Vía Verde del Noroeste

The Vía Verde del Noroeste runs west for 78kms from Murcia city to Caravaca de la Cruz. The route follows the valleys of the Segura and Mula. Sometimes the rivers actually have water in them which is not always the case in Spain,  more often the arid landscape is criss-crossed with arroya and rambla. We only have ugly words in English for dried up rivers - creek or gulch - they don't have the same ring.

We are staying in a campsite in Bullas, a medium sized industrial town about 50kms west of Murcia. The campsite is not listed in our ACSI book, but at €20 per night it costs the same. The place is run by the municipality, it has good facilities but they have seen better days. It's the sort of place that regards a bolt on the shower cubicle door as an optional extra.

More than half the pitches are occupied by Spanish statics, places that Murcia's apartment dwelling families escape to at the weekend. An open air space where  kids can play outside while the adults cook an enormous lunch. The same thing happens in Italy and the set-up looks exactly the same - ageing caravan extended with various DIY lean-to additions fashioned from plywood, rusty poles and tarpaulin.  Pride of place goes to an enormous plastic dining room table covered in a garish pvc table cloth, and a cooker, a multi-ringed propane fuelled range featuring steampunk style knobs and dials. 

We turned up mid-afternoon on a Friday, there were two other vans on site including another British one. It was peaceful, but not for long.  Come early evening the Spanish weekenders arrived, Latino pop wafted through the twilight and kids whizzed about on bikes and weaponised electric scooters. The adults cracked open a few beers and got into party mode. It's all good humoured very sociable and ever louder by the hour. I love it, there's a kind of mundane, habitual joyousness about the whole thing.

On the Via Verde website's Google map  the Noroeste cycle way goes straight through the outskirts of Bullas. However the place is built on a grid system, the streets all look the same and the brown signs for the Via Verde were miniscule. We got lost. A local tried to help us but his English was as bad as our Spanish so we were no further forward. Eventually I spotted a brown sign sited unhelpfully on the opposite side of a wide junction. 

The person in reception seemed delighted that we were here for the Via Verde, I don't think the place gets that many foreign tourists. He warned us that Bullas was situated on a hill and the first few kilometres from the town were on minor roads before they linked to the route of the disused railway. This proved to be the case, but the roads were largely traffic free and you got a great view of the of the blossoming orchards and the mountains in the distance. 

The Vía Verde proper was on the other side of the motorway and accessed through a narrow tunnel. A big solar farm covered the fields on either side of the road. I've driven past many but never seen one up close. Each array looked like a very intricate piece of engineering, especially the steerable ones that follow the sun. I wondered which was more cost effective, a big solar farm or a giant wind turbine. Spain is well placed to benefit from all renewables, it is very sunny, quite windy and has a long coastline. The Vía Verde itself proved less interesting than the road down to it. Much of it was in a cutting so the landscape was hidden. 

We exited the cutting and entered a pine forest, more picturesque but equally enclosing. We decided to turn around. The journey back was considerably more strenuous, the hill seemed to have become noticeably steeper since we descended it ten minutes previously Gill pulled away from me as I was reluctant to use the electrics on the top setting. I had not recharged the batteries since my ascent of Cabo Tiñoso a few days ago. Now the battery indicator was on one light, luckily it hung in there long enough to see me back to the van.

Bullas may have an attractive old town centre but we never managed to visit it. The campsite was on the edge of town, the outskirts are ugly, but it's an industrial town so it was never going to be picturesque.  The town's reputation rests on food and drink. Bullas D.O. may not be famous like Rioja or Rueda but it's wines are well respected, especially those produced from the local Monastrell grapes, reds and rosés designed to drink young. Artisan butchers as well as orchards and citrus plantations make the area a centre of gastronomy. Fading posters highlight Bullas and the neighbouring towns of Caravaca de la Cruz, Cehegin and Mula's moment in the national spotlight as Spain's 'gastronomic capital 2021. 

We visited a local supermarket. It was not part of a national chain with a narrow frontage in row of small and slightly scruffy looking shops. Inside was equally utilitarian, but unexpectedly bigger inside than you might have expected given the underwhelming  entrance. It had the usual choice of groceries, what you might expect from a small Spar. When it came to fresh meat and veg then the choice and quality was exceptional, like looking at the kind of larder they provide for MasterChef  contestants before the dreaded invention test. In an anteroom there was a small bodega showcasing local wines, including some heftily priced vintages. It's the quality of ordinary local produce and the endemic cooking culture it implies that leads to places being crowned 'capitals of gastronomy', not the fact an area might have a clutch of Michelin starred restaurants. Is there anywhere in the UK where this would be the case?

When we booked in the receptionist gave us two leaflets, one about the Via Verde and another giving information about the 'Salto Del Usero' a small nature reserve a couple of kilometres from the centre. We cycled down to it uncertain about what exactly we might find. It proved unexpectedly delightful. Simply put  it was a small limestone gorge, but that does not really capture the spirit of the place. 

We both loved it but for different reasons. Gill pointed out how the overhanging rocks, the still pools linked by little cascades revealed the early stages in the development of a gorge, how sinkholes formed above underground caverns which then collapsed to form mini canyons.

