The World's Scariest Hike? El Caminito del Rey, Andalucía, Spain

Bliss is an evening in the limestone hills of Andalucía, when the heat of the day has ebbed and the landscape is bathed in the rich tones of the sinking sun. It’s mid May and I’m at a quiet finca in El Chorro northwest of Málaga, sitting under a carob tree sipping a bottle of chilled Giatenejo, a divine, locally brewed craft ale, fortuitously discovered at a nearby restaurant. I let my thoughts drift back to the fabulous walk we did earlier as I listen to the incessant chit chat of swifts and sparrows and watch a large group of Griffin vultures slowly circling on thermals above some nearby cliffs.  

This afternoon, we tackled what has been described as the scariest walk in the world: El Caminito del Rey: The King’s Pathway. This runs for around three kilometres some 100 metres above the Guadalhorce River in the Desfiladero del los Gaitanes Gorge near the village of El Chorro. Finished in 1906, the Caminito was constructed to service a channel and numerous sluice gates connected to the Salto de Chorro hydroelectric plant. Its royal association came when El Chorro Dam was inaugurated by King Alfonso XIII who walked it in 1921. Over the years, the Caminito fell into a state of disrepair, sections of the concrete walkway had fallen away leaving just the iron girders hanging in mid air high above the deep, steep sided gorge. This didn’t deter those looking for adventure, in fact the walkway attracted thrill seekers, adrenalin junkies and via ferratists, many of whom, ill equipped and inexperienced, risked life and limb to cross from one end of the gorge to the other. Inevitably, there were fatalities and the walkway acquired a reputation as the world’s scariest hike. In 2000, the local authority closed it to the public and imposed a maximum fine of 6,000 euro on anyone caught tackling it. Not that this acted as much of a deterrent; people still undertook the route clandestinely and a German climber fell to his death as recently as 2010.

However, the regional government of Andalusia and the local government of Málaga, saw the tourism potential of the route and agreed to share the costs of a €9 million restoration project (including car parking and a museum). Work on the installation of a new boardwalk, mostly constructed right above the crumbling old concrete walkway, at a cost of  €2.7 million, commenced in March 2014. A year later, the first tourists traversed the new route. Free tickets for the first six months have been advertised online as the local authorities seek to test their new tourist attraction and, although the Caminito is now booked solid until late September, we are among those lucky enough to obtain a couple of those free tickets.

So, after an el cheapo flight with Ryanair from Dublin to Málaga, we find ourselves entering a small office, the El Chorro information point, at the southern end of the route which is only a short drive from our finca. We have left our hire car parked by the Garganta hotel and restaurant where we enjoyed a delicious lunch. From this restaurant, sited just opposite the train station on the Málaga to Córdoba line, it's a mere ten minute stroll downhill to the information point. Here we produce our online ticket confirmations for our 1.30 pm slot (the only tickets we could get) and receive a hard hat and a hair net which must be worn at all times. Along with over three dozen other people, all Spaniards of various ages bar a group of middle aged Dutchmen and a small number of other English speaking people, we are given an introductory and safety talk by one of the rangers in Spanish, which describes the route that totals approximately 7.7 km, divided into 4.8 km long access ways and 2.9 km long boardwalks.

Some of the Dutch and English look bewildered, trying to understand the Spanish that pours typewriter-like at enormous speed from the ranger’s mouth. I admit to finding her hard to follow! When the route opens properly in the future, and, as it will be aimed at day trippers from Málaga and the Costa del Sol, beloved of sun worshippers and expats from Britain and Ireland, this pep talk should perhaps be delivered also in English. We managed to get the gist that a reasonable level of fitness is required and we should allow around 4.5-5 hours to complete the walk. A maximum of 50 people per half hour are admitted at either end of the gorge, no children under eight years of age or pet dogs are allowed on the route, no tripods are permitted and only small packs may be carried. As this is a linear route, an hourly bus service costing a few euro, has been laid on at either end to take you back to where you started.

