I discovered that my last posting was missing a section from the end for some unfathomable reason. One false move of a stubby finger over a tiny but sensitive control pad can wreak havoc. So I’m having another go before I hit the trail.

The track down to the ancient capital city, founded by Normans (didn’t know that they were in these parts) was tranquil after the exposed ridge above and I was able to admire the crops of prickly pear and agave or aloe.
There was also some almonds blossoming already.

Aloe Vera is a big deal here and there were many products for sale in the tourist souvenir shops. The coaches and rental cars come to admire the restored old stone buildings and I was lucky to meet Tomas, who had restored and converted his old sheds into accommodation.

And so to bed.
But I’ve lain abed too long. The cosy nest has delayed me.
Vamos !

It was a journey into the green and lush (by comparison) interior today. I left the pretty and well kept village of Pajara down a wide barranco past acres of shade netted veg plots. Another contrast to home where we need poly tunnels to increase the heat.
Back out past the shelter id had to abandon last night and on up into the hills. These were the best built and managed trails so far. The local council must be very track proud and have a few euros to spend on them because they were pristine. Not a rock out of place. Wooden bridges across the barrancos, stone and cement gullies to take away flood waters and a neatly built stone wall running along side. As we climbed higher there were even sections where they had cut steps out of the rock.

There were abandoned terraces high into the mountains, though not as high as yesterday where they reached 500mt.
The bug seemed to have gone and it felt like I was starting to get “track fit”. The pack felt manageable and I was walking to my musics beat. ( thanks for the sounds Bill and Sarah.) When hiking these mountains nothing gets me up like Donna Summer (ahem , showing my age there) and Fat Freddys Drop has got me down safe.
So good walking up and over coming down into a valley of palms and windmill water pumps.

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On the flat for awhile with easy going past old mule driven well pumps (actually haven’t seen any donkeys or mules, maybe they were people powered)
Into Vega de Rio Palmas where the Virgin Mary appeared in 1497 and to where pilgrims come to her shrine from all over the island on the 3rd Saturday of September.
I don’t know if it’s the presence of all the water or the Virgin Mary but the area seemed quite prosperous. The town has a fine church and square with covered bandstand, nice cactus gardens and fine clay oven,like a lot of the houses around.
After the easy stretch came another long and steep climb eventually leading through what passes for a forest in these parts.

Down to an area recreativa where I was tempted to stay the night after the exertions of the climb but it was too early and the no camping signs put me off. So on upwards till cresting a ridge I was hit full on by the howling northeasterly. Fine views across the northern half of the island but a slog to the peak and down the other side and a relief to turn westwards again towards Betancurria now looking close below.

Tranquil again I was able to admire the crops of prickly pear and aloe, a big crop here with a multitude of aloe Vera produce for sale especially in souvenir shops of which there were plenty in Betancurria, the ancient capital created by the Normans. Lots of historic old buildings , one humble one I’m in tonight. I met a lovely man , Tomas , who has converted his sheds into original style accommodation.

And so to bed.

Sitting pretty at this stage.

As I gazed out over strange rounded bare hills toward Pajara I could see some examples of the modern Canaries way of hanging on to water that runs off the hills. Big diggered ponds that now were mostly empty. There must have been a lot of rain at some point recently though as the track has been washed out a number of times. In fact, unfortunately the formation of the track has sometimes created a run for the water and it has become a deep gully that is best avoided.
A lot of effort is made to hold on to as much water as possible whereas I have recently been spending a fair bit of time trying to get rid of it. Ah well, the grass is always greener, and it doesn’t get any greener than at home in Ireland.
Amazingly FUERTEVENTURA used to export a lot of grain and was known as “The bread basket of the Canaries”
Hard to believe now in this parched landscape. I’ve walked past some fine examples of how they did it back in the day.

