a walk to the world's end
John Sutcliffe’s 2018 Spanish backpacking adventure through the Pyrenean & Cantabrian Mountains
I woke several times during the night to the sound of heavy rain and heard my first wild boar shuffling around in the woods. Sensing my presence it then crashed off through the undergrowth making a dreadful grunting bark – a startling noise that I would eventually get used to, an even begin to enjoy! The rain eased but then turned heavy again whilst packing up. After a week of blue skies I suppose I couldn’t grumble.
I came across a group of people sheltering under a large tarp shelter at Km 85 – a control point for a mountain marathon, and watched a constant stream of very muddy men and the odd woman slithered into the shelter, grabbing a quick drink and bite to eat before sliding off again. I was made welcome and offered a coffee and a glass of something before heading off into the heavy rain, with low cloud and failing light. The weather was pretty horrible.
From here things started to go seriously wrong. I was by now soaking wet, due to condensation inside the waterproof from the icy cold rain, and feeling miserable. Worse still, the GR-1 seemed to be heading off in the wrong direction, and I struggled to read the GPS in the poor light, having forgotten the trick to increase the Garmin’s back-light. I wondered if perhaps the route had been diverted.
After backtracking several times with increasing frustration, I came to another marathon control point where I was able to fix the screen illumination, confirming that I was way off track and now following another long-distance trail, the GR-83 that headed south. (For others that may follow, the intersection of the GR-83 and GR-1 at Hostal de la Vall del Bac, at Km 88 is not marked on the ground or on the guidebook’s map – a serious omission that must lead lots of people astray (had there been ‘lots’ to lead.)
I was now struggling, cold and soaking wet, feeling pretty miserable and, critically, just about out of fuel and getting low on food. The people manning the control station warned me that there would be no provisioning points for several days, and I decided to bail out, accepting offer of a lift down to the nearby town of Bianya.
Here a kind lady at an embutidos (sausages and ham) shop spent ages on the phone trying to find me a place to stay. The icy-cold downpour continued. The closest available was lodging was in Ripoll, about 32 km away, and I took a bus there and checked into the La Trobada hotel. I was starving and, finding a place to eat, studied the route to make a plan for the new circumstances. Ripoll was on the GR-1 but I had ‘jumped’ about 30 kilometres. The section I had missed followed the Riu Ter river valley and ran at times uncomfortably close to the busy N-260 highway. Rather than backtrack into this poorly waymarked section through gloomy forest, I decided to resume the walk from Ripoll.
After stocking up on meths and other supplies, including a cheap loose-fitting waterproof, in the hope of reducing the condensation problem, I headed off through pine woods on following a contour. The morning was dry and today had no difficulty following the GR-1 waymarks. I camped in a wood next to a field with cows adorned with clunking cowbells, at Km 133.
More rain fell during the night. Awoken by the cowbell alarm, I was up before 6am. The rain had stopped but the morning was foggy. Carrying on through the woods I came to a masia (farmhouse) where I was greeted by two noisy dogs and their owner, a friendly lady called Clara. Once the dogs had checked me out and decided not to rip me to pieces, was invited into her lovely wood-beamed and inglenook living room for a welcome coffee and biscuits.
There was a reassuring GR waymark just behind her house, with the track leading on past a striking vertical bed of conglomerate that Clara had asked me to look out for. At 2pm I came to small hamlet called Alpens (Km 145) and found a cafe-bar where I tucked into a splendid €14 ‘menu del dia’ with a bottle of house wine plonked on the table, unasked for – a feature of these daily menus that I would just have to get used to!
A group of ladies were having a noisy birthday thrash and I was invited to join them, putting paid to the rest of the afternoon and obliging me to accept a €20 room. What a great place!
The sound of heavy rain woke me up several times in the night. Over breakfast it turned to sleet – just what I needed! The landlord, an amiable guy called Joan (a Catalan man's name), and others now drifting in for morning coffee with ‘a slug of something’ added, thought I was nuts to be setting off in this foul weather. The rain eased by mid-morning, opening up grand views from the ridge.
Sta. Eulalia de Puig-Oriol (Km 155), confirmed my theory that the smallest Catalan hamlets have the longest names. I asked in a tiny shop if there was anywhere to eat in the village, and was led past the meat slicer and squeezed past stacked boxes into a large busy dining room. A well-hidden but welcome surprise!