Spain's mini 'Grand Canyon'

On an unseasonably hot spring day, we set off along a track past the milky green water of the Tajo de la Encantada Reservoir fringed with candy pink oleander flowers and shaded by pine trees whose resin scents the air. The dusty path soon becomes more exposed and an enormous arched railway bridge towers above us. We soon realise that we have chosen to walk the route the hardest way, because from the southern, El Chorro, entrance, a gradual incline is encountered all the way to Ardales at the northern end. As we ascend, the sheer cliffs at the end of the reservoir and the barely visible cleft marking the entrance to the gorge, reminiscent of the Siq that permits entry into the ancient Nabataean stronghold of Petra, loom into view and I can only wonder at what might lie hidden upstream. My eye is suddenly caught by the ant like figures of people moving steadily along a section of the new pathway clinging to the sheer cliff-face towards the entrance to the gorge. Just inside its narrow entrance, I spy what appears to be a bridge arching high above the river. It’s a pretty thrilling sight.

The path is lined with vivid patches of spring flowers that thrive in calcareous soil, including blood red poppies and oxeye daises. After a steepish climb up some steps we arrive at a checkpoint sited on a small terrace close to a commemorative plaque marking the reopening of the route, where a cheery ranger examines our tickets and crosses our names off a computer print out. We now descend down a flight of steps passing above a green metal bridge carrying the railway line to Córdoba that will accompany us up the gorge. As we cross over the railway line, the boardwalk is encased in a chain-link cage to protect the track beneath which feels slightly surreal. If this place looks somewhat familiar, it should, as the heart-stopping escape scenes at the end of the 1965 World War Two film, Von Ryan’s Express, starring Frank Sinatra, were filmed on this stretch of the Caminito and in the railway tunnel right below.

We head down a series of narrow, knee jerking steps onto the flat section of boardwalk clinging to the sheer cliff face that we had admired from afar earlier. Gripping the metal handrail, I peer over the edge where, some 100 metres below us, the turquoise water of the reservoir slaps up against the base of the cliffs. I can feel the heat of the afternoon being radiated off the limestone walls and beads of sweat stand proud of my brow. It’s suffocatingly hot as the heat is being trapped by the presence of Saharan dust in the atmosphere; I would not recommend the slots at midday/early afternoon if you cannot tolerate the heat of a Spanish summer. Indeed, we tried to obtain morning tickets when the temperature would have been pleasant, but these had unsurprisingly already been snapped up.

Martin is relieved as we climb another set of steps into a cooling breeze as we begin to round the cliff face towards the narrow entrance to the gorge. Passing below the atmospheric remnants of rusting electricity poles with their ceramic insulators that formerly carried power up the gorge to the various hydroelectric facilities, we now catch our first close up glimpse of the dilapidated pins and rusty brackets that held the old pathway into place and the remains of the via ferrata equipment formerly used by climbers to access the route. The gentle breeze soon becomes something of a gale as the wind tears down through the gorge that acts as a kind of wind funnel. We pause to peer over the chain link safety fence at the vertiginous view of the narrow cleft marking the entrance to the gorge, where the turquoise water, agitated by the wind, swirls and snarls way below us. Ahead, we can see the old bridge, the Balconcillo de los Gaitanes, taking the original walkway above the concrete aqueduct spanning the gorge and a 30 metre long newly installed galvanised steel suspension bridge now used to cross it.

Officially named the Puente Ignacio Mena, after a local councillor, the new bridge holds ten people at a time and sways and oscillates as I begin to walk onto it. Flashes of the turquoise Guadalhorce River far below appear through the grid decking beneath my feet and, as I approach the centre of the bridge, it really begins to wobble, causing me to grip the metal handrails tightly. Anyone who suffers from vertigo mightn’t be too happy crossing this! Just past the suspension bridge are fine views of the new Caminito built neatly about a metre above the old walkway on the left. But equally impressive is the railway line constructed between 1860 and 1866, disappearing from one tunnel into another on the right, supported on a large arched stone viaduct. The tenacity and ingenuity of Victorian engineers who seemed unwilling to be deterred or intimidated by even the most extreme topography, such as that encountered by constructing this railway through this gorge, never ceases to amaze me.

