Masca, to the north west of Tenerife high up in the Teno mountains, is billed as the “forgotten village” of the island. For many years it was almost totally inaccessible, the only entry or exit points through the mountains or down into the depths of a wild and exposed gorge to the sea, and this has led to beguiling stories about its past, with whispers of pirates and smuggling. These days it is possible to reach Masca by road, though bearing in mind the sharp twists of the mountain pass, and the way drivers shoot their cars around the corners like pinballs, it isn’t an option lacking in drama.

Arriving at Masca is like stepping into a beautiful lull. A cobble-stoned path leads to whitewashed houses framed with eucalyptus, bougainvillea, rock rose and geranium. Even the way the light falls seems to conspire to create the perfect idyll, touching the palm trees with a gentle caress and creating a natural spotlight for the small pieces of pottery on sale. I come across two tourists having barraquito (a Canarian speciality, consisting of layers of condensed milk, espresso and milk froth) and the light spilling in through the wooden slatted roof has a halo effect on the scene, with trailing bougainvillea casting shadow patterns around their hands. There is a hush about the place, despite tourists arriving almost continually, and as I wander I think of fairy-tales, and places where time stays still. Perhaps later, when I arrive back to the rest of the island, twenty years would have passed, and I will be as grey as Rip Van Winkle.

Along the edge of the path, prickly pear grows in abundance. The native species has evolved a very effective defence mechanism, as one of my walking companions finds out to her dismay; upon trying to remove the skin, the pear injects hundreds of small thorns into her hands, which embed themselves like splinters. At the mouth of the gorge, an entrepreneurial couple from the village have set up shop, selling sombreros, fruit (including de-prickled pears) and almond cakes. As we approach, the woman leaps up to model a sombrero, before popping it on the head of one of our group, giggling and offering compliments (one hopefully assumes) in rapid Spanish. A friend buys some prickly pear, but even then we realise it cannot be eaten without a knife to remove the tough skin. It is one unobtainable fruit.

We start a steep descent into the gorge. Around us the shelves of rock rear up towards the vivid blue sky, and as always my mind drifts into day-dream, as I recall a scene in Tolkien’s ‘The Hobbit’, in which the trolls, caught at sunrise, are transformed into rock. Easy to imagine these stones as giants of yore. It’s a challenge to keep my eyes on the path with such spectacular scenery, as I part walk, part slither down the gorge. Cactus and eucalyptus surround the basalt rocks and pebbles, and the endless palm trees rustle in the slight breeze. The deeper we descend, the smaller I feel; a tiny speck against the immense rock-faces, massive in scale and in age. We are insignificant, which is astonishingly liberating.

For a while we follow a faintly bubbling brook, which gradually leads us to the bottom of the ravine. As we pause for a water break, a party of school-children pass by, their exited chatter bouncing off the rock and creating an electric charge around us. Their innate sense of balance and nimble-footedness puts me to shame as they hop and jump from one rock to another, unfazed by the treacherous rocks. I’m already feeling the effects of the hike in my hamstrings and glutes, yet our guide Christine tells us the path is a lot more user-friendly, compared to when there was a rope to absail across one rocky pass to another. I offer a small prayer of thanks to the tourism gods that this is no longer the case.

It takes us just under four hours to reach the bottom of the gorge, and our efforts are rewarded by the sight of Masca Bay; the glorious twinkling sea, with boats bobbing on the horizon. Summoning the last of our energy, we tackle the final rocky pass and dance across the piping hot sand into the deliciously cool sea: ahhh, what bliss.

At the end of a wonderful day, we depart from Masca by boat, which transports us back to Los Gigantos. Sat by a pretty harbour, with a spread of tapas and some well-deserved beer, I reflect that it’s been a great few days of walking. Like that prickly pear, Tenerife can certainly get under your skin.

Sarah traveled to Tenerife with www.lowcostholidays.com. If you wish to do this walk, you will need to book a return to Los Gigantes by boat from Masca Bay – the boat does need to be booked in advance and is the only way safe way back.

