Had we been sized up as sedentary grannies?
The day after, when our palatial hotel in Granada erased the disaster of the Cordoba “hostel,’’ we cheerfully headed out for our next trek, an hour away. The guide in the tourist office warned us not to attempt the high circular trail above the gorge. She said it was a mere mule path, very steep and slippery from recent rains. How dare she question our competence? Besides, the sky was such a brilliant blue.
Hiking disaster numero dos. The narrow track, flanked by a cliff on one side and an abyss on the other, was covered with wet moss and loose gravel. The temperature soared to 90 degrees. We struggled on toward our first landmark, a water tower in the village of Bubion, where we fell into the town center fountain, prostrated from heat and altitude. Any sensible 70-year-old would have bailed, but temporarily demented by dehydration, we pressed on. Soon the trail petered out, forcing a marched retreat back to Bubion. With the sun dipping into the horizon, a new dilemma loomed: How to retrieve our car before dark? With no bus service, thumbs went up, skirts not being an option. No takers. We had to scramble back down the trail we’d had trouble climbing up. On the ride back to Granada, the silence was deafening.
At an alfresco dinner that night in the shadows of the Alhambra, Donna began the dirge. “Is it us, or is it Spain?’’ she lamented. Clare: “Have we been too smug?’’ Ellie: “Would it be so terrible to hire a guide or God forbid, join a tour?’’ What was happening to us?
Undeterred, we soldiered onward to Seville. As the train hurtled through the countryside, Clare, in charge of logistics, clutched her timetable. At the station, she shouted, “Everyone out!’’ Off we lurched . . . at the wrong stop, 17 miles shy of the city. During the two-hour wait for the local, we sat on separate benches.
Our last chance to get it right was in the famed white villages, Los Pueblos Blancos, outside of Seville. While we consulted our map in the city center, Paul, a tour guide, was eavesdropping. His van, headed there the next day, could accommodate us. The other passengers were not hikers, but he guaranteed us an hour to ourselves in each village. Dazed by our disappointments, we signed on.
The van was muy comfortable, the passengers were convivial, plus we found first-rate climbs from each village. Paul’s pick for lunch in a provincial tapas bar with all the locals was spot on. We left feeling elated and accomplished.
Next year: Ireland. Was the Spanish adventure the tipping point? Has the time come to let go of the reins and our egos?
Not so fast. We are still mulling it over.
Cassandra Gordon can be reached at cassandra.gordon5@gmail.com.
