Stretches of Spain (Cont.)

You Are Here:

Home >> Travel >> Stretches of Spain (Cont.)

Today's Question
Where should I camp in Switzerland with my kids? answer

What's the best volcano to hike up in North America? answer

How can I plan a trip around riding the biggest, fastest roller coasters? answer

Online Favorites

Special Issues

Photo Galleries

Outside Magazine's 2002 Family Travel Guide

Page:

Stretches of Spain (Cont.)

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON, when the sun ought to be starting to set. But not in Andalusia, where rather than traverse the sky in a simple arc and sink into coolness, the summer sun lingers, burning with torturous patience. Rosalie and Anna worked the bow of the yellow kayak up through the branches of the snag until its weight lay across the trunk. Now only the stern was still propped up onto the tree.

This was the tricky part. The bow line that Rosalie held in her hand wasn't quite long enough. If they pushed the kayak any farther, she'd have to let go of the rope before the stern was clear. And if she let go, the kayak and gear would wash downstream into yet another snag.

I stood there, waist-deep in the water, and behind me Margaret and Mary sat in our beached kayak, singing to stay calm.

NOWADAYS THE GUADALQUIVIR turns turbines in big dams to make electricity. It's pumped and divided to irrigate corn, cotton, tomatoes, strawberries, and rice. It swells in winter rains, fills reservoirs, and in some places dries to a trickle in the summer sun. It smells variously of olive oil, paper mill, sheep manure, eucalyptus, and willows.

Unlike in the province of northern Spain, paddling in Andalusia is rare. So we see no other kayaks or canoes, or even other boats

Shuttled 300 miles east from Seville, we're dropped off in the mountains with our rented kayaks, gear, a cell phone, and a list of people—assembled by the woman who rented us the kayaks—who volunteered to give help when we need it. The river here is flat, milky green, and fast. It's four or five yards wide, but branches and vines stretch over the water, tunneling the passage, or blocking it altogether. The Guadalquivir isn't a user-friendly river. There are no boat landings or accurate river maps. Our only plan, besides moving downstream a little each day, is to stay safe, and to find comforts where we can. So after mornings of paddling, scouting routes around dams, heavy lifting, and yes, tantrums, we spend siesta hours in the shade. We play cribbage, read poems or plays aloud, sing, and nap. We walk to the frequent riverside villages to fill water jugs, to buy groceries and beer, coffee and ice cream. We camp on steep banks, sandy banks, muddy banks, rocky banks. We listen to the hum of a million insect wings, uncountable songbirds, an occasional rooster or mourning dove, the jangle of sheep and goat bells, and as night falls, the croaking of ten thousand frogs. There are no legal limits to where we can camp—the banks of the river are public land—so we set up our two tents under the 13th-century San Pedro hermitage in El Carpio, or near an ancient watchtower, or, stranded by fading light, atop a massive humming hydroelectric dam.

In Córdoba, we wave to people leaning over the rail of a bridge built by the Romans. My daughters carry sketchbooks and draw a few of the 850 columns in the Mezquita, a giant eighth-century mosque with a 16th-century cathedral built inside. A few blocks away, Margaret gathers a crowd of tourists by singing "Pia Jesu" in the Castle of the Christian Kings, home of the Inquisition.

The river widens and turns brown on the plains. We paddle past lemon and orange groves, past olive trees squatting in perfect grids over pale hills. We meet boys and old men fishing for catfish, and Manuel the shepherd shows us his ancient Roman coin. His sheep graze through our camp while he tells us how he found the coin in the grass by the river. Tells us how he lost it, and then, miracle of miracles, how he found it again the next day. Everyone we meet greets us with a polite reserve, sometimes expressing concern about our excursion.

Unlike in the provinces of northern Spain, paddling in Andalusia is rare. So we see no other kayaks or canoes, and not until the last couple of days, when the river turns salty and begins to flow backward with the tide, do we see other boats: a trawler, a yacht, a giant ship coming in from the sea.

The morning of the day we hit the snag, we paddled a bend and there, on a high hill above a spreading white town, rose a many-towered castle. We landed on a sandy bank, pocketed our money and passports, and followed a goatherd into the village of Almodóvar del Rio.

We walked uphill through the narrow cobbled streets until the town ended and a steep field spread upward to the castle. We'd read about this place. Completed in the year 740, it had never been taken by force. We followed a footpath to the big front door. Above us, we could see the narrow slots for archers to shoot arrows through, or to pour hot oil. We rang the bell. A caretaker let us in and gave us a tour. We followed him to the tower and relished our first long view of the river curving across the green plain.

Then we descended a dark stairway and got down on our knees and peered through a barred hole in the stone floor. That's the dungeon, the caretaker told us, in which Tello the Bastard, brother of Pedro de Castilla, imprisoned his poor wife Juana de Lara until her death in 1359.

After the tour, we walked back to town and ate green olives, french fries, and a pig's kidney at a sidewalk cafe. A taxi took us to a public pool, where we swam, showered, and played cards with local kids until late afternoon. Then the same taxi picked us up and took us back to the river. I feared, as I always did, that the unguarded kayaks, paddles, life jackets, and drybags would be stolen.

Because there was no way to be vigilant—and we needed these town trips—I'd consigned myself to fate. As Anna said one scorching afternoon while we walked back to the river, "If our stuff is stolen, we'll just have to take the bus to the beach and have a normal vacation." But nothing was stolen. Not in Almodóvar or anywhere else. The taxi dropped us off and we paddled downstream to our appointment with the snag.

Page: