A Funny Kind of Rest Day

Day three dawned bright and sunny as we knew it would.  So did the pain.  My calves and my thighs were suffering badly and making the rest of my body feel miserable too. Now, my body is used to my back moaning and complaining, so legs, even though there were two of them, didn't upset me too much.

I hopped out of bed to greet the new day.  Only it didn't happen quite like that.  All that moved were my vocal chords; to give voice to the screaming pain that was coursing through my legs as I attempted to raise them from the bed.

This was muscle pain on a supreme scale.  My calves felt like they run a marathon with arrows embedded in each of them and my quads were too painful to even touch, someone had used them as a darts board. A physio wasn't going to be much good, I would pass out at their first touch.  I knew I had to get up and get the lactic acid system, that had replaced my blood system, energised and moving.

Two pain killers followed by a trip to the loo confirmed that I was suffering from severe dehydration, not being sure how to treat it, I let my body tell me.  So I had breakfast as usual, but accompanied by four glasses of orange juice and a litre or so of water.

Herself, whose Christmas present this was, was in flying form.  She was all on for the hills again today, however, my performance on the four flights of steps down to the breakfast room seemed to convince her that she would have to make the rest her way in this life, alone if I was dragged out onto a mountain again.

It was a comedy and an agony getting down the stairs to breakfast.  I'm sure my squeals of pain, expressions of torture and my crippled gait must have convinced the other residents of the lounge that my wife was Christian Grey in drag and that I was some kind of willing gimp.  Occasionally I got a fit of the giggles at my own predicament.

A rest day was declared.  Today would be gentle.  I should have heard the alarm bells ringing.  "I think a little walk would be good for you to get your blood flowing and clear out the lactic acid in your muscles", she said.  I knew that resistance was futile.

The trip back to the room overlooking the sea was relatively pain free.  Great I thought, the pain is easing.  I could move my legs, but they still felt stiff and swollen.

Returning to ground level brought the painful truth into stark reality.  Going down the steps was still excruciating.  From the many tales of childbirth I have heard, this was something similar, only twice as bad.  I had two legs in labour simultaneously, while women have only one birth canal.  Going uphill was just an acceptable level of pain, a bit like a raging tooth abscess.

Having gained the level footpath outside the hotel, I found that I could walk in a fairly normal and pain free way and maintain a reasonably respectable pace.  I was occasionally overtaken by little old ladies with walking canes. They graced me with pitying toothless smiles, understanding my pain and looked witheringly at the rapidly departing back of my spouse.

After about ten minutes of this bear like gait, I gained confidence and a bit of speed.  The little old ladies were soon left behind and checking my walking app, I found that my pace was around 3.5 to 4 km/h.  "Not too bad", I thought.

At the end of the street I stepped off the kerb onto the road surface to cross to the other side. It was the first downhill stretch since leaving the hotel and every fibre in my body screamed out in protest. My vision blurred and I felt a swoon coming on. Fortunately Caroline had sensed my difficulty and appeared like a Florence Nightingale vision at my side to steady me.  That 6 or 8 inch step almost killed me.

I learned my lesson.  Level is painless, uphill is tolerable, downhill is going to be a bit of a problem. The next 50 or so metres was fine.  It was level, but then came the descent to the beach.

We were passing the Parador Hotel and crowds of geriatric guests were emerging to head for a day at the beach. I mingled with them and observed their arthritic movements. I learned from them how to move downhill with less pain. So far the day of rest was going wonderfully well.

I had no hat and the sun was now beginning to beat an insistent tattoo on my naked skull.  Caroline was trawling through the sun-glasses sections of one beach stall and I spotted a rather elegant straw hat that would fit the bill perfectly. One less discomfort to deal with.

Checking my trusty walking app, I realised that I had already covered in excess of 1.3 km.  That wasn't too bad.  Only another 1.2 km to the turning spot where we would return to the hotel to complete the 5 km walk to loosen up my limbs and get the lactic acid flowing again.

The turning point passed somehow. But I should have known that would happen.  I was persuaded to continue on to the cliff-top village of Maro, where I was promised a rest, a coffee and a bun.

We climbed a gentle incline and soon Nerja, it's suburbs and beach life were left behind in the shimmering heat haze.

Fields and crops and plastic "glass" houses began to appear.

Sure signs that we were leaving civilisation and heading out into that parched hell again.

I could see an aqueduct in the distance, now behind us.  The last water anywhere around.  I felt a momentary panic coming on, but then I remembered the 2 litres of cool water in my backpack.

I was actually enjoying the walk though.  I found the agriculture and the waterworks to feed the veggies quite interesting and reflected on our own water situation back home.  I wondered if the Spanish farmers had to pay for all of this infrastructure and how was it metered and how much did it cost?  Who paid for the leaks?

