The Gran Canaria diaries January 2018: The track above Soria and the missing reservoir

The plan was simple enough but as is the case the execution of it proved tricky. The aim to go high into the interior hinterlands and do a walk. We had picked the spot, Soria and a walk around Presa de Soria (Lake Soria). An altitude of 1500m and a 4.5 hr circuit of some 16km.

Getting out of the resort proved the first hurdle. A recent landslide closing the road west to Puerto Mogan means you have to head east to Tauro to pick up the motorway; a 20-minute diversion. The GC 200 after Mogan climbed and climbed up through the ravine, switch back after switch back. The Citroen Cactus never came out of first or second gear. Towering cliffs above with caves scattered across their vertical faces, the old dwellings of shepherds and possibly even the original gaucho inhabitants from centuries ago.

Up through cypress pine forests, the narrowing road twisted and turned. Some hairpin bends so sharp that the road above was practically on top of the road beneath. The drops, breath taking. Literally. Down below in the valleys, terraces built by hand. But none of the greenery one would expect. For the November rains this year did not appear and the landscape vegetation has a dry brown wispy wheat hue to it. On the inside bends of roads that clung to cliffsides, rock falls and scattered stones across tarmac. Every corner approached at 10mph in case some locals from the highest villages came whizzing around corners. As a light mountain mist drizzle appeared, rainbows broke out across gorges, their tops not even reaching the summit of the highest cliffs. Breath taking views.  

The highest road the GC 505 nearly broke us both. Barely the width of the car, uneven and cracked tarmac with slumping on outer corners, it wound across the cliffsides, multiple hairpin bends built one on top of the other. ‘Her indoors’, who on many occasions has displayed nerves of steel (best demonstrated on the occasion when walking home one night to our Namibian hut, we got caught between wild elephants on the one side of the dusty track and hunting lions on the other and she displayed her  grit and courage by singing ‘Nellie the elephant’ at the top of her voice to scare everything away. It worked by the way), anyway she refused to film any part of this particular road section because both hands were gripping anything they could on the car! Occasionally where there was space, thin grey metal pipes ran alongside the fragmented tarmac and in places hand built narrow concrete leats, long since dried up, crossed underneath.  

The descent in to Soria was positively spine tingling and not in a good way. Her indoors nerves were by now, severely frayed and that is very rare. Very rare indeed. The cafe at Soria was so welcome.

Beneath a tree, hikers sought shade from the rising sun, their heavy packs dumped on the ground around them. Here the walking route s60 brings walkers respite and toilets before it continues it winding way across the mountains and ravines. For us it bought tranquillity and time to repair damaged nerves. Suffice to say it took several cappuccinos with lashings of fresh cream on top and several sugars, and I mean several, before composure was restored. Mine that is. Her indoors? She just sucked her breath in a couple of times and commented ‘Interesting drive darling, well done’. Despite thirty three years of marriage, I wasn’t quite sure whether she was being sarcastic or not! 

Across from our café, a small village of white washed and yellow houses with red roofs clung to the hillside terraces. Each one had its own small fenced off garden. Dates, bananas, tangerines and oranges. Some outhouses had small stable blocks with goats and chickens. A rural economy high in the mountains. 

And the lake? Completely gone. A 4km long, 60m deep lake just not there. A dam sitting forlornly, mourning past times when it held back the November deluges. The incongruous site of three rowing boats sat high and dry up a steep slope summed up the drought!

Fortified, we set up off the road to the car park. And what a car park. In an amphitheatre of towering cliffs. I realised, with no disrespect to northern colleagues, how small Malham Cove is! Vertical, wind sculpted volcanic cliffs, stood proud, shades of varying colour against a bright blue sky. And, hugging the steep narrow ravine, a stony track barely a car’s width, contouring its way upwards at a gradual incline. Our path!

With a chill in the air, thin clouds hugging towering buttresses and a very faint but perceptible misty drizzle, we donned fleeces and put best feet forward. Through the pine trees with their huge pine cones littering the stony floor and their periodic stunning vistas across small farms, abandoned huts and ancient stone wall terraces, far below us, we trudged forward purposefully. Through the bamboo thickets, along walls of volcanic rock, multi coloured with huge volcanic bombs lodged within walls of rock hard ash.  Between volcanic boulders, grew tufts of thin spikey grasses and small bushes with tiny leaves to protect against evapotranspiration losses. Plant environmental adaptation at its best. Scattered and in small groves, date palm trees; and punctuating the skylines on the cliff tops far above, random pines. Periodically 20m above us, a cave, protected by a rough hand built stone wall. We’ve yet to work out how anyone scaled the cliff to actually reside in these caves in the first place. I used to climb but it was beyond my comprehension how people managed to reach some of these ancient dwellings.

In front of us a steep gorge ravine a kilometre across slowly revealed itself; its right hand near vertical flank towering another 900m above us. Thick layers of hardened dolerite gave a differentially weathered, banded appearance to the cliffs which were periodically  bisected by narrow but towering prehistoric column lava flows. Occasionally, a small passing place would afford an opportunity to stop and marvel at the unfolding vistas below. Serrated mountain ridges descended to the sea silhouetted against the bright blue skies, like a dragons scaly, spiky backbone. In the faint misty drizzle more rainbows, their colours lurid against the dull blacks and browns of the banded cliffsides. One felt so small in such an impressive, rugged and wild landscape.