A more sobering sight is the memorial plaque to three young climbers who fell to their deaths here in August 2000 when the via ferrata cable they had been using broke. The cable, hanging loosely from the rock, has been left in place as a permanent reminder of this tragedy. Indeed, as we progress along the new pathway, we get views of the old Caminito down through the wooden slats and also ahead of us, as the route weaves its way around the rock face, hugging the contours of the gorge. It seems something of a miracle that there weren’t more deaths, as huge chunks of the concrete have fallen away from the old path leaving gaping holes in it; in places it has been reduced to mere iron girders hanging precariously over 100 metres above the river. Some of these look rotten as pears and many pieces have all but rusted away.

Mercifully, we have now entered the shade of the gorge and the relief from the burning sun is welcome. We marvel at the variety of ferns and clumps of pretty spring flowers growing out of the many crevices in the limestone. The route now doubles back on itself as it enters a side gorge carved by the Falla Finca, a tributary of the Guadalhorce River. Here the old pathway can be clearly seen, including a four metre long concrete bridge ‘short cut’ across this small gorge that has long lost its safety rail and toe boards and seems to be suspended in mid air. We both agree that leaving the old pathway in situ to be quietly reclaimed by the elements only adds to the incredible atmosphere of the place.

As we leave Falla Chica, we stop to admire the commanding view of the Balconcillo de los Gaitanes and the aqueduct from which a cascade of water is being blown away in the wind, its myriad tiny droplets catching the sunlight like a shower of diamonds. Soon after we encounter a small, glass-floored cantilevered viewing platform which is strategically placed to provide perhaps the best and most memorable views back down the gorge, showcasing the sheer sided spectacular cliffs and ahead, the verdant Valle del Hoyo we have yet to traverse. Hemmed in by the high limestone crags of the Sierra de Huma, the serene turquoise coils of the Guadalhorce River flow through it. In the far distance we can see the continuation of the Gaitanes Gorge through which we must pass to reach Ardales. We cannot resist the urge to gingerly step out onto the glass platform for the obligatory photo book snap, braving the stomach churning feeling experienced by seeming to hang, frozen in mid air!

The 'Lost World'

The boardwalk now ends and we traverse a series of wooden stairs that delivers us into one of the concrete channels that brought the water down the Valle del Hoyo from the higher Gaitanejo reservoir. The water ran through a series of such channels and tunnels towards the Balconcillo de los Gaitanes bridge before descending in a vertical tunnel where it gained sufficient speed and energy to drive turbines at the bottom that generated the electricity to power Málaga. Indeed, we pass by one of the cast iron wheels that operated a sluice gate used to regulate the water flow and peer up one of the dark tunnels before following an old water channel up the valley. This is shaded by pine trees fringed by clumps of spiny leaves sporting pale mauve flower spikes of Acanthus and scrubby bushes of Anthyllis cytisoide bearing lemon yellow flowers.

We pass by several other couples coming the other way who greet us warmly and a large group of Spaniards who set off with us earlier but who are now availing of a long bench amid some pine trees to enjoy a picnic. Permitting just 50 people to enter the gorge at each end every half an hour ensures that the Caminito never feels cluttered, allowing each visitor a leisurely, pleasant experience.

The Valle del Hoyo with its towering limestone crags has something of the ‘lost world’ about it; all that is missing is the pterodactyls! I sit awhile to savour the smell of this hot land: the odour of parched earth, the heady fragrance of the pine trees and the sweet, resinous scent emitted by the mastic trees that grow everywhere. This 'smellscape', an olfactory memory, is permanently hard wired into the brain of anyone who, like me, has ever lived in the Mediterranean and yearns to return. Paper dry grasses interspersed with poppies nod and whisper in the breeze and I watch, fascinated, as a number of ants busy themselves collecting fragments of vegetation for their colony, one heroically struggling with a grass seed over three times its size. Below my rocky vantage point, stands of Aleppo pine sweep down to the river which has formed large, milky turquoise pools and on a hot day such as this, I dream of plunging into one of these. Away in the hazy distance, a crease in the cliffs marks the spot where the gorge we have just traversed ends, with part of the Caminito just visible. I wonder what it would be like to live in this valley, my imagination fired by the sight of some abandoned orange groves and allotments surrounding the derelict farmstead, Cortijo la Hoya.