From the Menu del Dia I chose the beans and chorizo starter, and then, to get my own back for scares in the night, I chose wild boar for mains. A bottle of wine was again thrown in followed by a delicious Walls coffee ice cream with a coffee chaser, all for an amazing €13!
On reaching at the delightful hamlet of Lluca (Km 160), just before 7pm, I followed the guidebooks advice to overnight in the stunning B&B just opposite the beautiful church.
The Argentine B&B hostess suggested I head straight over to the church if I wanted to see it, as the guide would be leaving shortly and would not return until late the next morning. He was a retired historian, bubbling over with enthusiasm whilst directing my photography. The former Augustinian monastery dates from the 9th century and has an amazing collection of medieval murals and tiny but stunning cloisters. The monks here made a living by selling olive oil, used mainly for lamp fuel, the guide said.
I woke up to a very cold morning, just above freezing, to start the day with a huge plate of fruit and an omelet – what a splendid B&B this was! Once again I found myself struggling to follow the overgrown way-marked route.
After a boots-off river crossing I camped on the track, next to a field of clanking cows south of Km 180. Cows roamed and grazed in amongst the oaks and firs, which I found odd.
Packed up by 8.30am, I headed off down the cow track, until it eventually petered out. Backtracking to a Y junction I then tried the other branch, that led me to a large open area of flat-laying conglomerates (a hard rock of pebble to orange-sized cobbles cemented in a fine matrix). Numerous footpaths, probably boar-tracks, led off in all directions that left me spoilt for choice but all seemed to end in nasty brambles. I went round in circles for some time, getting seriously pee’d off – I would remember this Friday 13th for a long time.
Eventually found a way out of the brambly maze and carried on to the village of Olvan (Km 186), and then on to Gironella (Km 190), a nice town that straddles the river Llobregat. I stayed the night at the 1888 Hostal, and ate in the restaurant next door. The mean manageress wouldn’t let me dry my boots near the fire, with her ‘It wouldn’t look good’ almost earning her a blast of North Yorkshire.
Warming up near the fire I watched swallows flitting and skimming over the big river in the rain just below a weir. I bet they were wishing they had stayed back home in Africa. This long spell of cold wet weather was, I was told, quite unseasonal, and creating widespread flooding just to the south. I was running out of steam with these constant soakings of icy cold rain.
Before retiring I reconnoitred the town and found a GR waymark ready for a quick getaway the next morning, helping me to sleep. Tomorrow the weather was supposed to improve.
But no such luck! – the rain started as I headed off. On the way up to Obiols I passed all sorts of dismal former industrial mill buildings at La Plana, one kilometre north of the town. The rain eased and finally stopped. Pausing to look at the Iglesia de Santa Maria d’Avia, I was startled to hear my phone ring from somewhere deep in my rucksack. It was my daughter Pen calling me from England. I was now feeling in better shape and she noted the change, worried by an earlier phone call when I was fed up.
My then spirits sank when a chap cheerfully showed me the weather map on his phone, showing a prominent belt of rain was heading straight this way. It started mid-afternoon, light at first and then building up to a steady downpour. The forecasters were good at predicting bad weather, but not so good on the good!
Reaching the scattered settlement of L’Esplunyola (Km 207), about 5.30pm, I spotted what thought might be a bar. An elderly couple, just getting out of their car, told me it was a bakery so I followed them inside, hoping to warm up. It was an amazing place, with breads of all shapes and sizes, some quite ginormous. Asking if there was anywhere close to stay to get out of the rain, the lady of the couple, after conferring with her husband, showed a kindness by offering me a bed in their nearby home.
They drove me to their weekend house where I was welcomed by a friendly dog and a log fire. They were lovely couple from Barcelona, Isabel a few years younger than me, and Jose a few years older. Later Isabel cooked some beans and broccoli whilst Jose cooked some sausages on a grill over the fire, producing a splendid bottle of local wine and brandy.
This turned out to be a special day, the one that swallows and I had been patiently waiting for, with the sun finally reappearing to make this one of the finest days of the walk!
Jose ran me back to the bread shop and I set off on the steep 400m climb up to Capolat, a scattered hill-top settlement at Km 212, at 1200m elevation.
