Rock journalist Kevin Courtney goes hillwalking in southern Spain, and comes away feeling fresher than a teenage raver on Ibiza
It's a long way from rock 'n' roll. It fact, it's all rocks and rolling hills as far as the eye can see. I am perched atop a mountain somewhere in south-eastern Spain, and - apart from my companion - there's not another soul in sight. Looking in nearly every direction, all we see are multiple mirror images of this summit, fading away into the horizon.
Looking east, I see the solitary, misshapen outline of Montgo, its wide, concave peak floating on a collar of cloud. Looking north-east, I can just make out the island of Ibiza, basking languidly in a haze.
Looking south, I can clearly see the resorts and high-rise hotels of the Costa Blanca 30 kilometres away and, somewhere along that meandering coastline, the condensed block of sun-baked concrete known as Benidorm. Along this coast, people are probably jostling for deckchair space on the beaches, queuing for the toilets and showers, and dodging mopeds, beach buggies and drunken tour groups on the main thoroughfare; up here there are only potholes to avoid. We seem to have the entire mountain range to ourselves.
The sun is shining, the insects are buzzing, and I'm panting from the effort of climbing this peak with its spectacular views. Whew, rock 'n' roll, this is not. But, hell, it sure rocks.
We are only in the foothills, but already it feels like we are centuries from civilisation. This mountain region lies south of Valencia and inland from the Costa Blanca, and is largely ignored by the sun-worshippers and pleasure seekers who throng to the southern coast of Spain each year. The contrast couldn't be more marked if you drew a line behind the resorts; in fact, they have - it's the main motorway from Alicante to Valencia. On the coastal side, it's sun, sea, sangria and souvenirs; on the inland side, it's small, charming villages, winding roads, pastoral scenery and undulating terrain.
You pass small tavernas where the old men of the village gather to watch the cars and donkeys go by, quiet squares where the women sit and chat while waiting for the washing to dry (not a very long wait, judging by the warmth of this early spring day). You turn a corner, and suddenly you're looking down into a beautiful valley lined with almond groves, or you're peering up a sheer rockface which looms dizzily above the road. As you keep climbing, you leave the overcrowded resorts farther behind and enter a world where the only rush is the rush of oxygen you get at the summit of the hill, and the only hurry is to get back down off the mountain and into the taverna before darkness falls.
My companion for this weekend is a keen walker, and many times during the next few days she has to stop and wait patiently for her wheezy old rock journo boyfriend to catch up. Meanwhile, I have to stop many times and catch my breath, swearing through my gasps to quit my sporadic smoking habit for good. Many more times, both of us stop to take in yet another breathtaking view, and to absorb the refreshing, salty tang of the coastal mountain air. We spend three glorious days walking in the hills and gorges of the Vall de Laguar; at the end of the third day we feel footsore, fancy-free, and fresher than a teenage raver on Ibiza.
On day one, we arrive at Alicante airport, stop at the Centauro counter to pick up our hired car, and head down the A7 motorway to Valencia, almost a two-hour drive away. Our plan is to spend a day strolling around Valencia, just to warm up our leg muscles for the hillwalking ahead. We arrive during the run-up to the celebrated Fallas festival, and from our room at the Holiday Inn on Paseo de la Alameda, we can hear the festivities getting under way, as fireworks crack and music blares in the mild spring evening. Sleep? Sure, we can do that when we get home.
Valencia is bisected by a vast, dried-up riverbed, now a public amenity. The river Turia used to flow freely through the city, but often burst its banks and flooded, so the Valentin authorities decided to divert the river to the south of the city, leaving a wide, empty channel which is now filled with parklands, gardens, playgrounds, playing fields and outdoor markets. There was a plan to put a motorway where the river was, but happily this was scrapped.
As you walk along the promenades on either side of the riverbed, you feel the tranquil sense of space running through the city's heart. The way is marked by many pretty bridges, such as the 16th-century Puente Del Mar, with its pointed arches, the modern Puente de la Exposición, also known as the "curved comb", and the Puente del Flores, a bridge festooned with colourful flowers all year round.
During the Fallas festival, Valencia is alive with parades, processions, pomp and pageantry - you can hardly turn a corner without running into a group of fancy-dressed citizens or finding your way blocked by yet another costumed cavalcade. We have to pause for half-an-hour while the children's parade skips by, parents watching proudly as their little frogs, octopuses, dolphins and bumblebees march past.
Every afternoon at 2 p.m. during Fallas week, a vast crowd gathers at the Plaza del Ayuntamiento for the "mascleta", a firework display with a difference. You don't see much during this loud, earth-shaking symphony of noise, but your ears certainly feel the boom of the gunpowder as it cracks in a deafening sonic salute. I've been to Metallica, Sepultura and My Bloody Valentine, but no rock concert has ever come this close to making my ears bleed.
Alas, we can't stay in Valencia long enough to watch the fire ritual, the flower offering or the crowning of the Fallas Queen, but we do manage to visit the newly-opened Oceanografic, the largest marine park in Europe, and part of Valencia's shiny new Ciutat de les Arts I les Ciéncies. By the time you've witnessed the head-spinning variety of invertibrates, crustaceans, fish, mammals and oddities on display, the daily dolphin performance will seem like a boring circus sideshow.
On day three, we head for the hills, arriving at the tiny village of Benimaurell in the Vall de Laguar on a scorching afternoon to meet experienced mountain climber, Jose Miguel Garcia Fraile. Fraile, along with his partner, Jeroni Garcimartin, runs a company called Terra Ferma, dedicated to sustainable tourism in Sierra Aitana and other mountain ranges in the region.
Their philosophy of small-scale, responsible and environmentally-friendly tourism is in contrast to the expansive and exploitative style of many coastal resorts. Terra Ferma is the local operator for Exodus, the UK-based company which specialises in walking and activity holidays around the world.
Unless you're an experienced walker, it's best to be accompanied by someone like Jose Miguel. He led us on our first walk into the Vall de Laguar, taking us down a long, winding terrace of stone steps which zig-zag their way deep into the valley until they reach Barranco del Infierno or Hell's Ravine, a deep gorge running between the mountains of Cavall Verd and La Carrasca.
Until the 17th century, this valley was occupied by the Moriscos, Arabs who had taken refuge here after King Philip III ordered their expulsion from Spain. The Moriscos built this endless network of steps and paths (known as the 5,000 steps), and held out here until they were finally trapped and slaughtered by Philip's men atop the Cavall Verd.
Our accommodation was La Casota, a charming old stone farmhouse just outside the village of Fleix, built by Mallorcans in the 17th century, and beautifully restored by its current owner, Joaquina Garrido Valero. The Riu-Rau, where raisins were once stored, has been converted to four quaint en-suite bedrooms - ours had a 200-year-old bed. On the grounds of La Casota, we relaxed among almond, cherry, olive and carob trees,or chilled out in the porticoed fountain wash-house, filled with goldfish. This season, a swimming-pool, jacuzzi and sauna will add to the bliss.
Each evening, after a hard day climbing the 5,000 steps or doing a horseshoe on the Cavall Verd, we trudged into a taverna for a cool glass of beer, then headed back to the farmhouse for a wonderful, home-cooked dinner and a bottle of local wine, followed by a glass of Moscatel in the tiny library. After all that fresh country air, spring sunshine, exercise and relaxation, I felt just like La Casota - completely restored. Now, back to the rock 'n' roll lifestyle.
www. valencia.holiday-inn.com, www.lacasota.com, www.terraferma.net.
Aer Lingus flies to and from Valencia on Thursdays and Sundays, one-way fare from €74, www.aerlingus.com