extreme sport for over sixties

 When we visited the Alhambra on a hot day last week, we saw patches of snow on the mountains in the distance. So we decided to go there.

I love hot weather. Mid-thirties is just perfect for me. I feel energised and alive. But Dave is as uncomfortable in the heat as I am in the cold. He was looking puffy and lethargic, struggling to cope and preferring to stay in our air-conditioned apartment when I ventured out.

We thought it would be cooler up in the mountains. A dose of fresh mountain air, peace and space would be a welcome break from busy Granada.

At 9am on Monday, we caught a bus from Granada estacion de autobuses to Sierra Nevada. It took about an hour to ascend a steep winding road which happens to be the highest road in Europe!

Apart from two French girls in shorts, giggling on the back seat, we were the only passengers.

We were deposited on the barren mountain above the ski resort outside the the only open cafe/bar, with a promise from the driver that we would be picked up at 5pm aqui [here] as he pointed to the spot where he had stopped. The place was deserted, but I was sure that all the tourists would be up in their cars or coaches for lunch.

We fortified ourselves with strong coffee, toast and marmalade, then wondered how we would spend the next 7 hours. There was a cold wind blowing so I put on my woollen jumper which I had brought in case it was cool. I also had a singlet top under my shirt and my trench coat stuffed in my back pack as I am terrified of the cold. Dave had dismissed my suggestion that he pack a light rain jacket.

He was exhilarated by the crisp mountain air.

We saw the French girls ambling on the slopes so decided to walk to keep warm. The mountain, which is a ski slope until late May, was bleak, rocky and devoid of vegetation. The scree path was steep and slippery. The wind was freezing, whipping my face and hair and giving me ear ache. At times it was so strong that it nearly pushed me over. I covered my ears with my hands as I walked.

We had ignored a sign which I had roughly translated as "Conditions can change rapidly. Do not proceed without walking poles, boots, coats and supplies." [If any of my bush walking friends are reading this they will be shaking their heads in disbelief!]

But we looked at the light sky and the mountain peak visible in the distance, and continued along the track.

After a while, we passed the French girls, who had donned cardigans, sheltering from the wind behind a rocky outcrop. Some horses galloped with us at the start of the walk, but had circled back. The French girls didn't continue either, and we were the only hikers for the next three hours, struggling up towards the peak.

Occasionally we glimpsed lycra-clad cyclists, arduously making their way up a bitumen road which we crossed from time to time. There were no cars.

The panoramic views back to Granada were hazy. It would be stunning up there on a still, clear day, when sometimes you can make out the coast of Africa.

After a while, I saw Dave bent over, close to the ground. He had noticed tiny alpine wild-flowers, nestled like jewels in the crown of the shiny mica rocks. He was in his element with his camera in the cold.

I was gasping for air like a floundering old fish. Was it the altitude I wondered, or merely too much of the good food and wine of Andalusia?

After a while it reminded me of that children's song, "the bear went over the mountain", because as we topped each peak, a higher one was revealed. 

Eventually, we came to patches of glistening snow... we seemed to be following animal tracks rather than any clear trail. 

The wind was relentless and now the sun was disappearing behind clouds which rapidly rose over the ridge of the ranges. We were so close to the highest peak, Pico Veleta, at an altitude of 3,398 metres, but I saw a black cloud rolling over the ridge and sensed a sudden change in the atmosphere. "We are going back", I shouted against the wind. I grabbed Dave's hand which felt very cold.

"No. I want a picture from up there. I am staying," Nature Boy replied.

"Come now! Hurry!" I insisted as I clambered down. He followed. The rain started within seconds.

We scrambled down until we found the road. I had my trench coat on, but it had no hood.

Dave was in a cotton shirt and trousers. The rain turned to sleet, and as we got wetter, the wind chilled us even more.

I started running [something I have avoided for most of my 60+ years] and Dave strode vigorously.

 He was very wet. I hoped a car would miraculously appear and pick us up, but there was no-one on the mountain except a cyclist sitting on the side of the road. He stared blankly at us.

I was panicking. It could take another hour to get down the mountain. Hypothermia was the word on my mind. If only I had insisted Dave pack the rain jacket.

Luckily, after about 20 minutes, the rain stopped, the clouds blown away by the ferocious wind, and the sun shone.

By the time we reached the Aubergue, we had dried out completely, and a long lunch in the restaurant seemed like the only sensible proposition.

Carol and Old Dog

We were the only customers in a dining room which looked as if it hadn't changed for decades. It even had the same elderly chef, in checked pants and apron, hobbling with a pronounced limp. He took our order although he either couldn't hear or understand a word we said. The ensalada mixta didn't arrive, but we both had lasagna, which we recognised as the frozen lasagna I bought at the supermarket last week.

But the Rioja [the regional red wine made from the high altitude tempranillo grapes] was excellent. We stayed in the warmth as long as we could, but the chef hovered as if he wanted to close, so we decided it was time for a siesta for him and for us.

The problem was, we had nowhere to go. We walked further down the mountain, rounded a craggy peak where it was more sheltered and where the views over mountains and valleys were magnificent. We heard the tinkling of sheep bells, and saw a flock huddling under a rocky ledge.

It was while we were sitting there on a large warm flat rock, gazing at the breathtaking view, that we had our idea for a new business venture; a new 'extreme sport' for the over sixties, 'Rock Sitting'.

We could take people in minibuses to places where there were suitable rocks to sit on and stunning views to admire. Too often older people see the views fleetingly from a coach window or when they file out to take "the" photograph from a lookout point.

Our venture will offer a way for the older traveller to participate in a new extreme sport which involves little more than sitting, albeit in a peaceful, remote setting.

We would charge an extra three euros for a cushion and an extra two for a parasol.

For the exhausted or infirm, we have invented 'Rock Lying'. I tried this out, but found I had to use my trench coat as a sort of tent to keep off the sun and shelter me from the wind. The downside of this was that I couldn't see the view. 

So 'Rock Lying' is still in its research and development phase.