The cliff-top sanctuary at Tossals marks the beginning of the spectacular E-W Serra del Tossals ridge, fashioned from hard conglomerate, presumably shed off from the Pyrenean mounting building event. The GR-1 follows the prominent 1,475 metre-high ridge for about 5 km. Patches of frozen snow lingered in amongst the small firs; it tasted, well, of nothing much, but was nice and crunchy, a dieter’s ice-cream. From this vantage point on this cloudless day I could see for miles, with snow-capped Pyrenees to the north and high Sierras to the south. Following the ridge trail was, for once, dead easy, for if you strayed off the trail there was a shortcut down a cliff. To savour and linger at this special place I pitched my tent early at about Km 218, right on top of the ridge.
Climbing up to the Sierra del Tossals ridge
The fine weather continued. As a special treat to celebrate the change in the weather, I put on some Italian Vanoni music as I made some porridge, leaving just one bag for another day. (I remembered, with regret, having dumped half my porridge cache from my weighty food bag).
Off in great spirits, feeling literally on top of world, I headed off towards the Sisquer (Km 236). My good fortune with the weather was short-lived with heavy rain setting from late afternoon. Luckily I found a recently built, open-sided lean-too attached to a church, possibly a community meeting place. It was a roof over my head and would do perfectly well to keep me dry.
The inflatable mattress would keep me reasonably comfortable on the concrete floor, but it got quite windy and cold later on. I managed to pitch the tent on the concrete with just the flysheet keeping me warm and hidden from the roaming wild boar.
With those thoughts I was soon off to sleep.
Awaking to a splendid blue sky just as the sun was breaking on the horizon, I had a quick cup of soup before heading off through the lovely forests. I took a short lunch break at San Marti church (Km 243) on the grassy balcony in the sunshine, filling up with water from a cow-trodden spring. Mucky creatures, I thought!
On the outskirts of the small town of San Lorenc (Km 251), I stopped to ask a group of four chaps fixing a motorbike for a suggestion of where I might stay, and was directed to La Catalana – a modern hotel by the square – a great place where I made friends with the owner Enriqu. (Catalan spelling ) Later, after a great meal at the El Jardi bar/restaurant, I met up with Enriqu and the four guys from earlier joining them all in a bar.
The good weather held. I was enjoying the place and decided to stay a second day to do some much needed route planning and catch up with my diary. Later Enriqu and I went to the El Celler bar joining another group of his friends, all good blokes.
Another splendid sunny morning. Before heading off Enriqu ran me up to a roundabout on the outskirts of the town to show me a crucial GR marker, after which we had a last coffee together.
The beautiful pinewoods, in which I now found myself, reminded me of the Colorado Rockies. I reached the Col du Jou at 11.30am, feeling in good shape, and happy to be following the well-marked route for a change. By mid-afternoon I reached Canalda, Km 262, where I met a retired geography teacher digging his garden. We talked some geology and he invited me into his home for a welcome cold beer.
Off again, my path took me on an easy contouring route through more lovely pinewoods. Later I left the track to follow a deserted road for a while. It contoured high above the GR route, with more open views. Two cars passed me in the course of an hour. With the day fading I came across a welcome watering point set in the roadside wall, near to spring overgrown with brambles. I filled up with water, and all set for the night, spotted a small field on the opposite side of the valley – a bit out in the open for a backpacker site but it was getting late and would have to do.
The tent was up in no time and a meal soon underway. I was enjoying the lovely evening sunset until the peace was later shattered by a loud high-powered rifle shot that rang out from the woods above me. The noise ricocheted from one side of the valley to another, bouncing off the overhanging cliffs. A second shot rang out some time later. I hope the shots had missed the boar – for most of the time they were my only companions in this wild and beautiful empty land and I had gotten used to them, in a fashion.
With a clear sky the night temperature crashed to near freezing overnight and I struggled to stay warm, piling on gloves and thermals. Once the sun rose above the forests it turned into a lovely sunny morning.
After passing Odin castle, perched high up on a ridge, I reached Cambrils, Km 280. Following the guidebook advice I walked along the road for the last 6km to the village, enjoying the splendid views.
I camped near Km 284 just below a blacksmith’s rendering of a cyclist on a bike placed there to commemorate a Tour de France that had passed this way a few years before. A muddy seepage provided filtered water for the night, and I camped on a grassy track.