Gazing up at the volcanic crater Chinyero, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratification. For three hours I have toiled through rocky moonscapes and lava fields, interspersed with gloriously cool pine forests and now I have finally made it to Pico del Teide: the volcano! Ever since I first read Jules Verne’s A Journey to the Centre of the Earth, I have indulged in fantasies of exploring a landscape filled with volcanic fissures, wild ravines and prehistoric animals. Tenerife is not a bad place to start, and although prehistoric animals are unlikely, the scenery is evocative enough to imagine pterodactyls or dragons swooping around the mountain crags at any moment.

Pico del Teide is, at 3718m, the highest point in Spain, rearing above the clouds, higher than the Pyrenees. It is classed as active; its last eruption being in 1909 from the crater we are now looking at. Fortunately, it seems content to remain inert at the present time. Clouds drift across Chinyero like a layer of gauze, revealing green clusters of pine against the black rock which tiptoes up to the red-tinged volcanic crater. ‘Peaceful’ isn’t an adjective I’d imagine using to describe a volcano, yet the attitude of the mountain is one of serenity. The calm is only broken by the occasional bird-call, and our voices murmuring in automatically hushed tones, as though in church. It’s hard to imagine thundering fire pouring down from Chinyero’s monstrous mouth; dragon-blood red and obliterating all in its path, until eventually frozen over time into the hard stone we are now standing upon.

Our walk had started at Los Llanos, reached by narrow roads with gulping drops either side, twisting around the mountain. A small group of hikers, myself included, were being led by Christine, a qualified expedition leader, who left Wales for a holiday in Tenerife and ended up staying for eleven years! This walk around the volcano is one of her favourites, due to the striking scenery. I hadn’t expected the diversity of habitats, nor the mosaic of colours: black and red rocks, lime green pine and the charcoal grey of Teide in the background. Fig and almond also flourish here; we pass people collecting almonds who break open the shells for us with a rock – a rambler’s fast-food fix, sweetly delicious.

Pine forests circle the volcano like ancient gate-keepers and before long we enter the dense army of trees, the air thick with sap, the cool shade a welcome relief from the heat. The abundance of moss apparently points to the purity of the air and we are all take deep breaths, hoping for health benfits. Blue chaffinch nest here, but we are either too noisy or just unlucky as we fail to spot any tell-tale flashes of blue. Dry needles crunch and snap underfoot as we move further into the forest and to my delight cones of all shapes and sizes litter the pathways, their intricate architecture a marvel, the scales layered like honeycomb. Long shadows from the pines overlap on the path; the trees themselves are almost unbearably upright and rigid, like straight-backed generals, they give the impression of detached longevity. In actual fact, appearances are deceptive. Approximately three years ago a fire ravaged this area, destroying much in its path, including the pines and many animals, but fortunately no humans. Walking through the forests now, you cannot imagine the trees not having been here forever.

Leaving the pines, we cross a lava field – a surreal landscape made up of flat black sand that has the calmly ominous look of quicksand, with young pine saplings bursting upwards like green flames. The trees are literally little bursts of life, the lime green a visual taunt of their vigour, and they add a vital element of contrast to the otherwise barren scene. It really is quite an astonishing visual treat; alien yet oddly beautiful.

The walk ends at San José de Los Llanos, and we rest our weary feet in El Risco, a wonderfully compact bar built on the side of a rock face, which also hosts music at weekends (well worth a visit). The owners serve up traditional tapas – delicious baked goats’ cheese, salt fried peppers and bread with more-ish garlic and tomato dips – and their home-made wine from a combination of red and white grapes. A band of cats wind their way around chair-legs in a provocative manner, tempting the soft-hearted among us to share some food with them. The rustic simplicity is a perfect way to end a unique day of walking.

Sarah traveled to Tenerife with www.lowcostholidays.com.