After some 3 km, a flight of steps leads to another boardwalk that takes us round a huge rock buttress to the sheer-sided and narrow continuation of the Gaitenejo Gorge. I am exhilarated by the thought of re-entering the gorge and we both regret that we had not discovered this place 15 years or so ago, when it was untamed and less well known. The boardwalk twists and undulates its way through the narrow gorge high above the river which has carved and fashioned fantastical shapes in the limestone over eons of rushing through this narrow chasm. We are delighted by the sight of Griffon vultures circling on thermals high above the cliffs, eyeing no doubt, the many collared doves that inhabit the rocky crevices of the gorge. With their huge wings silhouetted against the blue sky, it's not hard to imagine that this really is a 'lost world' and that these vultures are in fact pterodactyls from the Cretaceous period! The vegetation is lush, comprised of oleander, tamarisk and European marram grass.

We soon spot a small bridge, the Puenta del Rey, spanning the river just before a rock overhang where the canal widened to form a mini reservoir to control the water flow, and an old overflow drain discharged into the river. The crumbling stone steps leading down to the river have survived, but the Casa de Guardia de Canal, built below the overhang where the workers who controlled the various sluice gates lived, was inexplicably demolished in 2014, its site now marked by a wooden bench surrounded by blood red poppies and electric mauve thistles.

Further along, just before the boardwalk climbs steeply, clinging seemingly precariously to the towering, sheer cliff face, the route splits into two: the boardwalk follows an old canal and descends into a short tunnel, the other bypasses this by means of a flight of original concrete steps that descend towards the river, only to ascend again to join the boardwalk. The final stretch of the gorge is very narrow and we greatly enjoy passing along the shady boardwalk staring down at the whirling pools and rushing turquoise water far below fig and tamarisk trees sprouting from the craggy cliffs.

Tunnel Vision

As we pass out of the gorge, we spot a series of small waterfalls and the remains of what looks like the Caminito continuing along the cliffs across the other side of the river. With one final, wistful look back towards the exit of the gorge, we pass through the control point and soon spot the Gaitanejo Dam with its towers at each end. After a few minutes we reach a portable cabin which serves as the Ardales Information point where we return our safety helmets. The dusty pathway now undulates through a pine forest above the Gaitanejo Dam before entering a large tunnel where the gusting wind lifts huge columns of dust from the road which follow us through to the other side. 

After walking for several minutes in the sapping heat of late afternoon, we find the route confusing as there is a choice of two pathways: one signposting another smaller tunnel and the other marking a route that climbs steeply though the pine forest. Neither clearly signs the way to Ardales where we must catch a bus back to El Chorro. We decide to take the tunnel. With eyes used to bright sunshine, it's pitch black and its floor frightfully uneven; we fumble and stagger our way through a couple of hundred metres of darkness and I'm relieved to see the pinpoint of light growing ever larger at its end. A head torch would have been useful! But the tunnel turns out to be a good choice as it brings us to a main road leading downhill to the bus stop opposite a restaurant named El Kiosko near the village of Ardales. However, that we have eventually arrived at the bus stop is more luck than judgement, for there is no signpost at the tunnel exit either to direct walkers to the village and there certainly need to be improvements made to the signage to avoid people getting lost after leaving the gorge. The bus, which leaves every hour and costing two euro each is almost ready to depart, so we eschew a cold beer at El Kiosko, preferring to wait until we can savour a bottle of the aptly named Giatenejo craft beer once we return to our finca.

Billed as one of the top new travel experiences by Lonely Planet for 2015 will do much to ensure the popularity of El Caminito del Rey, but rock climbers and via ferratists continue to lament the loss of one of their most risqué adventure playgrounds. Some locals we spoke to are appalled at its new ‘Disneyesque’ features and recoil at the thought of busloads of tourists from cruise ships docked at Málaga pouring through there every hour. They doubt that there will be much of a positive knock on effect for their businesses from such day trippers. Although it would have been great to have discovered this place long before it became a tourist honey pot, overall, we formed a favourable impression of the Caminito and marvelled at the engineering excellence of yesteryear that has been respected by the installation of the new boardwalk that blends almost seamlessly with the old pathway. Although it is no longer the world's scariest hike, the Caminito isn't a walk in the park by any means, especially in the unforgiving Spanish sun. We agree that those looking for a novel hike offering magnificent scenery and a bit of excitement in this part of southern Spain will doubtless find this 8 km route just the ticket. That is, if they are able to get hold of one!