Up just after 6 am, I first explored the area looking for a GR-1 marker, and was quite relieved to spot one as I was about to enter some rough-looking terrain. I then headed off on a splendid ridge walk - one of the best days of the walk so far 2. The small chapel dedicated to St Just, Km 289, brought back memories of the mining town in Cornwall near the start of my 2018 Cape to Cape walk. I feasted on spare ribs at the Cafe Marisol in Oliana, Km 294, and after grabbing some supplies in a small supermarket I headed off on a lovely evening walk to Peramola. I found an acceptable campsite, but a bit close to the road, and decided instead to sleep at Masia Peramola hostal. A group of weekend walkers arrived later. After a decent meal I crashed out.
After dropping down to the tiny hamlet of Pallerols, Km 309, I spotted a concentration of cars in the distance and wondered if this might be a watering hole with people out for Sunday lunch. No such luck. It turned out to be a church service to commemorate the patron saint of the church, which until the next anniversary would remain firmly shut. I chatted with the people outside the church and afterwards entered the recently renovated church to take photographs.
After the service, everyone, including me, was given a loaf of bread – an interesting ancient custom I was told. For a backpacker, it was manna from heaven in this bread-less terrain! Afterwards I headed off down the wrong path, but a new friend whistled at me putting me right. There were no waymarkers so it was just as well.
The downhill walk to the river far below was splendid taking a twisting route through mixed woodland to the river a few kilometres away. I speculated it was probably an ancient way that had once led back up to the church. I was in high spirits for a while, and the things started to go seriously wrong, starting with a scary looking stream crossing near Km 315. The wooden footbridge had been washed out and was now unhelpfully hung up in a tree after recent floods. I studied the crossing, procrastinating, but the flow was swift with the turbid waters concealing its depth. I ducked the challenge – as others had apparently done, judging by a recent faint detour path following the riverbank.
Downstream I came to a thigh-deep ford that I crossed easily. I had left the GR way-marked path at the bridge-in-a-tree and would not come across a welcome GR marker now for several days. Not to worry, I pushed on and found a pretty campsite just off the track and dunked my feet in the crystal clear stream before a lovely picnic tea of quinoa and Spanish ham, filling up on church bread.
This truly horrible day got underway at 6.30am after writing up my log. First I headed up to the Mesia Massanés, an isolated hostel supposedly on the GR-1 at Km 320 that had been very highly rated in my guidebook. Back in England I had planned a much looked-forward to lunch stop here, but after a steep climb I found the place shut. It had an abandoned air and no one answered the phone numbers pinned to the chained gate. My spirits sank; this was yet another gap in my guidebooks chain of strategically placed watering holes.
According to my guidebook, the GR–1 is supposed to pass in front of Massanés, but there were no waymarks – in fact I had seen no markers since the tree-bound bridge of the day before. I continued along the track until I came to a split. I first tried the right hand fork and walked on for a good hour before turning back as it seemed to veer away from the intended direction. I then tried the other branch that fizzled in a clearing of long-abandoned beehives. What to do?
The Spanish 25k map showed an early variant of the GR-1 (marked with the brown dashed line) following the main stream several hundred metres below me. I had passed this track on the way up but the way was barred with a 6-foot barbed wire fence. I decided to give it a try, and heading back down bypassed the fence by tumbling by slithering down the steep side of the valley. I then headed off up the track following the stream. All seemed promising for a while until I reached a point where the map’s dotted track climbed up the side of the valley on a very steep slope, heavily overgrown with interlocking saplings and brambles. Then I spotted a bit of red tape tagged on to a leafy branch, and, two or three metres beyond that, spotted another. It looked like someone had recently marked a possible ascent route. Hauling myself up the slope, I followed the ribbon trail to the base of a reddish-brown sandstone cliff. It was no more than about 5 metres high and I tried climbing it with the help of a tree that grew close to the cliff edge. I am not great on rocks but had spent a good part of my boyhood climbing trees, but here I struggled with the weight and bulk of the pack, and, scared of the consequences of a fall, I gave up after two or three feeble attempts.
Turning back down wasn’t an option so I then explored the base of the cliff in both directions, suffering in the bramble undergrowth. There were no tape markers and it didn’t look like anyone had recently pushed a way through. Running out of steam and getting desperate, I spotted a muddy track heading up a steep gully, and to my great joy I spotted hoof-prints in the mud. I had found the wild boars secret way up the cliff! Hanging on to saplings, I pulled myself up and found myself on an abandoned track, and with another short scramble up a bank came to the long-abandoned hamlet of Salinoves that, according to my guidebook map, to lay directly on the GR’s route.