The view from the summit was suitably dramatic. Vast bays spread from east to west, the blue sea shimmering brightly. It was harvest in Jutland and the hills that stretched to the horizon were dotted with combine harvesters chugging back and forth. Many of the fields were narrow, retaining the medieval strip farming that’s still, rarely, found in the UK. We had climbed to the top of the highest hill in Mols Bjerge, Denmark’s newest national park. All 137m/450ft of it. Danish hikers looking for real mountain experiences must book a ticket to Greenland or one of their Nordic neighbours, but that’s not to downplay their own country’s appeal.

Mols Bjerge is located on the eastern edge of Jutland, and a network of paths totalling 100km/62 miles already snakes around the park, which is distinguished by a mixture of conifers, oak forest and dryland grass. To ‘bag’ the summit of Agri Bavnehøj took just eight minutes, but was part of a four-mile circular walk that began from the nearby village of Agri. We had passed whitewashed thatched cottages, farms as neat and tidy as Legoland, unpaved tracks, solitary oak trees and gurgling streams. Poppies and other chalkland flowers grew wild in the fields. Two parks in two years Mols Bjerge, designated this summer, is only the second national park and is modest in size, at around 180 sq km/70 sq miles. The first, Thy (pronounced ‘chew’), on the west coast of Jutland, was created last year. Denmark was the last country in the EU to designate any national parks, which may surprise those who perceive it to have green credentials, with its commitment to renewable energy such as wind power.

Part of the reason for this, according to Kim Egefjord of the Danish Forest and Nature Agency, was that existing planning legislation offers strong protection to designated areas. “Denmark is an intensively cultivated country,” he says. “But the wildlife was very fragmented and there needed to be more attention paid to nature. Denmark goes around the world with a good environmental reputation. But we looked closer to home and saw that there was a need for a higher level of environmental protection.” Securing the boundaries of Mols Bjerge National Park has proved problematic, with farmers wary that inclusion would require them to change land practices and secondhome owners hostile to the idea of hikers and day-trippers diluting their tranquillity.

“People are always wary,” says Egefjord, who studied national parks in the UK and elsewhere in Europe to establish how to implement policy in Denmark. “They don’t see what the benefits are, or understand that a lot of urban people will spend money to come and walk and explore the parks.” Despite these concerns, access is generally not the same source of contention that it can be in the UK. Denmark does not share the concept of Allemansrätten that allows walkers in Sweden and Norway to walk pretty much anywhere they wish, but the rules are relaxed. On public land, you can walk anywhere, anytime — with seasonal exclusions for ground-nesting birds — while on private land, you can walk with similar freedom between 7am and sunset. Rare dune heathland Matters proved more straightforward 208km/130 miles away in the wilderness of north-west of Jutland, where Thy became the country’s first national park last year.

The walking here can be thrilling, more elemental than in Mols Bjerge. The park comprises 24,400ha and runs for 70km/44 miles from north to south, encompassing the most north-westerly part of Denmark. It is dominated by sub-Atlantic dune heath, a rare ecosystem in which sand dunes pervade the entire landscape — from conventional dunes pummelled by Atlantic westerlies, to dune heathland and dune forests. Dig deep enough anywhere hereabouts and you’ll find golden sand. “Just 200 hectares of Thy is cultivated,” says Ib Nord Nielsen, a ranger for the north of the park. “You can’t farm here as the land is too poor, so it was easy to decide the borders of the park. They begin and end where you can farm — nature drew them for us.”

Thy is home to two sensational wildlife areas, both of which enjoy access to viewing points during the height of the breeding and migratory seasons, and book-end the national park with lonely lighthouses. In the south lies Agger Tange, home to vast colonies and flocks of redshank, oystercatchers and lapwing. And in the far north lies the Hanstholm Nature Reserve. To explore the reserve, I struck out along the forest trail through conifers through the Tved plantation, eventually reaching a clearing overlooking Bleb Sø, a lake symmetrically rimmed with marshland. Red deer patrolled the wooded, leeward banks of the dunes, while two cranes were perched on stumps of trees in the wetlands, trumpeting to each other. Suddenly, a couple of thousand greylag geese erupted as one from the lake, circled mournfully above me and settled once more.

