There’s a heat in Cádiz that’s less “sunshine and tapas” and more “angry oven left on too long.” It creeps under your clothes, through your eyelids. And in the Sierra de Grazalema, it doesn’t even make sense. It’s green. So green it feels wrong. Like a rainforest showed up uninvited to a desert party and refused to leave. We came for a short trail. A gentle jog. A decompress-from-the-Picos type thing. Markus said we’d “stay near the village.” I believed him, which is on me. We parked somewhere near Benaocaz. I only remember because a cat watched us the whole time we packed our running vests. I think it knew.
First ten minutes were glorious. Flat-ish. Pines overhead. That kind of filtered light that makes you feel like a better version of yourself. I even said something embarrassing like “this is what peace feels like.” Three minutes later the trail vanished. Like, vanished. One moment there were signs and footprints and hope. Then nothing. Just rocks and wind and what might’ve been goat droppings. Markus, naturally, wanted to “just keep going.” He saw some kind of animal track heading uphill and assumed that was probably right. We climbed. I sulked. He hummed. The heat pressed into the small of my back like a hand I didn’t ask for.
It wasn’t all bad. There was a moment—halfway up a switchback that might’ve been a landslide—where we paused and saw the vultures. Just circling. Silently. Dozens of them. Their shadows flicked across the trail like bad omens or maybe just big lazy clock hands. I checked my watch. It wasn’t working. We sat. Ate two almonds and half a stale bar I found in the bottom of my vest. Markus tried to convince me we were nearly at a viewpoint. “Look at that rock,” he said. “You can see all the way to Zahara if you squint.” I squinted. Saw sweat dripping off my own nose. Still. He wasn’t wrong. It was beautiful in that way only slightly dangerous places are.
Then the rain came. Fast. Sideways. Loud. Like it had somewhere to be and we were in the way. There was nowhere to hide unless you count curling under a cork oak with your pack over your head as hiding. Which I do. Markus thought it was “refreshing.” He also thought the path would loop back down. It didn’t. We ended up contouring a ridge, soaked through, socks squelching like old jelly shoes. Eventually—miraculously—we found the GR-7 markers again. White and red stripes on a rock that looked like it had been painted by someone in a hurry. I could’ve kissed it.
If you’re not familiar, the GR-7 is part of a long-distance trail that crosses southern Spain and runs all the way into Andorra. You can read about its wild extent here if you like maps, or pain.
We got back to the car just before dark. The cat was gone. Our limbs were noodles. I may have sworn I’d never run again. We had dinner in the next village—Grazalema itself. Somewhere tiny with a grumpy waiter and bread that smelled like smoke. I don’t remember what we ate. Just the feeling of sitting on something that didn’t move. Markus said we should come back in spring, when the orchids bloom and the clouds behave. I didn’t answer. But maybe.
Next up: La Rioja. Grapes, trails, and Markus probably trying to run between wineries. This should go well.