Abandoned fields, Salinoves
I figured that the hamlet must once have had some sort of a water supply, and leaving my pack in an overgrown field, set off in search of water. It was an eerie place with strips of woodland separating ancient terraced fields with half a dozen scattered homesteads, long since abandoned and with caved-in roofs and crumbling walls. Then I heard the weirdest noise coming from behind one of these. Investigating, I came across an old cement-lined pit that was home to a colony of large leggy toads. I couldn’t fathom out how they managed to get out of the pit – perhaps they didn’t. I screwed up my nose at this potential water supply, that, apart from being disgustingly toady, was impossible to reach without a bucket and rope.
With daylight fading, I carried on my exploration and discovered a shallow pond of water at the foot of a limestone bluff, possibly fed by a resurgence 3. It had a rusty aspect appeared to be toad-free, so I filled up with filtered water. Then, as low cloud blew in, it started to rain – annoying as my waterproofs were back in my pack.
By now I had been wandering around in circles for some time in the hunt for water. The various overgrown meadows all looked pretty much the same in the fading light, and I now found myself struggling to locate my rucksack. This opened up a very scary scenario, miles from anywhere, with nightfall rapidly descending, and I started to panic. It would have been so easy to have put a waymark on my Garmin instead of leaving behind in charge of the rucksack, but in a hurry I had overlooked that basic procedure.
Guided by the distant racket I eventually found the first toad-hole and then, with great relief, found my pack nearby almost hidden in the trees. It was a bit too heavy to hug!
I pitched the tent next to the strip of woodland, well and truly knackered, and doing the day’s tally from my sleeping bag, I was dismayed to measure a miserable straight-line advance of just 5.2 km after my 10-hour slog.
After good nights sleep I was awakened by full-blown woodland ensemble with a cuckoo conducting a zillion croaking toads and a sprinkling of soprano song birds. I was feeling much better with my spirits now fully repaired, and, heading off, I came to the pond where I had taken yesterday’s water. As I approached, a dozen or more toads leapt off the grassy bank in rapid succession! Grimacing, but grinning just a little, I took on some 4 carefully filtered water before heading off.
Froggy watering hole
My route from here was to take me across two ridges aiming for a track on the map that followed the crest of the second distant ridge. The plan came unstuck trying to climb up to the first ridge, with the way hampered by thick prickly undergrowth. Going back was not a viable option and, pushing on to the ridge, I was rewarded with a wonderful sight – a firebreak heading up the second ridge from the creek at the bottom. The creek itself was dry but the limestone bedrock had a few puddles of clear cool water left over from last evening’s brief shower. Just about out of water, I dropped my pack and lay down and drank from these.
I reached the forest trail at the top of the second ridge, having taken 4 hours to advance just over a kilometre thanks to the razor-wire brambles. By now I had just about had my fill of the overgrown and poorly waymarked GR-1, and, in a black mood, started to think seriously about aborting and heading home. I might have done so had there been an easy way to get there!
Several hours later I reached the 1,100m-high Col de Camioles, Km 327, a landmark pass used both by a local road and, according to my guidebook, the GR-1, of which, once again, there was no trace. I had run out of toady water and cadged some from an elderly couple who were packing up after a picnic. Apart from the puddle I had passed no surface water all day and was most thankful for this.
Pushing on, I camped that night at Bon Repas, a lovely old farmhouse that now forms part of a residential educational centre. The original farmhouse was still in use but the centre looked unloved. I asked a chap at the farmhouse for some water and was offered the use of a hosepipe. He told me that from here the GR-1 was practically impossible to follow, and that lots of people had ended up getting lost in the woods, cheering me up no end.
I found a nice spot to camp next to the centre – a residents picnic spot with several trestle tables and benches, providing a touch of luxury.
Up early, I headed off through the woods following unmarked paths until I miraculously came across a GR paint mark in the middle of nowhere. I pushed on heading for the long-abandoned Hostal Roig that had once been used by smugglers from Andora. From here I began the long climb on a forestry track up to Portella Blanca, at 1,640m, the highest point on the GR-1. With nightfall advancing, I stopped to camp some 5km before reaching the summit. The evening had suddenly turned cold and the wind had got up, so I pitched my tent in a sheltered gully.
I was awoken during the night by the sound of rattling pans. I tried shooing away the intruder, but the rattling continued intermittently. It didn’t sound like a boar, unless it was a starving one!