Another, shorter walk, starting near the road that links the towns of Thisted and Hanstholm, makes its way to the remote church of St Christopher, which dates from 1100. It was the centre of the community in the Middle Ages, but the encroaching dunes forced villagers to move east, leaving the church behind in splendid isolation. Inside, a 16th-century chalk painting depicts Adam and Eve in a dune landscape.

“Nature is the main course in the national parks, but they are also about culture and history,” said Nord Nielsen. Across both parks you can stumble upon ancient burial sites, some from 4,000 years ago. Short-walks culture A long-distance trail, the 70km/44-mile Vestkyststien, runs close to the coast for the full length of Thy. This is quite unusual in Denmark where — perhaps, again unexpectedly — the appetite for walking is generally sated by short hikes. I had started to wonder about this after completing the 6km/4-mile walk around Agri Bavnehøj, where we arrived back at the car park to find Danes who had already finished the walk puffing on cigarettes as they queued to buy the ubiquitous polser, or hotdog, from a fast-food outlet.

“People in Denmark run and cycle a lot, but they don’t really go for long-distance walks,” explains Kim Egerfjord. “Walking is not really a Danish speciality. We tend to like to walk for a mile or so from the car park, often with family.” Despite this predilection, there is already a 100km/63-mile route, the Molsruten, which links Århus — the main city on Jutland, 19km/30 miles to the west of Mols Bjerge — to Grenå, a town on the east coast, which ploughs through the national park. And as part of the footpath developments underway, a 27km/17-mile trail, linking Kalo Castle in the east of the park to the main town of Ebeltoft, will be built. In both parks, waymarking and signposting remains embryonic, although this is changing quickly as physical signs are placed on the ground.

In the four days I spent walking in Denmark’s new national parks, I found myself charmed by all they had to offer. On my last afternoon back in Mols Bjerge, I walked out across a causeway to Kalo Castle, a spectacularly broken ruin marooned in the northernmost of the snug bays that distinguish eastern Jutland. On my return, I followed the path across the road and meandered up a track for a mile or so through a delightful broad-leaved forest. I suddenly found myself just two metres from a buzzard, unusually sitting on a low branch and evidently just as surprised to see me as I was him. It flew off a few metres, settling on another branch, and kept flitting back and forth across the hedgerows as I walked up the track.

“If you are expecting mountains like the Pyrenees then the reality is you’ll have to go to the Pyrenees, not Denmark, to see them,” says Egefjord. “Denmark is ‘soft walking’. You’re not going to get lost in an exposed area as you can in Norway. Although there is solitude to be found, you’re never too far away from a village, or a campsite. But if you are interested in different cultures, our history, and scenery that’s a little different from what you have at home, then you should come here.”

Travel to: Train fares from London to Århus, the closest town to Mols Bjerge national park, start at £263 return per person (✆ 0844 848 4070; www.raileurope.co.uk). Travel around: Denmark has a good rural bus based public transport network. Local tourist offices can supply timetables and advice on connections in English. Further info: www.nationalparker.skovognatur.dk. You can also visit the website for the Danish Ramblers Association (www.dvl.dk), which has a useful English-language section and a downloadable map of the Molsruten trail between Århus and Grenå.

Tell your friends you’re going walking in the Caucasus and you might receive a quizzical look. Inform them that you will be hiking through a country that does not even officially exist, and you can expect serious disbelief. But the Janapar Trail in Nagorno-Karabakh is just that: a meandering 190km/119-mile route through the mountains of a breakaway republic that is currently recognised by no-one but its residents. With a name derived from three languages – Russian (‘Nagorno’, meaning mountainous), Turkish (‘Kara’, meaning black) and Persian (‘bakh’, meaning garden) – Nagorno-Karabakh is one of those ‘frozen conflicts’ left over from the collapse of the Soviet Union. Despite its declared independence, it’s officially a part of neighbouring Azerbaijan, where its sovereignty is a huge bone of contention. Fortunately, there has been no fighting here since the early 1990s and it is perfectly safe to visit.