We took a detour off the main road to get away from the traffic and the dust and crossed the riverbed (dry) via a large and impressive single arch bridge.  This was the old main road and once carried the bulk of trade and commerce along the coast.

Behind the old bridge, you can see the two supports of the current coastal route, while behind that you can make out the many arches of the Aquila Aqueduct, of which, more later.

Behind the aqueduct runs the motorway. In my many trips to Spain since my late teens I have travelled most of this motorway from the French border to Cadiz and witnessed its construction over many years.

Their patchwork construction method reminded me of Ireland's approach to road construction.  It was built in sections just long enough to make you relax into your journey. Then they would shift you back onto the narrow, winding old "main" road to wake you up again.

You had only stopped complaining, when you were shifted once again, through another maze of cones and back onto another lovely section of motorway.  Today, I think the road is almost totally completed.  I wonder if I'll ever get to drive its full length?

Maro turned out to be really boring.  Maybe it was my endorphin and pain dulled brain, but I felt nothing for the place. Perhaps it is different in the summer. However as we moved down a side street to work our way back toward Nerja, something exciting happened.  The church bell began to ring. 1.10pm was a strange time to be ringing a bell and it was being quite insistent in it's jarring tone.

Windows and doors on the sleepy streets were opened.  Sleepy heads poked out from behind shutters, dogs barked and small clumps of neighbours gathered in animated conversation looking toward the tiny church at the end of the street.  Then the clamour stopped and everyone went back to their siestas, except for us and a few cats disturbed from their slumber.  I'm not sure the natives were any wiser than we were, as to the cause of the religious racket.

So Maro was to be the turning point.  This is where we were to sit down and enjoy a leisurely coffee and a bun in a cafe, but the route we followed seemed to assiduously avoid any signs of food or sustenance.

Don't get me wrong, we did stop and rest.  We drank half of our water and ate some buns and other goodies from the rucksack on my back. There was no risk of hunger or thirst.

Heat does funny things to you brain.  We were well on our way back to Nerja when I spotted a signpost for "Las Cuevas de Nerja" or something like that.  This is probably the main tourist feature of the region and I had been there almost 30 years ago, before the motorway.  I suggested a diversion and divert we did.

My limbs had loosened up a bit and the pain had receded to the level of a migraine in my legs.  I've had migraines in my head before when I eat too much cheese, so I knew my legs would survive and that it wouldn't prove fatal.  I tucked the pain away in a well insulated compartment in my head and sacrificed the direct route back to the hotel.

Strangely enough, Caroline did put up some resistance to this diversion.  She was concerned that I might be asking too much of myself, but in the end, I persuaded her to join me on this nostalgic trip. After all, another 20 or 30 km wouldn't mean anything to her.  I married a thoroughbred.

As it turned out, nostalgia and deja vu aren't all they're cracked up to be.  The cave was less than a km from the sign, so I wasn't adding much to the walk.  I didn't remember anything of the place, it had been completely redeveloped in recent decades and the caves were only open in the afternoon to guided groups.  We made plans to return in the morning and after a short wander around the grounds, we set out to return to the town of Nerja.

The road back was dusty and occasionally noisy, but fortunately most of the traffic was on the new
motorway and our road was relatively quiet.

We recrossed the earlier river bed and got a closer view of the impressive Aquila Aqueduct. This was constructed to carry water to a local major industry.  A sugar factory built by a local benevolent landowner.  Like most sugar factories today, the place is now derelict, but has an imposing chimney stack with nice brickwork.

From the main bridge over the rio, we also got a different perspective on the old single arch bridge.  There are caves in the cliffs to the left hand side of the valley, some of which appear to be or have been recently inhabited.

One cave in particular looked like it might have been the residence of an artist, judging from the colourful array of paraphernalia around it.

The photo doesn't show the caves, but I was distracted by some strange noises emanating from the small fields and sheds below me.  Here I saw several horses, various fowl and what looked like a suckling sow of considerable size.

However, none of these appeared to be making the curious sound.  Finally a small black goat appeared and scampered madly about the place.  Mystery solved.

The remainder of the journey to my bed passed off without incident.  All that happened was a repeat of yesterday.  I got slower and movement became more difficult and painful.

We returned to the hotel I took some more anti-inflammatories and lay down for a while.  Caroline provided a welcome coffee and I must have dozed off for a while, because I felt better when I woke and suggested we go out for a bite to eat and discuss plans for the following day.

The restaurant was one of three suggested by one of the hotel staff. Caroline, being Caroline chose to head for the one furthest away. It was closed. Luckily for her the restaurant we did dine in proved to be superb and I sated my appetite on a wonderful beef steak with a delicious pepper sauce.

My funny kind of rest day turned out to have covered one kilometer more than the previous day and slightly more up and down also.  What kind of madness has possessed me?  How will I feel tomorrow?