A walk on the wild side ended in bliss
REGULAR readers of this column will remember my erstwhile travelling companion and band roadie Peter ‘Oaf’ Bromhall of Glossop Rugby Club.
They will hopefully have chuckled at my reports of our trips across Europe for this column: watching wildlife, playing rugby, singing songs, taking photographs and thoroughly researching the food and drink of each and every nation, from Poland to Spain, and from Ireland to Latvia. We’ve drunk with Beauty Queens in Oban, I’ve sung at Irish Weddings in Nerja, Oaf was nearly arrested in Poznan and I’ve reminisced with one of the Chieftains in Donegal.
All in all we’ve had some fun, not least because of Oaf’s ability to make people smile, and indeed laugh out loud with the things he says.
The latest came this week when I talked to him about the farmhouse and converted barn I have hired for my 60th birthday in the Lakes.
It’s a treat for 18 friends and my children, and I said, “All you need to do is bring three swans each, so we can live like Lords for a week.” Oaf replied, “I didn’t know you could still buy swans Woody.”
Priceless, and one to add to the treasure trove of stories from the past thirty years, currently being compiled into a book, including the following after the Irish wedding in Nerja when Oaf and I were challenged to climb the mountains seen behind us in the picture here.
By the time we reached the tortuous ravines of the Rio Chillar, the sun was already unforgiving and burning up the mist which hung like a necklace around the jagged mountain backdrop. Three miles up a narrow dusty road, with the lofty peaks looming, my alarm bells rang. Roger Hargreaves, the creator of the ‘Mr Men’ series of children’s books, would have had a field day with Oaf and me.
We were, in no particular order, Mr Wrong Trousers, Mr Wrong Shoes, Mr Wrong Complexion, and if truth be told, Mr Wrong Body. The three Spaniards set off like mountain goats, and for the first hour, wherever they could, avoided every gentle slope, preferring to slice vertically through the roughest scrub and rockiest scree that they could find.
Oaf’s bare legs were ripped to shreds by thorns, and our ample calf muscles and ankles became an unexpected dining experience for all manner of flies and insects well practiced in the dark art of blood-letting. Most annoyingly, our companions carried on an animated conversation as they marched, and one, even sang an Irish song to me, whereas I was soon beyond talking. Oaf gasped: “Woody, I know I’m the roadie, but can you not carry your own stuff now?” With a throat as dry as a Nomad’s sandle, I checked my racing pulse and began to think playing rugby at my age had done me no good at all.
We needed to buy time, and in a scene reminiscent of a good action movie, when a wounded soldier encourages his comrades to save themselves, I sat down, pulled Oaf down with me, and said: “You go on boys, we’ll be okay.”
And off they went, vanishing into the depths of a bottomless canyon, still chatting away. After ten minutes recovery, and after finishing off what was left of our hot water, Oaf and I were able to take stock and look around us.
The place was stunning; untouched splendour of a rare kind, with huge shrubs of gorgeous red flowers, and a forest of wild rosemary which we were suddenly able to appreciate, and in the air three griffon vultures.
I suppose the big birds could have seen us struggling, but prefer to think they were looking for some other carrion.
When the vultures had passed by, we set off back for the small car park to wait for the Spaniards return, and it was here that the wildlife came to us, which made me think we should have just stayed there in the first place. It has always been the best ploy, find your spot and wait.
Don’t break the skyline, don’t make any noise, and in future ‘Sean’, don’t climb steep mountains unprepared when you could be in a tapas bar.
We could hear partridge chunnering and swifts screaming as they wheeled above the gorge, while in the distance was the melodious song of a warbler which I could not give a name.
But there was no such trouble with the red kite, wheatear and linnet which followed.
Our decision to wait and watch, rather than walk and die, had saved the day.