A few kilometres up, the view behind afforded us the opportunity to watch an ancient open topped Suzuki jeep begin its way up the very track we walked. Incredulous does not sufficiently sum up our feelings as we watched it inch and crawl its way up the track. At times the passenger side wheels were barely on the track and stones were sliding beneath and rolling hundreds of metres down slope. But, with consummate skill, the driver drew closer, his speed measured and constant, the little white jeep rocking from side to side as tyres crossed rocks and dips.  A wave, the glimpse of a young weathered brown face with alert eyes and welcoming smile and the jeep with its astonishing driver disappeared around the bend.  We watched it climb steadily into the distance clinging to the vertical wall rockface until eventually it reached a summit and disappeared from view. 

As we steadily climbed, above us on the steep rock-strewn slopes with its low Mediterranean scrub, goat bells could be heard. Somewhere goats were traversing the slopes and it took time to spot them, their brown and black coats camouflaged against the ground. Higher still, the barks of dogs reverberated around the mountain peaks, the bark echo lasting several seconds and bouncing off the towering buttresses and ravine walls. It sounded impressive and slightly scary. Maybe it was a pack of dogs and not just the two that barked first!!

Towards the highest col, the weather began to change. A stiff breeze, the north-east trade winds, began to build and clouds thickened on summit peaks above. Fine drizzle turned to something slightly heavier and dampness pervaded the dry, clean mountain air. Dusty dry rocks took on a glistening sheen and the sun became hidden, its warm glow struggling to burn off greying clouds.  We discussed options and decided on going a little further, for ahead, intriguingly, lay a low white washed building, almost carved into the vertical cliff above it; and in front of it, the white Suzuki jeep.  Turning the steep corner by a single tall eucalyptus tree, there in the shade of a stunted pine, a café! Well, the wooden hand painted sign said café. Three plastic wicker stools surrounding a wooden keg with a flat circular board nailed on top sat under a roadside tree. In the table’s centre a small display built in a pyramid fashion. Some small bottles of water, some non-alcoholic beers, jars of picked cheese and small jars of golden brown syrupy honey surrounded a vase with herbs and grasses in. A crate of oranges lay resting against the lower portion of the barrel; behind an icebox and a pile of papaya. Two small machete knives with coarse twine handles were stuck in a strap surrounding the lower barrel portion. 

From beneath the tree and its shade rose a lean figure. White cowboy hat, blue shirt and faded jeans, blond hair and beard, bright blue eyes and the young weather beaten brown face. Instantly recognisable as Suzuki jeep driver, he beckoned us up the short steep track and in clear accented English welcomed us to his ‘check’ point café. The smile was broad and welcoming, the handshake firm. Strong, nut brown hands, blistered in places. Hands that toiled the land. 

Water was proffered for free along with two fresh oranges. Money for this sustenance was refused but ‘perhaps we could buy some honey and cheese’. Price, whatever we felt acceptable. Two dogs, obedient to their young master with the shy smile, lolled at our feet; always alert to the slightest sound. Clearly very good guard dogs! 

Dom, it turned out was Czech, hence the ‘czech point café! He lived and worked in Blackpool for five years, rescuing and then taking over the running of a local skip business from its disorganised and perhaps less than honest owner.  Now, here high in the mountains and far from the crowded coastal strip, he looked after a second home cottage for a German lady who visited twice a year. We discussed mountain life and its difficulties; we swapped stories of how global warming was affecting our respective environments. How few British tourist walked the trails. Fresh papaya and tangerines picked from the tree behind were offered and payment refused. Both were the freshest, juiciest fruits we have ever tasted (well perhaps the fresh dates were in Messini, Greece and the freshest mangos on a Costa Rican beach, might just win, but only by the very narrowest of margins. They certainly didn’t have the welcome and generous spirit attached though).

The dogs shuffled stones towards our feet with their noses, ready for some fun; instantly earning a gentle but firm rebuke from their young master.  Stones were bad for their teeth.  We discussed the advantages of solar panels, how he had internet and TV even in this remote area and how he loved the simple life tending chickens, looking after his goats, dogs and donkey. He explained the benefits of organic farming, so necessary to make things grow when water was short. Did we not think ‘the papaya was fresh and juicy’? Well of course, genuinely so. The trick, would we like to know? ‘Most definitely!’ Well its copious amounts of donkey shit! Suddenly, they didn’t taste so flavoursome but his earnest honesty and quiet gentle humour gained our instant forgiveness. Such generosity of spirit was to be admired and learned from.  Thirty minutes passed under that small tree, our hands sticky with fruit juices and then the weather closed. The mists drew in, the drizzle started again; blue skies and warm sun disappeared. It was time to retreat back downhill. Firm handshakes, smiles, slap on the back. Please, we should not forget him. Remember our time together at the ‘czech point’. 

Well Dom, we certainly will. You made our day special, a treasured memory. Thank you for the delicious fruit, the wonderful discussions and the generosity. We departed with honey, two more freshly picked tangerines and good memories. It was a privilege meeting you. Thank you for sharing part of your day with us. 

The journey down was less eventful than the route up. We went a different way, not without its hairpin bends! It comes to something when cyclists overtake you downhill on hairpin bends. I can’t quite decide whether that is humiliating or a testimony to my safe, cautious driving!

Tips:

• Don't rely completely on your Sat Nav
• For car hire we used AutoReisen at the airport and they were outstanding with no hidden surcharges or costs. Make sure before you leave with the hire car that it has two emergency triangles and two fluro jackets. 
• Petrol stations are closed Sunday's in the island interior
• On the twisty roads, locals come around the bends as if they own them; you've been warned!
• Roundabouts - if you are British be warned. They drive around roundabouts on the outside lane at all times for any exit; DO NOT go to the inside lane and then pull across for the third exit. You will cause chaos!!
• We used the map below and it was outstanding. Very accurate and had all the walking trails marked on. This map was used constantly every day and we didn't find any inaccuracies. It is waterproof and tear proof. An excellent buy.