Challengingly remote

Set up in 2006 to boost tourism in the region, the Janapar Trail is a newly established long-distance route for experienced hikers. Beginning in the north around Dadivank and finishing at Hadrut in the south, the trail is waymarked for much of its length with a distinctive ‘footprint’ logo and is not especially physically demanding. But a remote region such as this presents its own challenges and an adventurous spirit is as important as strong legs and trekking experience. Atolerance of vodka is a bonus, as is any scrap of Russian, Turkish or Armenian that you can muster. The trail can be conveniently split up into day hikes between villages, where it is usually possible to stay with a local family. Camping is another possibility, although wolves are said to be present and campers should take sensible precautions. It’s also perfectly feasible to walk short sections of the route or make day hikes from Stepanakert, the Karabakh capital. My time was limited, so I decided to sample two shortish sections of the trail. I took a marshrutka (minibus) from Stepanakert to Dadivank – a village that has one of the largest monasteries in the country. Like most Armenian churches, the monastery is strewn with khachkars – carved memorial stones that commemorate the passing of souls. After a quick look, I head out on the trail, heading southeast. This section, to the village of Vaghuhas, was easy walking, following a road along the north bank of the Tartar River. There was almost no traffic and already it felt as if I had the place to myself. I passed by the settlement of Charektar before reaching a village called Getavan, just beyond the point where the Tartar Valley widens into a floodplain. Here, I left the road and river behind as the trail crossed an ancient bridge to climb steeply to Vaghuhas.

Silent forest, vocal officials

The trail became somewhat tougher the next day as it undulated over forested hills before descending to the village of Vank. Mist swirled around the hilltops like smoke from a fire. Periodically, a bird of prey would sweep across the sky, looking for a thermal to ride. The silence, as the saying goes, was deafening. Entering the upper reaches of the village, I encountered a bit of old-school Soviet-style suspicion. A battered van screeched to a halt and one of its occupants demanded my ‘dokumenti’. As my casually dressed inquisitor had nothing about his appearance that suggested officialdom, I thought I’d turn the situation on its head and asked for his. He fumbled for his identity card, driving his friend into hysterics of laughter. Having grumpily retracted the demand for identification, the pair laughed and shook my hand, perhaps in sneaking admiration of my cheek. Vank is an unusual place. Thanks to the largesse of Levon Hairapetian, a Moscowbased lumber baron born in the village, Vank has far more facilities than most communities in these parts. There’s a well-equipped school and – most remarkably – a hotel in the shape of an ocean liner. The Hotel Eklektika (known as the ‘Titanik’) is one of the most surreal sites you’re ever likely to see.

Remnants of war

I took the marshrutka to Stepanakert the next morning, and, from there, I took another to Shushi. There’s a huge new cathedral but many of the town’s historic buildings languish in disrepair. Ruined mosques and churches bear witness to Shushi’s previously mixed population. But when conflict broke out in 1992, it was used as a base for the Azerbaijan army – hence the extensive war damage. From Shushi, the Janapar Trail twisted steeply down through Karintak – a village situated beneath near-vertical cliffs – before looping north along the narrow Karkar Canyon, which is undoubtedly one of the most spectacular sections of the trail. I passed the ruined village of Hunot, with its wooden bridge and waterfall, before an ancient stone bridge marks the point where the trail climbs up from the river to reach the village of Mkhitarishen. I spent the night here, then continued along the trail, looping steeply south once more. Then, zigzagging east through rolling hills and fields, I eventually arrived at the ancient fort village of Avetaranots. My final stage to Karmir Shuka skirted the village of Skhtorashen, where an enormous plane tree purported to be over 2,000 years old, grows. Returning to Stepanakert before daybreak the next morning, I watched the sun come up over the mountains as the marshrutka climbed up past Shushi. Little-known this trail may be, but the experiences of the last few days had imprinted this black mountain garden indelibly on my mind.

Time/Distance: It takes 10–14 days to walk all 190km/119 miles of the trail. Individual sections of varying difficulty range between 10–22km/6–14 miles.

