Pippa's evening walk

As usual in the second half of August temperatures have dropped, the weather is just about perfect, hot but not stuffy, coolish at night and the early morning. I can resume my evening walk at 7.30 -8.00 which is perfect before dinner, for the last few weeks it's been impossibly hot until after 9.00 which really messed up the evening.

It's a simple walk, hop over the stone wall of the finca aided by the inset stepping stones, onto the camino and walk briskly up the ever increasing incline with a few flatter bits on the bends. On the way up I pass the huge stone drinking trough, still with a trickle of water splashing into the gorgeous green duckweed, home for legions of frogs who croak and splash at my approach. No doubt placed there at the end of the pass over the mountain from Montanchez to refresh thirsty pack mules and horses during the long centuries that this was a major trading route. The way is paved in smooth, rounded stones polished with constant use, unfortunately in need of some maintenance in places so if one wants to look at the views it's best to stop and stare rather than risk tripping up.

The views are vast, studded with the church towers of various nearby villages, a huge plain of olive groves around Arroyomolinos. This was the scene of a peninsula war battle in October 1811. I am fascinated with this battle and its meaning within the larger theatre of the Napoleonic wars. Just imagining what the Sierra de Montanchez was like in 1811 is a very interesting passtime, let alone imagining the battle fought over a few hours on a stormy, torrentially wet 28th October dawn and morning. Looking down on to the peaceful green plain it is difficult to imagine the mayhem caused by the surprise attack of General Rowland Hill and 9.000 British, Spanish and Portuguese troops on General Girard and his 6,000 French troops, that's 15,000 men and at least 5,000 cavalry horses clashing in the violence of battle in and around the village of Arroyomolinos. The battle was a resounding victory for the allied troops, the French were ordered to flee for their lives, hemmed in on all sides the only escape route was to scramble up the steep slopes of the sierra discarding equipment and weapons as they went. General Girard was amongst the fortunate who managed to reach the ridge of the sierra and escape to freedom, many didn't make it, if not captured at the foot of the sierra then masacred by Murillo's guerrillas further up the slopes. The final reckoning of this short but bloody battle was 1,000 French dead or wounded, 1,400 captured ; 80 allies dead or wounded. No mention of the fate of the cavalry horses. I wonder about those 1,400 prisoners of war, amazingly transported back to England and detained for the remainder of the war until 1815 in specially constructed prisons such as Dartmoor and Norman Cross, near Peterborough, what an extraordinary idea when any transport was so costly and fraught with difficulty. There's enough material wound around this battle to keep me day dreaming for hours so I march on with the ghosts of those desperate French troops who may have passed on this very camino 197 years ago.
I must admit that sometimes I sing, quietly, and a favourite is 'The grand old Duke of York', in fact the very same Duke of York who was Commander-in-chief of the British army during the Napoleonic Wars and the brother of the Prince of Wales who becamePrince Regent in the very year of the battle which he referred to in his first opening of parliament speech, loading praise on General Hill for his brave victory. Serendipity stikes again .......it's a good marching song anyway.

I pass a small gorge covered in rampant cactus plants all bearing the delicious prickly pears which I dare not touch, one bristle can keep one in agony for days.



Now you see it........................................ Now you don't

The views get better and better as I climb, finally around a bend and under the
branches of a giant cork oak is the impressive view of the moorish castle in Montanchez, it always gives me a thrill, a few steps more and in a blink it disappears from view not to appear again until one is almost at the foot of the impregnable crag on which it is built. This is the limit of my evening walk, the point of the disappearing castle. I call the reluctant dogs back and march down the camino feeling toned up and definitely ready for dinner and a relaxed evening.



the tiny red dot on left is the cortijo from the path down.