My take on it was more fanciful. It seemed to me to be like the embodiment of W H Auden's poem 'In Praise of Limestone' a  favourite piece by one of my favourite poets. I planned to post a few photos of 'Salto Del Usero' with pithy quotes to illustrate my point, but the poem works as a whole, and the odd line taken out of context doesn't do justice to the whole. So if you want to understand what I mean you will just have read the whole thing!

The place felt  slightly magical. Little wonder our ancestors venerated watery places and springs. I suggested to Gill that this felt like the kind of spot where in Greek mythology minor deities surprised unsuspecting mortals by appearing as swans or showers of gold. Suddenly a shaft of sunlight sliced through canopy of trees and spotlighted the young man sitting on a rock in front of me. 

That this occurred at exactly the moment I took this photograph either proves without doubt the existence of divine intervention, or that all magic is the result of a heady cocktail of coincidence and febrile imagination.

 

Next day we headed to the western end of the Vía Verde del Noroeste staying overnight at Caravaca de la Cruz using the area autocaravanas beside the fire station.

It's a town of two halves, a workaday modern one encircling the spectacular medieval centre perched on a steep hill. 

The area autocaravanas was a short walk from the old town, twenty minutes or so from the modern centre. We wanted a simple tapas style lunch, most of the bars and restaurants were in the more modern part, so we headed there. It was more complicated than it should have been because today was the feast of St. Joseph, which doubles up in Spain as Father's Day, which makes sense when you think about it.

Half the bars and restaurants were closed, the ones remaining open booked-up by families out to have a Father's Day celebration lunch.

Finally we were squeezed into Taberna la Maestranza on condition we vacated our table by 2pm as it had been reserved from then. Ordering what we wanted proved trickier than usual. Most places we travel in Europe you can get by using English, it's the continent's second language on the whole. This has not been the case in this part of Murcia. Perhaps we should have persisted with Duolingo I reflected.

What made matters worse is that Taberna la Maestranza did not have a printed menu, not even the usual billboard by the door listing specialities. We resorted to sign language. We managed to order two beers by pointing to the drinks on the table next to us. However, when we signed that we would also like to eat the waiter interpreted our inept gesticulations as a request for tapas. Two small  gambas empanadas arrived on a small plate. We regarded this as progess.

Meanwhile assorted snacks kept arriving at other tables including a plate piled high with what looked like deep fried langustine. Gill attracted the waiters attention and did a good job of acting out charades style the phrase, 'we'll have some of them please'. They duly arrived with another beer each, which we didn't order. By now it was about 1.45pm, so we ate up, paid up and departed.

A coffee would be nice we decided. Many of the cafés were closed for the St. Joseph's day holiday but we found a cake shop open that served coffees. Gill ordered 'dos cortados'. The waiter looked a little perplexed and signalled for Gill to go back to the counter with him. It transpired that he thought we had ordered 'tostados' - toasts -  and wanted Gill to choose what jam we would like. Eventually things got sorted, we ended up with expressos, but by this time we were past caring. 

Neither of us have a sweet tooth but there are circumstances that simply demand pudding. We ordered two small cakes - chocolate logs with a mousse filling - one orange flavoured the other hazelnut. The cakes were ok. The coffee was ok. Altogether it had been an okay sort of Sunday. 

We now had reached the older part of the town. On top of a craggy hill the castle and an old church towered over the narrow streets. It was a steep climb, there were few other tourists about but it was worth it. It is only when you learn the significance of the monuments that the popularity of Caravaca de la Cruz as a place of pilgrimage and a tourist destination makes any sense.

A sculpture beneath the walls of the Moorish castle celebrates 'los Caballos del Vino'. This is a big fiesta around the first of May that culminates in a horse race within the castle walls. It seems to be a bit like the Palio in Siena as it involves neighborhood rivalry. Los Caballos del Vino is more like an equestrian sprint than a steeplechase. The record time is a smidgen under 8 seconds.

The castle itself was built by the Moors then adapted by later Christian rulers. Heroes of 'la reconquista' are commemorated in the main square of the old town.  

However it is the reliquary in the Santuario de la Vera Cruz that has made Caravaca famous and engendered the town's 'de la Cruz' suffix. Nobody knows for sure just how many churches worldwide claim to have a fragment of 'the true cross', perhaps about 280 it is estimated. Even the Vatican admits most are fakes. However a few are 'blessed' with papal approval, like the one here. 

Even though the church of  was not built until the seventeenth century and the relic itself has been lost and stolen on numerous occasions, the last time in 1935, people still venerate the latest version of the 'vera cruz' and make pilgrimages here hoping for a miracle.

It's easy to dismiss this all as pure superstition but all cultures have a tendency to put blind faith in mysterious objects. Is it really so different to paying out good money for the 'original' of a digital art work simply because your unique ownership of an infinitely copyable artefact has been verified via Blockchain. I read recently that Damien Hirst has gone one step further, giving purchasers of his latest project 'Currency' the option of owning the actual art work or a NFT (non fungible token) but not both. Who is the more credulous, the pilgrim hoping for a miracle or the art collector with with his NFT?

