Exploring the Labyrinth of Silence
We wanted something really different this time, and found it…in the Labyrinth of Silence.
My wife Tolle and I needed – and only had time for — a relatively short break from work. I had for months been thinking about a self-guided walking vacation, packaged by one of the several companies that put these things together in countries around the world. The coast-to-coast walk across England was intriguing, but it would take at least two weeks, and in Britain, of course, the weather’s always iffy. After a long New England winter and a wet spring, that course seemed too risky. A walk around and above Italy’s Lake Como sounded lovely, but we’d spent several days in that area a decade ago, celebrating my 50th birthday with our kids in a family-friendly hostel in Menaggio. We wanted something really different this time, and found it…in the Labyrinth of Silence.
Maestrex Experience
No, that’s not the title of a Hollywood fantasy movie or video game. It’s how the locals describe the isolated Maestrazgo region of Aragon, Spain, which, unlike much of Spain, is well off the tourist grid — if the absence of any reference to it in virtually any travel guide is a fair indication. The population here is so sparse – 2.5 inhabitants per square kilometer — that, by European Union standards, the region is “deserted.” Which also made it that much more alluring, given our wish to fleetingly escape the commotion of daily workaday life in the city — without having to don backpacks and head for the wilderness.
We found this seven-night, six-walking-day package at the website of a company called World Walks out of Cheltenham, England. www.worldwalks.com For 495 pounds sterling per person, World Walks offered maps, trail descriptions, evening accommodations in six different villages, luggage transfers from one destination to the next, 3-course dinners including wine, and breakfasts each morning. After requesting and receiving a few traveler reviews, I took the leap and booked the trip, for early June.
In fact, while World Walks served as the agent, the entire program was created and orchestrated by our on-site contact, an engaging local outdoorsman, Ignacio Teres, whose one-man operation he’s named the Maestrex Experience. www.maestrex.es Born and raised in Aragon province, Ignacio has for years expertly navigated the region’s rugged terrain, and has built lasting relationships with the residents of its tiny villages. As the instructions and notes we were sent suggested, Ignacio is proud of the Maestrazgo, and anxious to share its beauties and mysteries with others.
What did we find? Olive groves, vineyards, wheat fields, ancient stone terraces climbing high up hillsides, flocks of grazing sheep, jaw-dropping geological formations, canyons, high plateaus covered in rosemary and thyme, medieval villages perched on cliff’s edge, long-abandoned ruined stone farmhouses, and miles of pathways and mountain trails. And outside of the few local residents we encountered in the ancient hamlets in which we spent the night, we crossed paths with a total of one person in six days of walking. Other than the sounds of wind, gurgling streams and rushing rivers, the bleating of sheep, bees buzzing, and the occasional call of the cuckoo, the labyrinth of silence was true to its billing.
Leaving Boston on a late Sunday afternoon, we connected through Amsterdam and arrived in Barcelona Monday morning. From the airport we took the very frequent Aerobus into the city (5 euros), got off at Placa Espana, and walked several blocks – with our daypacks and one piece of rolling luggage – to the HIFE bus embarkation spot that Ignacio’s instructions had directed us to. We bought round-trip tickets (17 euros per person each way) to the town of Alcorisa, hopped on the 12:30 bus, and 4 ½ hours later – after grabbing a few much-needed winks – found ourselves disembarking deep in Aragon province and warmly greeted in English –-neither of us speaks more than the most rudimentary Spanish — by the smiling Ignacio.
After a 20-minute drive to Molinos, the charming medieval village where we would spend the next two nights, Ignacio got the keys to Casa Rural Mompaire, our first accommodation – a very tastefully and comfortably restored centuries-old village home, with a modern kitchen, two bedrooms (the other was empty), and a roof deck overlooking the village’s 12th century tower to the hills beyond. As we sat at the kitchen table together, Ignacio pulled out a printout of the six-day weather forecast, unfolded maps and small brochures about each of the villages that would be our destinations, and oriented us for the adventures ahead. He then directed us to Restaurante Fontanal, the lovely café on the village square owned by his friend Amelia, where we hungrily dined on fresh salad, sautéed codfish and lamb stew, a selection of fruits, and, of course, the obligatory bottle of local red wine.
