February 2010

[Sweder]

Much as I'd love to wax lyrical about the marvels of the Cabo de Gata-Nijar Natural Park, to swoon over the delicious, deserted beaches, to salivate over the wonderful winding hill-trails and to exfoliate over the fabled Leaning Towers of Broccoli I am in truth strapped for time. So, here's the short(ish) version.

Having awoken with a 'slightly woolly' head on Monday following my small-hours vigil with EG, I wobbled down to breakfast. Like thunderheads gathering in a Speilberg film my hangover blossomed into some kind of all-encompassing monster. Wrapped in aviator shades & clutching a bag loaded with swimmers, a fully-charged iPod and HST's Kingdom of Fear I headed for the seafront, in search of sun, racciones and lots of strong coffee. This helped. The sun did it's part, beaming strong and warm from a clear blue sky. Tracey, Simon and Julie joined me, at which point I decided to take more drastic action. Twenty minutes braving the freezing embrace of the ocean worked wonders for my tight, sore legs but did little for my acheing head, despite a brave/ foolhardy series of full emersions before I scurried back to the warm promenade.

At 3pm Antonio arrived at the Tryp Indalo to take us for our ritual recovery run. He'd announced a change in routine; gone was the annual mountain plummet, replaced by a trail run through the Cabo de Gata Natural Park. Suffering worse than ever I crawled into the back of the van to lay on my side, arms cradling my throbbing noggin defensively as Jules drove us eastward. The oohs and aahs coming from the forward seats suggested I was missing some cracking scenery but it was all I could do to hang on to my lunch. I was a desperately sick puppy. I felt sure I'd be staying right here; running was simply not an option.

Forty somewhat bumpy minutes later we arrived at Playa Monsul, an idyllic bite out of the craggy coastline where desert scrub and fine untainted sand run down to meet the rolling breakers of the Mediterranean Sea. It took a Herculean effort for me to emerge from the back seat and, once standing, to remain upright. I cursed silently as the others set off into the dunes, certain that I was seconds away from adding some unwanted technicolour to the dark-brown sand. Before long Simon, running with admirable ease of motion and apparent lack of effort, set off up an impossibly steep crag. We ended up clambering up the lumpy lava rock-face, the ascent ever-more perilous with each confidence-sapping step. Jules and I crested the summit only to find a sheer drop on the other side. I clambered onto the rocky spine, slipping into a handy natural saddle-seat, my flabby glutes springing into surprisingly effective action as I latched onto the sharp edifice like a fleshy limpet. Ladyrunner seemed most at ease on this precarious ledge, giggling hysterically with Tracey as I mumbled about the madness of mountain climbing bathed in beer-sweat whilst shaking like a recovering junkie. Antonio joined us and we took uneasy snapshots of one another. I had no doubt my grin would be particularly well-set, frozen in fear as my face was by my pathological, life-long loathing of vertical situations.

We slid/ clambered carefully down to where Simon, the instigator and yet the only one with the sense not to complete the climb, sat calmly plotting our next move. He gazed across the bay towards a long, winding trail leading into a series of shadowy hills. Now that we were safely down the only way, it seemed, would be up.

Over an hour and ten (mostly uphill) kilometres later I was glistening with perspiration but delighted. My night-sweats banished into those craggy shadows I'd just run a perfect miniature of Cape Towns' Chapman's Peak. The oceanside ascents along dusty, stone-strewn trails took our breath away literally and metaphorically. Once recovered at the summit I couldn't stop jabbering excitedly about how like the Two Oceans route this was. Should I ever decide to lock horns with that Ultra-beast again I'll be heading out here for a couple of weeks winter training in this heavenly corner of Spain.

I'll say no more and let the pictures speak for themselves. Suffice to say all thoughts of our old Sierra Almahilla run were banished; we'll be back here again.