Vultures in Spain by Rebecca Ford

There is something about vultures that fires the imagination. In Appalachian folklore human babies were said to hatch from their eggs; in parts of Africa their superb eyesight led to the belief that they could see into the future; and in India the Parsees have for centuries chosen to dispose of their dead by allowing these massive birds to pick the bodies clean. So it was perhaps natural that I felt a distinct shiver in my bones when I spotted two of them, circling silently above me, as I set off on a walk through the wild uplands of the Maestrazgo in northern Valencia.

So sparsely populated is this secret corner of Spain that the occasional vulture might be the only creature you meet on a full day’s walk. It’s a world away from the beaches of the Costa Brava and the bustle of Barcelona. I’d come here on a self-guided walking holiday with Inntravel. It gives you the chance to see some of these extraordinary birds while strolling along the frontiers of the ancient kingdoms of Aragon, Valencia and Catalonia. You’re provided with maps and detailed walking notes and, most civilised of all, your luggage is transported for you – so no lugging an energy- (and temper-) sapping rucksack.

The route starts in Catalonia, where you follow an old railway line to Horta de Sant Joan, a village that has strong links with Picasso: the artist first came here to recover from a bout of scarlet fever and liked it so much he returned to paint it. The next day’s lengthy (26k) but flat walk continues through fertile farmland to Aragon, where you spend the night at Parada del Compte, a comfortable hotel in a cleverly converted railway station. Each room has patio doors, which open onto grounds that on dusky summer nights reverberate to a cheery chorus of frogs. You only have to totter a few steps to the restaurant, where you can revive yourself with a glass or three of rich red wine, and an indulgent scoop of cheese ice-cream: that’s right, cheese - it’s surprisingly good.

The route then continues through Aragon, following wide agricultural tracks and offering rewarding views for little effort. At one point we could see the Tossal dels Tres Reis, the point where the three ancient kingdoms converge and where, legend has it, their rulers would meet to discuss matters of importance. We passed ancient olive groves, clumps of feathery fennel, sweet wild rosemary, and trees hung with velvety peaches, before reaching the valley of the River Tastavins.

Accommodation here is in the gorgeously secluded Torre del Visco, an immaculate 15th-century estate house set in extensive grounds that run right down to the river. A British couple, Piers and Jemma, have lovingly converted it into a tranquil retreat with exposed stonework, antique furniture and lots of books. Hot and dusty, we sat on the terrace, kicked off our boots and gulped welcoming glasses of real lemonade while trying to spot one of the resident eagles.

The next day was a rest day, but tempting as it was to spend hours relaxing in the hotel, I had a date with some vultures - Griffon vultures feeding in the wild. The feeding programme was set up to halt the decline in the population of these much maligned birds which, although they operate as nature’s dustmen, cleaning up the countryside by feeding on carcasses, are still often ruthlessly slaughtered as vermin.

The vultures are fed dead rabbits daily at 9.15 and have learned to expect their breakfast promptly. From our hide we could see them gathering in the surrounding trees, their shoulders hunched in that characteristic pose immortalised in numerous Westerns. There was something slightly eerie about these enormous birds silently waiting for the dead – no wonder they’ve inspired to many myths. Suddenly the food appeared and within seconds they had left their posts and were gliding to the ground, their enormous wings (they’ve got a span of 9ft) shielding the sky as they swooped. Then they were down, bending their bald heads to tear at the food, grunting and squawking in satisfaction as they ate, and waddling around in surprisingly comical and ungainly fashion, rather like portly men with tender corns. We watched them squabble, feed and preen for over an hour, before creeping out of the hide and making our way back.

And so a 13km hike to Penarroya the next day, and then a final glorious trek to the Valencian hilltown of Morella, walking through the remote uplands of the Maestrazgo, an area once ruled by that mysterious order of religious warriors, the Knights Templar. Tiny alpine flowers, in brilliant shades of pink and blue, lined our way as we walked, stopping every so often to pick up fossilised oyster shells – a reminder that this land once slept beneath the sea. And then I saw them, two vultures soaring above us, their wings spread wide to catch the rising thermals. Graceful and as majestic as eagles now they were in the air, they had a distinctly primeval, mystical appeal. And I suddenly understood how the Iberian tribesmen, who first inhabited this region, believed that these powerful birds could carry the spirits of the dead to heaven.