Watch the video of our trek along the Caminito de Rey at:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HQgIA-lDuhI

Mulhacén: King of Mountains, Sierra Nevada, Spain

The Sierra Nevada soar into an impossibly blue sky above the ancient city of Granada. They are living up to their name all right: snow capped, they gleam in the hot spring sunshine. It’s mid May and I’m in Andalucía, the former Moorish kingdom of Al-Andalus in southern Spain. Everything here appeals to my senses: the melodic language; the warmth of the Spanish sun; the sun-kissed coastline bathed by the warm waters of the Mediterranean; the high, narrow streets of ancient cities, their whitewashed buildings clustered around crumbling fortresses on hilltops that rise above rolling plains; the Arabesque architecture with its intricate zellij tile work and dripping alabaster that reaches its apogee in the magnificent Alhambra Palace of Granada; the incredible gastronomy with more than a nod to the region’s Moorish past; the divine wines and craft beers; the passion of flamenco guitar and above all, the palpable sense of history that emanates from the very ground. Granada is the resting place of two of Europe’s most remarkable rulers: the Catholic monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella, who, in the dying years of the fifteenth century, united the kingdoms of Castile and Aragon and reclaimed Granada, the last bastion of the Moors, for Christendom. This seismic event created a fertile seed bed from which grew an assertive, expansive new Spain that set its sights across the Atlantic, paving the way for the Conquest of the Indies and the birth of a global empire which has left its mark on countless countries and peoples across the world today. I simply love Spain, and the southern part of it in particular.

This brings me back to the Sierra Nevada, the mighty mountain range that straddles the provinces of Granada and Almería, formed 66 to 1.8 million years ago during the collision of the African and Eurasian continental plates. I have long harboured a desire to climb the highest mountain in my favourite European country, which is what has brought Martin and myself here. We have our sights set on Mulhacén (3,482m), the highest peak in Europe outside the Caucasus Mountains and the Alps. Its also the third most topographically prominent peak in Western Europe (after Mont Blanc and Mount Etna) and ranked 64th in the world by prominence. Being in Andalucía, it is no surprise to discover that Mulhacén has a Moorish connection: it is named after Abu I-Hasan Ali, or Muley Hacén, as he is known in Spanish, the penultimate Muslim King of Granada who died in 1485 and, according to legend, was buried on the summit of the mountain that came to bear his name.

Although it’s only around 9.00 am, the sun is surprisingly hot on our shoulders as we leave the Albergue Universitario at Peñones de San Francisco, a mountain lodge run by the University of Granada. We are the only people staying here, but just a fortnight earlier the place would have been bursting at the seams with skiers and snowboarders eager to enjoy the last of the winter snow. Now, the large car park at Hoya de la Mora and the vast ski village sprawling across the mountain slope below surrounded by retreating patches of dirty snow and motionless ski lifts, are eerily deserted, as desolate and bleak as a northern England seaside resort in mid-winter.

We climb steadily uphill passing by the triangular masonry shrine to the Virgin de las Nieves under a powder blue sky streaked by wispy white cloud. Here and there we spot bright patches of spring flowers, welcome dots of colour amid the stony, arid landscape. We follow a thin trail, worn bare by the passage of countless feet, that undulates its way ever upwards, occasionally crossing an asphalt road, the highest in Europe, that switch backs its way towards Posiciones del Veleta (3,100m). Taking this trail rather than following the road cuts off some 5-6 km. In the summer months, the Sierra Nevada National Park authority runs a mini bus service to Posiciones del Veleta from where people make the short climb to Veleta and the more adventurous set out for its twin peak, Mulhacén.

