Walking in Andalusia by Philip Marsden

To the south-west of the town of Ronda are a number of flat-bottomed valleys which run unseen between pale limestone ridges. The valleys are high, suspended above the plains by steep-sided slopes which give no idea of what lies above them. Few people live in these high valleys and those who do, look at you from beneath brows which make deep shadows in the mountain sun.

There is really only one way to do justice to these remarkable uplands and that is to walk them. It is walking which must rank among the best in Europe. If the vagaries of local access do not put you off, then it is always possible to fly to Gibraltar, take a train up to Ronda, buy a goatskin flask, a lump of manchego cheese, a loaf of bread and some fruit, elicit a little local advice and a not-always reliable map and walk from village to village. Alternatively you can avoid all the uncertainty, all the gruff land-owners and the decision-making, and take one of two routes organised by Hugh Arbuthnott and his wife Jane.

Some years ago, the Arbuthnotts awoke after a "particularly good dinner" in London to find themselves in possession of a plot of land in southern Spain. The land had no property, nor any permission to build; they themselves knew neither the area nor the language. But, unwilling to go back on their caprice, they gathered their possessions and their two children and in Plymouth boarded a ship for Spain. There they cleared the brush, wrangled with the authorities, stretched their credit and built a house.

At the same time, they set about exploring the hills. Months of scouting and poring over old maps turned up the week-long routes they now offer. The routes are remote and just arduous enough to appreciate the stops when Pedro the muleteer will pull down a freezer bag of home-made lemonade and a bottle of fino. Then later on, with perhaps ten miles behind you, Paco and Pajarito will be there beneath the ilex trees with a couple of large cold boxes. You will lie on rugs and eat marinaded quail and drink gazpacho and cool Raimat wine.

Nights are spent in small villages or in hunting lodges where the walls are thick with stag-heads. On the Ronda walk, there are two nights beneath canvas at the Campamento de Castillejos. Shower-equipped and furnished with a pair of pine-framed beds, these are not so much tents as hotel rooms parachuted into the forest. Each is angled to view its own private slice of mountain, which in the evening is doused in sherry-coloured light. Ten hours later, between the flaps of the tent you can watch the first glow of the next day. The dawn chorus is a medley of warblers and shrikes, and, always from the same tree, the klu-klu-klu of a green woodpecker.

On day three or maybe four, high on the Llanos de Libar, Pedro called a halt beneath a walnut tree. One other man was there - Juan, who was clutching a blue plastic bag. He was sixty-seven years old and had known this path as a boy when under Franco he smuggled tobacco up from the coast. Another four hours walking would see him to the cafe where he would meet his brother and drink cognac and coffee. They would not talk much, he said, because his brother and he did not get on. He would give his brother the blue plastic bag.

"Goat manure. What he wanted was bat manure but he will have to have this."

After leaving the goat manure, Juan was going to walk back home. He didn't mind the walking at all; it was the walking and not the manure that was the real reason for his expedition.

"Walking up here makes me happy. After walking here I am always kind to my wife. Today I may even feel kind to my brother too."