Another reminder of home I’ve seen on the trail a few times is limekilns. Next to grain it was the biggest export from the 16th century till the 60s.
It might not interest you but I’ve got a bit of a thing about limekilns and recently drove half way across Ireland to see one working.
You may or may not find it fascinating to discover that the small rural domestic kilns were fired on gorse. No gorse around here now and the kiln I explored was full of goat carcases.
So after climbing through some dramatic mountains

I arrived at Pajara intending to move on to the next trail shelter for the night. It was not to be.
As I hiked up the barranco out of town I had a nagging feeling i was making a bad choice. I thought it was because a comfy room would be nice or because I wanted more wifi (it’s getting compulsive) but I overrided such thoughts as I wanted to push on further.
Luckily it was only about 5 km to the shelter because as I got there I was struck down suddenly, and fairly violently by what i can only describe with any decently as a “tummy upset”.
So I had to make my way back to the village as quick as i could in case of a repeat performance, to freshen up.
Lesson learnt… Listen to your inner voice.
An angel of mercy at the full Casa rural found a room for me and a taxi to get there, and as I got in the cab…it started to rain and was no night to be sleeping out in roofless shelter.
So was my intuition about the tummy upset or was it about the rain? Or was the tummy upset sent by a higher power to get me out of the rain because I hadn’t listened the first time?
We’ll never know.

The distance markers must be wrong surely ! It took me 6 hours to get to Pajara from last nights shelter and it was only 14 km. Still there were some big climbs involved and some steep and dodgy descents. Big wild empty country.
Decided to fill up with food and water here and head on again to another shelter about 10km further on.
So while I have an hours wi fi I’ll try uploading some photos from the last couple of days.

My first taste of dune walking along the shoreline of the Jandia peninsula.

Stone shelters and umbrellas on the beach for the sun worshipers.

Book now for summer 2015!

The trail above the lagoon.
Then it was time to leave the peninsula and head inland and North across the big sand El Jable.

On the road built by political prisoners.
Past some fishermen in the empty barranco and onto my room with a view.

They say a pictures worth a thousand words. I was hoping to feature many photographs and thereby cut down on the amount of nimble finger work needed to type on a 2 x 1 in keyboard.
But it seems I must be very sparing or crashes occur.
Yesterday I headed off early down the pink paved prom in Morro Jable. I thought I’d have it.to myself but was busy with joggers cyclists skaters and speed walkers.
Eventually they headed back to the apartments for breakfast leaving me to head out of the urbanization and back to the wilds.
The trail played cat and mouse with the waves, leading me along the beaches and up and over small headlands. If the tide was in the cat would get you as the cliffs reared up cutting off access.
Some shorelines were covered in large pebbles that had been built into handsome shelters to protect from the ever present wind.
It wasn’t long before I was joined by the serious sun worshipers setting up for another day of melanoma.
Soon after the last beach bar things got rugged and very sandy with drifting dunes making the going tougher.
I climbed quite high for a fine view of the coastline and distant mountains. Below me a curving sand spit created a vast shallow lagoon above which the sky was dotted with the colourful kites of the tiny surfers.
One blot (or actually several) were the abandoned skeletons of massive hotel developments. It seems the crash struck hard but like the ghost estates in deeply rural Ireland it was hard to imagine some of these being viable.
As I past by one sprawling deserted complex in the desert it heartened me to see loads of little Barbary squirrels had taken up residence.
But if I thought it was desert yesterday, today was pure Lawrence of Arabia.
I got an early morning bus to where I finished last night and set off on a 17km hike across El Jable.
The problem was that for the previous 2 days my pack had been pretty much emptied. Now with water food tent etc it was about 13 kilos and the trail started with a long climb, not a steep one but enough for my back, knees and hips.
But the pure empty scenery all around soon made me forget the load and I had it easy compared to the political prisoners who had been forced to construct a road across this wasteland. I kept coming across little sections of it that the wind blown sand had revealed.
The mountains were made of fossilised sand and shells blown inland for millions of years.
In some places the trail marking posts were nearly buried and they’ve only been there a couple of years.
It took me 5 hours to cross the sea of sand to reach the little village of Le Pared where there were surfers and dune buggy riders but no where to stay so I carried on another 11 km to a trail shelter for the night.
Travelling through this land of sand and rock in its infinite variety has reminded me of the Burren and the host of forms that the limestone displays.
The moon has risen, looks full. The stars are out and the mass of Cardoon mountain is before me.
Fingers crossed while I click’ publish’