Travel to: Stepanakert can be reached by flying to Yerevan in Armenia, then taking the daily minibus – around 8 hours.

Travel around: Infrequent minibuses connect Stepanakert with villages along the trail.

Guidebooks: Armenia with Nagorno Karabagh by Nicholas Holding (£14.99, Bradt Travel Guides, ISBN: 978 1841621630) has useful information on Nagorno-Karabakh. A Russian and/or Armenian phrasebook is invaluable.

Maps and further info: www.janapar.org

Game spotting at Kruger

The scrub and savannah of Kruger came as a bit of a shock after the sheer lushness of Swaziland’s hills and valleys. This is nature as ruled by the animals and there’s nothing preened or pampered about it, giving the park a somewhat dishevelled look. Looks, however, can be deceiving: Kruger is the undisputed jewel in the crown of South Africa’s national parks, with excellent game viewing. In 2008 it celebrated 110 years as a game reserve, making it one of the oldest on the continent. ‘The entire park has 4,500 beds and 2,500 staff, ’ William Mabasa, a spokesperson for Kruger, tells me. ‘We have a lot of visitors from all walks of life and the real challenge is to cater to all their different needs. We also keep poaching under control and enforce the compulsory park speed limit of 50km per hour. ’ He remains positive about the future popularity of the park. With the recent removal of the border fences between neighbouring Zimbabwe and Mozambique, the animals are free to roam the national parks of all three countries. And roam they do. Driving into the park, we spotted elephant, lion, buffalo, giraffe and crocodile – all within a few minutes of each other. Kruger covers some two million hectares, but walking within its borders is restricted to designated trails with a qualified guide, so we had a chance to rest our legs after the 13km and 8km (8- and 5-mile) hikes in Swaziland on a couple of game drives. As we set out from Skukuza camp in the southern part of the park, expectations were high after the splendid displays we’d been greeted by on arrival. And despite a somewhat slow start, we were not disappointed. Soon the calls of ‘Hippo on the right! ’ and ‘Rhino on the left! ’ were ringing out and our wonderful driver, Elmon, seemed to have a knack for finding the best places for wildlife spotting. He was to have his patience sorely tested over the next few days with our constant calls for him to ‘stop and go back a bit’, but he remained cheerful and helpful throughout, even doing his best to teach me some handy Zulu, too.

Waterfalls and hippos

No rambler can sit still on a bus for too long without wanting to don their boots and take to the hills. So from Kruger we headed for Hippo Hollow, a country estate near the town of Hazyview, just outside the park. Unfortunately, the town lives up to the name and the area is often covered in thick cloud and mist. But the frisky and frolicking hippos more than make up for any problems with the weather – you can view them from the estate’s restaurant in the mornings and evenings, adding a certain something to breakfasts and dinners. Anna Maria Espsäter encounters big game, enchanting waterfalls and wide-open spaces in South Africa’s northernmost territory Hazyview is in the province of Mpumalanga, where we were spending a week. It’s a lush fruitgrowing area with plenty of wonderful hiking opportunities, such as the 14km/9-mile Loerie Trail. Starting steeply, the trail runs through native forest, with creepers and lianas adding a jungle feel to the upward climb to Bridal Veil waterfalls. Continuing up and up, far above the tree line, the path passes several waterfalls, all gushing over the cliff face. I counted four in all and concluded that either there were four brides, or the first one got hitched on multiple occasions. We picnicked with gorgeous views over the valley, and the rain held off until we were safely back at Hippo Hollow – then it really tipped down, encouraging a chorus from the aforementioned smug hippos wallowing in the Sabie River right on our doorsteps. In the end I had to smile: who could blame them for revelling in this beautiful place, whatever the weather? Walk the world and help the work of the Ramblers, too. Ramblers Worldwide Holidays’ charitable trust is a major contributor to the Ramblers.

The 17-day Trails of the Old Transvaal tour with Ramblers Worldwide Holidays starts from £1,966 per person, including flights, half-board accommodation, local transport and guides. Call  ✆ 01707 331133 or visit www.ramblersholidays.co.uk to book now.

