I dipped my toes into the Montgó during my first week here and got a bit lost. It put me off for a while, beautiful as it was, but I’d always intended to return. Back then I’d walked around its lower slopes, literally in circles at times, but with my sights on one day tackling the summit. Today, a lovely sunny one after two gloomy, one with heavy rain, I decided to give it a go.

To get there takes a walk of about thirty minutes through a nice part of town. Setting off at 9.00 I passed the local school, where mums, dads, grannies and grandpas were dropping off children. At one point two little girls were dancing along, evidently in good spirits, singing what sounded like a Spanish nursery rhyme. As I stood aside to let them pass, exchanging smiles with their grandpa, they both stopped to say good morning to me in English, and then ran past giggling hysterically. Grandpa and I laughed too. It seemed like a good omen.

---

---

Reaching the foot of the mountain I set off on one of the trails I’d followed last time. Determined not to get lost again I asked all of the few people I met if I was going the right way to the summit. They all said yes and pointed up, which wasn’t that helpful. I knew it was up. So for quite a while, with all the signs pointing to everywhere but the summit, and as people to ask dwindled down to nobody, I just kept taking the turnings that felt right i.e. up.

Just as I was beginning to think that things were turning a bit Groundhog Day, and I was losing hope, the sign I wanted finally appeared. Leaving the gravelled, level trails that had brought me there I was suddenly clambering up steeper, rocky tracks with a spring in my step. But the spring was short-lived. The tracks got steadily steeper and overgrown, and they regularly petered out, suddenly coming to an abrupt, frayed end with no clear sign of where to go next, except up. And up took me ever closer to sheer, unsurmountable-looking white cliffs.

---

---

From time to time a track would reappear for a while, each one taking me a little higher, zig zagging ever closer to the cliffs, but then disappearing once more. With cliffs on one side and sometimes sheer drops on the other, and being quite slippery in places after the previous days’ rain, there were moments when I wondered if I was doing the right thing.

Not wishing to over-egg the dilemma, it was quite scary and I found myself surveying every rocky route intensely. As a distraction and to fend off panic, I began to think of what must be going on in the leg control department of my brain. I imagined the controllers watching dials that barely flickered for most of the time suddenly going high in to the red zone. They’d be scratching their heads and running around as they might in the cockpit of a power station as the pumps and generators started to dance and steam, and lights flashed. “Get more energy to the calf muscles – something’s not right – power up the thighs. Get a message to eyes and balance – code red. And tell ears to turn down – we need all the power we can get”. In my favourite comic, the Beezer, that’s what the Numskulls used to do, up in the control room of the brain.

---

---

Further up, as the tracks became less and less evident and the terrain ever steeper, I came across one that lead to a cave and decided to go and take a look, and a break. The second picture below is the view from inside and those below show rock carvings inside, some dated. I’ve since been trying to find out who did them, without success, but I’ll update this if and when I do.

Update

I’ve since found out that the cave is the Cova de l’Aigua and some of the inscriptions inside are Roman, carved 2,262 years ago in 238 AD. In Roman times, from the 1st to 6th centuries AD, Denia was the city of Dianium, the redistribution centre for products originating from North Africa and Italy.

In the 4th and 5th centuries, as well as during the Islamic period, the cave was used as a place of worship.

Ruins in the interior also provide evidence that, long before, it was used by the Iberians, an ancient people settled in the eastern and southern coasts of the Iberian Peninsula from the 6th century BC.

Later, in the 16th and 17th centuries, it even had clay pipes channelling supplies of water from a reservoir inside to a settlement that existed on the mountainside.

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

Leaving the cave after a breather I carried on up. By now there were no clear tracks at all and, with the summit within reach, the final ascent was just a case of clambering up, sometimes on all fours, over rocks and boulders, and scree that sent stones sliding back down behind me. It took a while but finally reaching the top, I took in the view. It was breathtaking. You could see for miles around, out to the sea and to distant mountains and villages. Here are a few pics, including one of me as proof that I actually made it this time. I still can’t quite believe it myself. Then I slid, tumbled and flopped my way back down to earth.

Of the things I’ve done so far this year my journey to the summit of the Montgó comes tops in terms of physical exertion, exhaustion and of delight, the latter only surpassed by the free bar and Liz Truss’s demise. It was a really great day, scary though it was at times.

Below the pictures of the view from the summit, and of me, I’ve added a random selection of others taken on the way up and down.

The only thing I’ll add is that, should anyone read this who’s here in Denia, or comes one day and is tempted, be careful. Beyond the lower slopes of the Montgó on the approach to the summit, or ‘up’ as the locals call it, the ascent is a bit more than ‘difficult’, as it’s described on several websites that list the walk. I think ‘dangerous’, ‘punishing’ or even ‘bloody scary’ would be more accurate.

Although I managed it, it’s honestly more suited to mountain goats or experienced Nepalese Sherpas, and nobody should try it who has the slightest fear of heights or even a minor mobility concern. I don’t say this to big up my own capabilities or achievement. At times I truly felt that I was out of my depth. A misstep could easily have lead to me finding myself the wrong way up and falling some way down. And a turned ankle could well lead to a cold, dark night all alone up there. I met no one beyond the lower slopes. Be warned!

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---

---