The next morning we arose well-rested for our first day of walking. The skies began partly sunny and the air was fresh as we walked past olive and peach groves. But the forecast had predicted rain, and after we reached a plateau with marvelous views in all directions, and began our descent to the bright green valley below, the rain and wind began in earnest, our umbrellas affording little protection. Navigating a sheep path through the craggy terrain, we reached a sign to “Las Tumbas” (“the tombs”) and found shelter in a cave that served as our lunch refuge. The rain abating, we continued downhill and arrived in Cuevas de Canart, a captivating ancient Templar village surrounded by olive groves, and treated ourselves to a welcome café con leche at a small inn Ignacio had recommended. Revived, our route next took us up a steep ascent with gorgeous views back to Cuevas, soon distantly below. Even with the rain, our first day didn’t disappoint.
The next morning’s breakfast of café, oven-toasted bread topped with homemade jam, and fresh local ewe’s milk cheese fortified us for the challenging 12-mile hike we were about to undertake. A cloudless sky greeted us as we left Molinos and found the riverside path that followed the Rio Guadalopillo, beside field after field of golden wheat, studded with purple-top thistle and crimson poppies. After passing a ruined farmstead and two long-abandoned grain mills, a gorge-side path brought us to a peaceful glade and eventually to the hilltop village of Ejulve – where our breakfast cheese had been produced, and where we climbed the steep road to the Portal bar for rejuvenating coffee. Then it was through the nearby cow fields and up the stoney path to the high plateau, as Ejulve receded into the distance. Eventually, in the valley below us, we saw yet another deserted stone farmstead ringed by cultivated fields, and, finally, beyond the next ridge, a cascade of lush, terraced, bright green fields of grain. A few paces further on, we spotted Ignacio, waiting to transport us to our evening destination, Montoro de Mesquite.
Montoro did not disappoint. Well off the neaten track, it’s enchanting village of ten inhabitants set against a jaw-droppingly beautiful mountain backdrop. In the lovingly-restored Casa Rural El Bailador, we enjoyed the proprietor’s warm hospitality. Mario’s family, escaping the onslaught of Franco’s forces, had abandoned their home seventy years ago. It sat empty for sixty years, until Mario decided to fulfill a long-held dream, and transformed it into the small, romantic inn that it is today. We chatted happily with him as he prepared for us (his only guests) his special family recipe of pork with mushrooms and a hint of tomato. It was quite exceptional, washed down with a lovely vino negro. We slept very well that night.
We awoke to another cloudless morning. The first segment of our hike from Montoro took us past a cliff-top Ermita (hermitage) and grazing cows, to the plateau-top moors, where, seemingly alone in the world, we napped for a few minutes on the rosemary-scented ground. Our route next took us down a shell-covered path (this was once the sea bed, folded up eons ago by convulsions of the earth’s crust), to an untraveled road skirted by marvelous scenery, strikingly reminiscent of Zion National Park. Finally, hot and tired, we reached Pitarque village, and found our lodgings for the night. Ravenous, we dined in the kitchen of our hostess Pakita, beneath the head –and tusks — of a trophy wild boar that her husband, a sheep farmer, had killed with a knife and the help of his 25 sheep dogs. We slept soundly in our clean, simple room, graced by a balcony with unimpeded views to the striking plateaus in the distance.