Next morning I laughed on discovering the source of the disturbance. My small garlic/olive oil squeezy bottle was now laying about a dozen feet from my tent. It had teeth marks on one corner, but mousey’s tiny teeth had not penetrated the tough polythene.
Carrying on towards the summit, at Km 347, I filled my water bottle with frozen snow before beginning the steep decent to the abandoned village of Rubies. For the past two or three days I had been struggling with a painful calf muscle, strained by trying to standing up from a crouch position with my pack on 5. It got worse during the 1,000m steep descent, and so I took a short rest in amongst the ruins, checking a small chapel with a collapsed upper floor.
Ruins at Rubies
Hunting around I came across a welcome but very faded GR paint mark on what looked like an ancient way leading out of the village. The first part was OK, but then, as the path picked its way over very rocky terrain, it steepened and I struggled. The last few miles I had to ‘shuffle’ my way down. I was also out of water and the streambeds were bone dry 6.
I reached the deserted road by late afternoon. I was in real pain and, desperate for a drink, and so decided to try thumbing a lift to the town of Ager, Km 368, that promised accommodation, water and food.
Hobbling across the bridge, a hasty thumb stopped a solitary car, for which I was incredibly grateful. Jordi and his wife Pili were very kind outdoor sorts, and had stopped when they saw this hobbling man with a grey beard, they told me afterwards. Tomorrow would be decision day but for now food and a bed for the night were the priority and I would put off any decision until the morning. Dreading the outcome of this, I didn’t sleep easily …
I had a pretty miserable nights sleep and was in considerable pain when I tried to get out of bed next morning. I called my eldest daughter Penny, a GP, who said that from the sound of it recovery would be slow and I decided to recover in the comfort of my home back in Yorkshire.
From that point, things happened fairly quickly. The lady at the B&B put me in touch with Mariano, a local taxi chap. He was going to Lleira some 50 km distant and I shared the ride and cost with two people heading to the hospital there. After dropping them off he took me to the station and, with a stroke of luck, saw there was a train heading to Oviedo in Asturias at about 1.20 pm – in just 10 minutes time. This being a long ‘puente’ or ‘bridge’ weekend, tagged on to the May 1st public holiday, the train was fully booked from Zaragoza onwards with people heading to the Asturian coast for the long weekend. I bought a ticket to Zaragosa but once on the train I talked to the conductor explaining the problem with my leg. He offered to do his best to find me a no-show seat. A first class seat became available at Zaragoza and I enjoyed the rest of the journey whizzing through the beautiful countryside.
I phoned Belen, my friend and former work colleague in Asturias, Northern Spain, to whom I had posted off the surplus stuff. She fixed me up with a bed in a small hotel in her village, Muros de Nalon. I got there just before midnight with a taxi from the city of Oviedo.
I spent a couple of days in Asturias catching up with a few friends with whom I had worked in the late 1980’s, before flying back to the UK on May 1st. I remember the stab of regret on boarding the plane, wondering if I would return.
Back home, the leg slowly mended, testing it first on the stairs and then on short walks. Should I head back for another go at the overgrown paths and brambles?
I had left my rucksack on the landing to stare at me every time I went upstairs, and it had eventually convinced me to head back.
2 Sorry if I keep say ‘the best so far’ – but they really were!
3 A spring
4 But foolishly I only half filled the containers hoping to find a more appetizing source shortly.
5 The pack was too heavy for me to swing onto one shoulder from a standing position.
6 Although I later learned that there was a hidden spring somewhere near the village.
Contact John Sutcliffe - firstname.lastname@example.org
Section 1: TO SPAIN AND ACROSS THE COASTAL PLAIN
SECTION 2: PUENTE LLIERCA TO AGER
SECTION 3: AGER TO LIGUERRE DE CINCA
SECTION 4: LIGUERRE DE CINCA TO TORRE DE ANUES (NAVARRA)
SECTION 5: TORRE DE ANUES (NAVARRA) TO BASQUE COUNTRY
SECTION 6: INTO BASQUE COUNTRY
SECTION 7: SALINAS DE ANANA TO PUENTE DEY
SECTION 8: PUENTE DEY TO CORCONTE AND ON TO SANTANDER
Website designed by Charlotte Fox Marketing
a walk to the
John Sutcliffe’s 2018 Spanish backpacking adventure through the Pyrenean & Cantabrian Mountains