Less than an hour into our climb, a silver haired man in shorts with heavy pack coming down the trail hails us loudly. I instantly recognise the accent as being from the South East of England. He relates how he and his group climbed the mountain yesterday and have just spent the night at the Refugio de la Carihüela. “It’s a bloody long way”, he says, brow furrowed, shaking his head, when we inform him we're planning to summit and return the same day. Doubts began to crowd my mind as ‘Jeremiah’ describes in great detail how much snow was encountered, the debilitating effects of the altitude and the time it took his party to summit. Moreover, this was their second attempt – last February they had failed in their task due to the alpine conditions. I felt somewhat deflated as we walked away and wondered whether it was wise to try and climb Mulhacén in one day. Perhaps we should have stayed overnight in one of the refugios too…

The trail weaves its way along the top of the Barranco de San Juan, at times hanging perilously close to the edge of this rugged ravine where one slip could result in a fatal fall. As we ascend, we pass the rest of Jeremiah the Englishman’s group slowly making their way downwards leaning heavily on their walking poles and grumbling loudly about the distance and the steepness of the terrain. Mountain gazelles these are not! We soon spot the Sierra Nevada Observatory and the white dish of the IRAM radiotelescope and around 3,000m encounter the first snow, which lies feet deep on the road, slowing our progress. Below us is the partially frozen Laguna de las Yeguas. As we approach the Refugio de la Carihüela, we disturb a herd of ibex that are perfectly camouflaged against the rocky terrain; they melt away as soon they spot us. The refugio is just as well camouflaged, a low semicircular structure constructed of the surrounding rock that blends perfectly with the landscape. Outside are two other trekkers, a couple of Swedish brothers, who are also aiming for the summit in a day. At least we are not the only fools to be attempting this! We have reached the refugio in around two and a half hours from the Albergue. But it took Jeremiah nearly that much time to cover the distance from the refugio to the point where he met us on the trail. Read into that what you will!

We sit on the stone benches in front of the refugio soaking up the view towards distant Mulhacén and the even more distant peak of La Alcazaba. My eye follows a thin white line where snow lies on a gravel track, the old Sierra Nevada road, once drivable but closed to traffic in 1999, that leads towards Puerta, a gap below the Crestones de la Río Seco which do indeed resemble the comb of a cockerel, angled sharply upwards into the hazy sky. Beyond, the old road weaves its way round Loma Pelada behind which Mulhacén towers. It does indeed look a bloody long way off! The atmosphere is full of Saharan dust, giving the landscape, which appears sharply etched, an odd, glassy hue. The dust has also trapped the heat, making the day abnormally hot for the time of year and we are extremely warm in just short sleeved woollen base layers. Despite the heat, large snow patches dot the bare brown mountain slopes and we can see that the route crosses several of the steepest of these. Fortunately we had the sense to pack a set of half crampons. Suitably rested and refreshed, we set off following the tracks made by the Swedes who are several minutes ahead of us.

The snow is soft and sugary and I’m instantly glad of my crampons as I traverse the steep snow covered slope leading away from the refugio. Below this we follow the old road as it makes a couple of hairpin bends below a large outcropping shelf of rock where water is cascading down from the melting snow above in a series of mini waterfalls. Below the old road we spot the small Laguna de los Vesares swollen by the snowmelt. There now follows a long plod across snow and scree slopes towards Puerta, a nick in the rocks between the crags of the Crestones de Río Seco and the equally rugged Raspones de Río Seco. Through a gap in the Crestones, we shudder at the vertiginous drop into the blue-green Valdeinfiernos valley.

Passing through the narrow, snow choked cleft of rock aptly named ‘Puerta’, another vista more barren than ever unfolds before us, with the old road clearly visible as it sweeps round the bare and lifeless Loma Pelada. The cluster of small tarns named Lagunas de Río Seco that should be visible below the old road are completely buried beneath snow, their presence only betrayed by the slightest depressions and hint of aqua. With the exception of the snow, the landscape reminds me of a scene from Mars, made all the more Martian by the strange light caused by the dust in the atmosphere which affects the Rayleigh scattering, so that the sky does not appear to be very blue.

