It’s official. I’ve given up the booze. I do not make good decisions when tipsy. Allow me to explain. Last month, we were at our Spanish friends’ house. The drinks flowed, flamenco was attempted, and embarrassing videos taken. So, when they suggested we visit El Chorro together and walk the Caminito del Rey, I merrily agreed. Emphasis on the merry.
But the next morning, reality hit. I’m not a fan of hikes. Nor heights. Put the two together, and meltdowns are likely. The Caminito del Rey (The King’s Little Path) is not for the faint-hearted. A 7-kilometre-long walkway made up of forest paths and footbridges, most of which cling precariously to the gorge walls high above the River Guadalhorce. For about four hours I will be wearing a safety helmet and be pinned to the side of the cliffs – a waist-height railing being all that separates me from the 100-metre sheer drop below. Gulp.
But, last Sunday, off we go. I managed the first 5 kilometres of the hike drama-free. But about 2 kilometres from the end, as the path snakes around a bend, it reaches a crucial point where we have to cross over the gorge. The only way to do this is by walking over a suspended bridge about 10 metres in length known as ‘The Walkway of Death’. A hanging bridge with grid decking, through which you can helpfully see down to the river 100 metres below. Even with its horizontal stays, it sways and wobbles up and down when you walk on it. And ever so thoughtfully, there’s a memorial plaque before you step out into oblivion, to the three local climbers who sadly fell to their death in 2000. Double gulp.
Pulling up my big girl pants, I step on and start across, but at a snail’s pace. Lord Muck encourages me with a Dairy Milk square every five shaky steps. But halfway across, behind us, a family steps on, and their teenage sons decide to jump up and down to make the bridge sway more. So, what do I do? I sit down, of course – clinging to the rails for dear life – point-blank refusing to move. My intrepid trio try to get me up. Cue more Dairy Milk. But nope. This girl was not for turning. But just as I was starting to think about moving – particularly as a rather angry queue had formed behind me on the land side – my ears pricked up at Gonzalo’s magical words: “I think we should call in the Bomberos.” Spanish firefighters. Every female expat’s dream.
So, hunkering down, I waited. Twenty minutes later, I see them approach. Swoon. Uniformed up. Helmets on. Swaggering towards me. I sigh with pleasure. Right up until they removed their helmets and revealed themselves to be… gorgeous female firefighters. On secondment from Catalonia fire service. At which point, sighing for a whole different reason, I meekly surrender to being carried off, hanging upside down over Gabriella’s back. But what do I spy when looking back? Lord Muck and Gonzalo also now requiring assistance. How convenient!
Right, must dash. Off to burn our hiking boots. Should things get out of control, I’ll just call in the Bomberos. Got to be luckier second time round, right?
Postcards from Andalucía, Lady Muck Style
By Catherine Saunders / Read more at www.ladymuck.style