The next morning, Pakita fed us a lovely breakfast of fruit, crusty, local cheeses and meats, and sent us on our way with a large hunk of bread to fortify our self-catered picnic lunch of cheese, ham, mixed nuts, and dried fruit. This day’s ten-mile trek brought us first to an EU-recognized natural site — the Pitarque River’s magical “nacimiento” (headwaters) — gushing in torrents from the side of a rock face. From there, we zig-zagged up the canyon walls on a centuries-old mule track — with vistas of Pitarque far in the distance — to the plateau, and continued overland en route to our next village. There are prehistoric cave paintings in this area, and we were struck by how this topography reminded us of the American Southwest, and how at home the Anasazi would probably have felt here. We crossed a broad, desolate “moor,” and with relief and gratitude we reached the top of the ridge. Stretching beneath us was a patchwork of vibrantly green fields of wheat and rye — as if transposed from a David Hockney painting – and, in the distance, the village of Canada de Betanduz, our home for the night.
- Maestrex Experience
Perched on the edge of a gorge, this tiny village is another jewel in the Maestrazgo crown. We settled in to the multi-service center (the only lodging, eating, and drinking establishment in town), and had the good fortune to be met on our way to dinner by a Welsh stone sculptor and documentary script-writer named Jon who’d made this faraway place his second home. Manel, the inn’s proprietor, had clearly told him that English-speaking people — a rare commodity in this part of the world — were about. We dined together on wild boar stew, and afterwards he took us for a stroll through the village. We happened upon Alvaro, one of “Canada”’s forty-odd inhabitants, emerging from his barn. Jon translated as we introduced ourselves. A wizened farmer with a twinkle in his eye, Alvaro learned that Tolle and I would walk the next day the twelve miles overland to Cantavieja. Shaking his head, he murmered “crazy!” When, after visiting Jon’s house and studio, we encountered Alvaro again, he pointed at us and wryly rejoined: “Still crazy!”
The next morning greeted us with fog, and we wondered about navigating the day’s long route with diminished visibility. But it soon burned off; we filled our water bottles from the village spigot at the ancient washing troughs – still used – and headed across the fields to begin the day’s major ascent. A few hours later, almost at the highest point, named Cappelania, we encountered — to our great surprise – a car on the dirt road that was our path. The driver stopped and showed us a basket of enormous mushrooms he had just picked with the help of his canine companion; he seemed very pleased with his harvest. We continue through a forest, then across a wide pasture to a deserted road that leads us past long-abandoned stone farmhouses. Darkening clouds threaten a serious downpour, but it only sprinkles, and with umbrellas at the ready, we stay relatively dry.
Finally, in the distance, we see Cantavieja. It’s perched on the edge – and on the other side – of a substantial gorge – that appears in front of us. We wondered how we’d summon the strength for yet another descent and, yes, another ascent…but we did. Wending our way down past another ruined farmhouse, to a small waterfall at the bottom, we forded the river at a shallow spot, and began a gradual climb that snaked along the cliff face until, at long last, we reached the entrance to the village.
We found that our lodgings for the night – Casa Sara — were absolutely lovely: high, timbered celings, colorful weavings adorning the walls, lots of space, and a small balcony facing the quiet village lane below. Our dinner arrangements also proved to be quite a bit more than satisfactory: a welcoming dining room tucked in back of an unassuming inner courtyard, offering, for starters, a plate of six or seven cured meats and sausages, followed by a very nicely prepared swordfish steak with fresh vegetables, and a wonderfully light and delicious flan with whipped cream to finish. All washed down with our evening bottle of local red wine, of course. After a long day’s journey, this was a fine dinner, and well-deserved, we thought.
Maestrex Experience
Crazy? Maybe. But over six very full days, I never thought about work even once. When Ignacio picked us up from our final destination, the unspoiled walled village of Mirambel – movie set for a Ken Loach Spanish Civil War drama — and drove the hour to our return-trip bus stop in Alcorisa, we shared with him only smiles and thanks. Our sixty-odd miles of trekking the Maestrazgo had been a walking silent meditation, punctuated by village evenings rich with local delicacies and simple conversation. The Labyrinth of Silence had proven to be just that…and quite a bit more.
July 5, 2011 Michael Felsen (The author is a government attorney in Boston; his wife Tolle is a labor health and safety educator/organizer.)
91 Saint Rose Street
Jamaica Plain, MA. 02130
617-522-4145 (h)
617-565-2517(w)
617-285-6558 (c)