We stop to remove our crampons as the worst of the snow is now behind us. We decide to follow the old road rather than take a path shown on our map that traverses the ridge above the Luguna de la Caldera, as we are not sure how steep and snow covered the terrain is above the lake. Although this adds a couple of extra kilometres to the route, we feel it is better to be safe than sorry and make good speed round the snow-dappled basin, Cuenca de Río Seco, below Loma Pelada. Where the road turns sharply downhill towards Laguna de la Caldera, we pass a small rectangular building perched on a shelf of rock with fabulous views down the Seco valley which we later discover was the Refugio Pillavientos. We finally spot the Refugio de la Caldera, which, like the Refugio de la Carihüela, is built of local stone and is therefore almost invisible against the barren landscape.

As we approach the refugio, we pass several small patches of white rock rose (Helianthemum apenninum), the first flowers we have seen since we hit the trail above Hoya de la Mora. Between the refugio and a small lake are a herd of Spanish ibex, several sporting impressive sets of curled horns, that seem totally unperturbed by our presence. We arrive to find the Swedes eating their lunch. The refugio inside is identical to Carihüela: two wooden sleeping platforms one above the other running the width of the building, and a long wooden table with benches either side complete the furnishings. A series of hooks run along one wall for hanging up clothes, there are some candles on the table and, for a well-used remote refugio, it’s fairly clean and comfortable.

Martin fires up our gas stove for lunch and I potter off down to a small lake fed by snow melt. In the summer this will disappear, but today the surrounding patches of snow are reflected in its shallow green water, above which Mulhacén rises majestically. We have a steep climb of over 400 metres ahead of us so we fill ourselves up with a highly calorific meal of freeze dried food.

Until now the route has been fairly benign, mostly consisting of a gentle upward ascent. All that changes as we begin the slog up Mulhacén. The sun is beating down relentlessly as we pass by the Laguna de la Caldereta and commence the ascent of the dusty trail up the western flank of the mountain. The heat, trapped by the dust in the atmosphere is suffocating and I can feel it being reflected off the rocks and bare soil as I struggle upwards. I worry for Martin who does not like the heat at all. He’ll suffer making this climb at altitude and he has already slowed considerably. Although we did expect there to be snow on the higher ground, neither of us predicted such unseasonably warm weather and for it to be in the mid-twenties over 3,000m high!

We push on ever upwards crossing a couple of patches of dirty snow clinging stubbornly to the trail. Here and there, tufts of wiry yellow grass break the monotony of the stony landscape and I am delighted to spot some clumps of Viola crassiuscula, the Sierra Nevada violet, endemic to this mountain chain, flowering amid gaps and crevices in the bare rock. The pretty mauve and white flowers dance in the breeze on their delicate stalks and seem curiously out of place in this bleak and arid landscape. I stop by these to wait for Martin slogging his way upwards. The Refugio de la Caldera is but a minute dot barely visible above the two, now tiny, metallic green lakes we had passed by earlier. The larger of the three, Laguna Caldera, was not visible at the level of the refugio and is still hidden under ice and snow, nestled in the bottom of the scalloped basin below the shattered rocky ridge of Puntal de la Caldera. Beyond, Veleta shimmers grey blue in the heat haze. Another party of climbers now appears about a hundred metres below us amid the shattered rocks on the steep side of the Loma del Mulhacén. Their progress is also painfully slow in the fierce heat and altitude.

I mop the sweat from my brow and suck the last vestiges of water from my bladder and we begin the final push for the summit, passing the Swedes who have begun their descent. With their words of encouragement echoing in my ears, we cross a deep patch of sugary snow and are at last atop the broad rocky ridge leading to the summit cairn. This finally comes into view, a small outcrop standing a couple of metres higher than the surrounding rock, sporting a concrete pillar and what looks to be a gated shine carved out of the rock which is covered in scarves and items of clothing that have been tied on to the metal grille, including a rather garish bright orange tee shirt. It’s almost impossible to see what’s inside the shrine due to the clutter, but I think I spy the Virgin Mary amid the candles, bottles, plastic flowers and wooden crosses, devotional offerings left by umpteen climbers.