The most memorable thing about the church is its main doorway, a fabulously ugly late Baroque concoction splurged across the frontage a an otherwise plain looking building.

As well as the multi-coloured twisted columns, the doorway is decorated with strange mythical beasts. The entire thing is a bit nightmarish.

We never did manage a bike ride on the Via Verde. The tract of countryside between Caravaca and the nearby town on Cehegin is quite industrial and the trail looked uninviting. Instead we doubled back along the motorway towards Murcia stopping in the area autocaravanas at Mula. It too had been developed by the municipality, this time situated in the corner of the car park next to the  swimming pool and tennis courts . After checking the nearby stretch of the Via Verde on Streetview I began to have doubts about this bit too. Lots of it seemed to be in a deep cutting with chalk white walls obliterating any view of the surroundings. We decided to give it a go anyway. 

It was true there were sections with deep embankments but in fact they were quite interesting, cutting through the strata to reveal the area's underlying rocks. It was like looking at a geological layer cake. 

Actually it was just bad luck that I had clicked on two sections with cuttings on Google maps, most of the trail had spectacular views. A couple of posts ago I mentioned driving through the arid 'badlands' of Andalucia' near Vera. The landscape was similar here, oddly shaped rocks, conical peaks, deep ravines, apparently waterless unless irrigated, whereupon it becomes astonishingly fruitful.

We pedalled about 12 kilometres from Mula to Albudeite all gently downhill. We decided that was far enough given the journey back would be uphill, which never seems quite as gentle. Few roads cross the old railway, all of them narrow country lanes. As we approached a junction a big artic. squeezed down the lane and tuned slowly onto the Via Verde, clearly one of the 'authorised vehicles' mentioned on the signs. The truck stopped beside a stack of big plastic boxes filled with lemons. The grower was on hand to oversee the transaction. 'Bellisimo limones,' Gill called out as we pedalled past. The farmer invited us to take one, which we did. Definitely zero km. food!

Living in a motorhome for months on end isn't always fun, at times it can be exhausting, then you get afternoons like this, they arrive out of the blue, the extraordinary couched in the mundane. We drove through this landscape on the motorway a couple of days ago. I noticed a conical hill with a sandstone hat, but the rest of the area didn't look remarkable.

However cycling through the rocky landscape on an unfrequented disused railway, almost having the whole place to ourselves, it felt very special. Most of the dry river valleys have been turned over to fruit growing. One however remained undeveloped. It meandered into the distance, a shimmering river of tall sedges. Beautiful. 

Back to earth with a bump - the swimming pool car park. It was not the most peaceful place to spend the evening. As well as the coming and goings of parents dropping the kids off for lessons in the pool, the people playing tennis seem to have brought cheerleaders along as well, at times it became almost raucous.

Then there was the sound track.  Easter is two weeks hence; it prompts processions in towns all over Spain, garish robed penitents with pointy hoods following an effigy of the crucified Christ accompanied by slow, funereal music, often simply a troupe of drummers, sometimes accompanied by a mournful dirge played on high pitched trumpets. It never struck me that the participants might need to practice. 

Mora's band, numbering half a dozen or so,  evenly split between percussionists and brass, gathered under small clump of trees at the entrance to the swimming pool car park. They began practicing around eightish and continued nonstop for almost three hours. Judging by the performance it appeared stamina was as important as musicianship.The first part of the practice consisted of repeating phrases from a slow, sad march, every so often proceedings would halt to allow the drummers to hone ornamental rolls of varied intensity. Next they joined the bits together and played the whole thing repeatedly. Finally there was a moment of experimentation when the brass improvised a falsetto counterpoint and the drummers showed off their most heartfelt slow rolls. 

I've seen film clips of Semana Santa processions, the hooded penitents walking like the living dead behind a gruesome, bloodied effigy, the rapt silence of the crowd; then as the music intensifies, a cry erupting in lamentation. Even on film I sensed the immediacy of the moment. It's pure theatre of course, and like all theatre, rehearsed. The practice session performed in jeans and tee shirts was much less visceral, more like an interminable pot-boiler by Ennio Morricone, something played while the spaghetti western's credits roll and the audience shuffles towards the exit. 

We will be in Spain on Good Friday but I don't think we will be seeking out any of the Semana Santa shenanigans. Having to endure the three hours of rehearsals was quite enough. I can't be doing with all the collective outpouring of grief and assertion of faith. If you are an atheist the event simply becomes a spectacle, absurd and wrong headed, interesting only from an anthropological perspective. I prefer Fat Tuesday carnivals, a ritual outpouring of joy and an assertion of carnality - they celebrate the here and now, which so far as I can see is all we've got.

 

By the end of last week we had become thoroughly fed up with fun in the sun Spain and craved something more thought provoking. The four days we have spent around and about Vía Verde del Noroeste have been fascinating, definitely travels in a  foreign land, a world away from the bland over-developed sprawl on the coast between Cartagena and Valencia.