Waking up in a comfy bed in the Catalan Pyrenees, I find myself suffering from a bit of ‘Alpine confusion’. Fresh mountain air, rustic wooden beams in my chalet-style hotel, and – wait a moment – is that a horse wearing a cowbell? Looks like I’ve ended up somewhere just a little bit different.

With just 140 souls to its name, the small village of Estamariu sits solidly on a piece of rock overlooking the Segre river valley. The journey here follows a steep, narrow and exceedingly winding road, and is an adventure in itself.

“This road used to be the smuggle route from Andorra before the new government clamped down on it,” my driver, Xavier, tells me. “People would drive at night with no headlights on, to avoid getting caught.” I would have thought the feat of driving here in broad daylight was hard enough.

The villages in the county of Alt Urgell, one of Catalonia’s northernmost, are hardly a hotbed of contraband activities anymore. But these havens of rustic charm are made from sturdy stuff, some dating back to medieval times. The people – having withstood the Franco era and kept their culture alive – are proud Catalan speakers, so I get a crash course on the local lingo from Xavier and can’t help but snigger when I learn that foc means ‘fire’.

Views good enough to eat

In glorious sunshine at the height of the poppy season, 13 of us intrepid walkers set out to explore the area on our first day’s hike. Descending on nearby Bescaran, we follow a winding dirt track leading out of the village. It’s uphill for a while, getting those leg muscles working and the adrenaline rushing, before the track evens out and settles into more gentle undulations.

The landscape is determinedly pretty – every shade of green, with multi-coloured butterflies and bright splashes of red, blue and yellow wild flowers lining the path. In the background, the snow-capped mountains of Cadí-Moixeró national park are looming large, while the Segre river is running wild in the valley below.

The destination, after a 4km/2.5-mile hike up to 1,300m, is a Neolithic “dolmen”: three blocks of rock – two walls and a roof – known as La Cabana del Moro, the Moor’s Cabin, dating back 5,000 years. No one quite knows whether a Moor actually lived here once, or indeed, how he managed to fit in, since the cabin is only 2.5 x 1.5 metres. Perhaps the idyllic setting made up for the lack of space.

Although a hiking trip, time in Alt Urgell is firmly focused on pleasing the belly and a veritable feast is spread before us at every turn. Our hotel in Estamariu, Cal Teixidó, is renowned for its scrumptious dinners using local produce, and even tiny, crumbling villages such as Bescaran have excellent fare – from local wild mushrooms and roast chicken to the obligatory pan Catalan (bread with olive oil, fresh tomato and garlic) and eminently drinkable local wines.

So as not to feel too stuffed from our multi-course dinners we simply walk a little harder on our second day and visit an old woollen mill. In operation since 1902, it is home to Spain’s oldest continuously working spinning Jenny, dating from 1850. Although still making blankets, socks and scarves, these days the mill is also open to the public as a museum.

Crumbling rustic culture

We trek uphill to the town of Calvinyà through lush, gorgeous-smelling pine forests, with wild mountain thyme that lines the footpath adding to the heady mix of aromas. It has its own ‘peasant museum’ set up by the Troguet-Pal family – one of several families doing their utmost to revive these dilapidated villages. “The old ones die and the young ones move away to work in Andorra or Barcelona,” one local laments. Tourism can make a difference and help reverse this cycle and people here are excited to see more visitors finding their way up to these remoter parts.

The hike proves hungry work, so we tuck into our picnics on the outskirts of the village to the happy croaks of nearby mating frogs. All the way back down to La Seu black storm clouds chase us, but we make it back to our cosy hotel in the nick of time. When the torrential rain dies down, a dazzling double rainbow lights up the sky and I swear I can hear the tinkling of a horse’s cowbell somewhere beyond the distant mountains.

Walk the world and help the work of the Ramblers, too. Ramblers Worldwide
Holidays’ charitable trust is a major contributor to the Ramblers. For more information, please visit www.ramblersholidays.co.uk