Gorge of fear

Visiting the Alhambra palaces with their divine architecture had always been destined to be the zenith of our holiday, the goal around which our whole trip to Andalusia had evolved.
But afterwards we had one day of our trip left.
What could compete with the wonders of manmade architecture at the Alhambra except the wonders of nature?
So Nigel suggested we take a bus out to the Sierra Nevada and climb a mountain.
'I still have a cough. I don't think I can do it.'

Kindly, he downwardly revised his suggestion. We would explore a river gorge in the foothills from a town called Monachil.

'It will be a gentle walk.'
We had only been walking for a short time when the original trail ran out. We could go back or continue on up the steep sided canyon.

We opted for the latter. However, it turned out that the 'path' was in fact the concreted over pipe which fed the irrigation system for local farming and in a number of places it had been cut through the rock with enough space for the pipe, rather than for people.

I literally ended up crawling on a ledge on hands and knees with the river beneath me and overhanging rock above me. Three times. And shimmying along on my belly twice. I tore my shorts and grazed my knees.

On the plus side, Nigel is always very helpful and encouraging when we find ourselves in one of these little scrapes and I say dramatic things like 'I can't go on!'

And the first thing I heard when we came through into the open at the end of the canyon was the call of choughs, a bird which is the symbol of Cornwall but now very rare in the UK. Ten of the glossy black creatures were spinning and swooping in acrobatic courtship flight, and visiting their nests in the red cliff above us.
A sight which did indeed compete with the Alhambra!