After the obligatory summit photo, we take some time to admire the view, clambering the final couple of metres onto a concrete platform sporting the concrete pillar. When the weather conditions are right, the views over the Sierra Nevada are extensive, and it’s possible to see more distant ranges including the Sierra de las Nieves north of Marbella, the Sierras de las Cazorla to the east of Jaén and even the Rif Mountains in northern Morocco. But today we cannot see much beyond the immediate mountains, let alone Morocco, as Africa has instead come to us in the form of Saharan dust! But standing on the highest point in peninsular Spain is a great experience, even on this dusty, heat hazed day, and my stomach churns as I eye the near perpendicular 500 metre plus drop to the snowy Hoya del Mulhacén with its ice encrusted lakes, and admire the broad sweep of the sharp ridge above the diminutive Refugio de la Caldera standing proud, pimple like, from the ruddy, parched face of the landscape. The rocky ramparts of nearby Al Alcazaba rise majestically, a rectangular, unroofed stone walled building, apparently once a chapel, stands sentinel near the summit, while in a valley far below, tinged the faintest of green, is a long thin lake, the final of seven in the Cañada de las Siete Lagunas.

It’s a very long way back to the Albergue where we have left our car, and mindful of the time this will take, we pull ourselves away reluctantly from the roof of Spain, stopping briefly to take photos for the climbing party we saw earlier, a group of young Spaniards who have just arrived at the shrine. We progress speedily down towards the Refugio de la Caldera, taking care not to slip on the trail pounded to bare earth by the passage of countless feet. Before long we are back on the old road sweeping between the two metallic green lakes we saw from the summit and we’re soon approaching the bend above the Refugio Pillavientos. Upon rounding the corner, I feel slightly deflated looking at the distance we have to cover to pass through Puerta let alone that to the Refugio de la Carihüela, a tiny protuberance in the pass between Veleta and the Tajos del Tesoro. I can see the Swedes crossing over the first patch of snow ahead of us, but poor Martin is still struggling with the heat so we move more slowly than we otherwise could do. Coming to the snow, we stop to don our crampons. Hair stiff with sweat and dust, I’m now totally out of water and looking forward to a good drink at the waterfalls we passed earlier. The sun is sinking lower in the eastern sky, it isn’t quite as hot now and I can see ahead that some of the route lies in shade which will make the going easier for Martin.

After what seems like an eternity, we come to the small waterfalls beneath the almost sheer southeast side of Veleta where Martin, suffering from mild heat fatigue, cools down in the crystalline cascade. The water is freezing but tastes divine to a sun parched, dusty mouth and throat! Now out of the sun and refreshed by the water, we move rapidly up the snow slope to the refugio. Here we remove our crampons before setting off towards the tarmac road down to the Albergue. Rounding the corner from the refugio, an incredible vista unfolds of the Tajos de la Virgin snaking away to the south-west, but we are instantly blasted by a very chilly wind and stop to put on our Rab generator smocks for the first time. As we descend along the trail, the white dish of the IRAM radiotelescope is silhouetted against a sky turned orange and apricot in the setting sun, hanging in the dust laden atmosphere like a Chinese lantern. Underneath this magnificent sky, an endless sea of brown peaks streaked with snow retreat into the distance, fading to smoky grey and sepia before being swallowed in the haze.

Night falls as we are about a kilometre from the Albergue and far below on the darkening plain, I spot the shimmering pin points of thousands of lights betraying the location of Granada some 25 km away to the northwest. We arrive back at our car in one hour 50 minutes from the refugio, after completing the summit attempt in about 13 hours, covering over 30 kilometres with some 1,500 metres of ascent, despite Jeremiah the Englishman's doubts that this could be done! Two hours later we are sitting, showered and refreshed, in a plush hotel suite in Granada sipping a delicious cool Mammoth Granada Imperial Stout and wolfing down a selection of tasty tapas. I walk out onto the balcony, the ceramic tiles beneath my bare feet still warm from the sun, and stare towards the Sierra Nevada, snows silvered by the light from a hazy crescent moon and a scattering of stars that float above their jagged peaks. The night is still, serene, the scene mystical, magical, like something from the pages of the Arabian Nights. Indeed, it almost seems that the crescent moon, symbol of Islam, is pointing towards Mulhacén, the final resting place of the penultimate Moorish King of Al-Andalus, a mountain truly fit for a king, whose summit we have just conquered.

Watch the video of our climb at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wui0tQR5Hjk