El Valle de la Barranca is one of those narrow mountain valleys, with its jumping creek, its wild pines that perfume the air and a couple of reservoirs so that the beauty of La Bola del Mundo and la Maliciosa is reflected in its serene waters.

just an hour from Madrid, this enchanting valley offers you a beautiful and easy path with a beautiful route of about 11 kilometres along the slopes of the valley. If you want a route already champions, get in La Maliciosa


In the silence of the forest you will find birds singing at the beginning of the spring, playful squirrels, crows, griffon vultures, wild boars, foxes, shod eagles that spend their summers here and, if you are lucky, you can marvel at the flight of the Royal Eagle.

after skirting the two reservoirs, revel in the elegance of the ducks drawing perfect uves in the water, scare some frog with our footsteps and breathe deep, my Little squire Blue and I began to climb through the pines. A curious squirrel watched us from the branches, Blue ran under the tree as saying “come down and play for a while”, but she continued to jump ignoring us.

The road is slowly rising leaving the river Samburiel down. An hour later, when the song of the river barely reached the pines, I decided to go down to his side for a steep slope and loose soil full of dry pine leaves that I thought was going to give me the coup of the century. Fortunately we got to the river without incident.

I Am passionate about the water streams, the perfect crystal of their pools, the crazy eddies that hold the branches that have dragged the winter, the foam path of their little jumps…


Walking along the edge of the river, with the fluffy ground and the sound of the water is a wonderful experience of peace and communion with nature.

A couple of kilometres above I wanted to cross it to see a giant: a huge, impressive pine that extends its roots as arms of Hercules on the hillside that goes down to the river and its glass stands out against the sky as the elder brother of a family INM Ensa.

I looked for a step on the stones of the river, something simple and without too much risk, I go alone where there is no mobile coverage, and after many calculations I found a place to cross. Blue, who may be more aware than me, was spinning around and around like checking every stone, evaluating the possibilities. I prepared myself to make a good jump to a big stone in the middle of the stream, from there to the other side of the river there were another couple of jumps, but much easier.

I jumped, not without a bit of leg tremor, and I stood there waiting for the Blue jump. The dog jumped but slipped, fell into the water in the middle of a current so intense that it took river down almost a meter. He managed to swim to the shore and there, drenched and tembandoed with cold, he began to bark at me.

arm-wrestling, I jumped back to the shore where I had left off.

From afar I sent my hug to the old pine on the other side of the river, and walked back while Blue ran cheerful and wet.

Back next to the reservoir we sat in the sun, eating the sandwich and watching the clouds move over a transparent blue sky.

And then, all of a sudden, we were able to enjoy the magic of the Eagle’s flight over the valley. ! We are fortunate!


The afternoon passed between the singing of the birds and the poems of

Wislawa Szymborska

The sensibility of this Polish poet, Nobel Prize in literature, disarms you.

If you want to read his poems, here

Some Poems:

The silence of plants

A one-sided relationship is developing quite well
between you and me.

I know what a leaf, petal, kernel, cone, and stem are,
and I know what happens to you in April and December.

Though my curiosity is unrequited,
I gladly stoop for some of you,
and for others I crane my neck.

I have names for you:
maple, burdock, liverwort,
eather, juniper, mistletoe, and forget-me-not;
but you have none for me.

After all, we share a common journey.
When traveling together, it’s normal to talk,
exchanging remarks, say, about the weather,
or about the stations flashing past.

We wouldn’t run out of topics, for so much connects us.
The same star keeps us in reach.
We cast shadows according to the same laws
Both of us at least try to know something, each in our own way,
and even in what we don’t know there lies a resemblance.

Just ask and I will explain as best I can:
what it is to see through my eyes,
Why my heart beats
and how come my body is unrooted.

But how to answer questions never made,
and when, on top of that the one who would answer
is such an utter nobody to you?

Undergrowth, shrubbery, meadows, and rushes…
everything I say to you is a monologue,
and it is not you who’s listening.

A conversation with you is necessary and impossible,
urgent in a hurried life
And it’s postponed forever

It’s all in season. I feel made,
I know woman and nail to the ground
Deep root, and I tend in flight
The branch, certain in you, of its harvest.

How the branch grows and what right!
Everything is today in my trunk a single yearning
To live and live: To tend to heaven,
Upright, like the arrow

That is thrown into the cloud. So upright
That your voice has learned the skill
of opening it smiling and flourishing.

I’m shaking your voice. For her I feel
That the warped branch straightens out
And the fruit of my voice grows in the wind.

End and beginning

After each War

Someone has to clean up.

Things won’t straighten themselves up, after all.

I say.


Someone has to get mired

in scum and ashes,

So that they can pass

The wagons full of corpses.


Somebody’s got to get

Between the mud, the ashes,

The docks of the sofas,

The glass splinters

and bloody rags.


Someone has to drag a beam

To prop up a wall,

Someone put a glass in the window

And the door on its hinges.


Photogenic it’s not,

And it takes years.

All the cameras are gone already

To another war.


We’ll need the bridges back,

and new railway stations.

Sleeves will go ragged

from rolling them up.


Someone, broom in hand,

still recalls the way it was.

Someone else listens

and nods with unsevered head.

But already there are those nearby

There will begin to be some

To those who are bored.


There will still be those who sometimes

find among bushes

Arguments bitten by rust,

And take them to the garbage heap.


Those who knew

Of what was going here the thing

They will have to leave their place

Those who know little.

And less than little.

And even practically nothing.


On the grass that covers

Causes and consequences

Surely there will be someone lying down,

With a spike between the teeth,

Looking at the clouds.

Of “End and Beginning” 1993



Happy Love

Happy Love. Is It normal,
Is it serious, is it positive?
What does the world serve two beings
Who don’t see the world?

Lifted up each other without deserving it,
Two any in one million, more convinced
What would happen to them. A reward for what? You are welcome.
The light falls from nowhere.
Why do you give in them and not in others?
Does it offend justice? Yes.
Does it violate established rules with care,
and cast the moral from the peak? Yes on both accounts.

Look at the happy ones:
If at least it hide a little bit,
fake a little depression for their friends’ sake?
Listen to them laughing – it’s an insult.
The language they use – deceptively clear.
And their little celebrations, rituals,
Those elaborate and mutual attentions,
it’s obviously a plot behind the human race’s back!

What would happen
If their example were to be imitated?
What religion and poetry would appeal to,
What would be remembered and what was forgotten,
Who would choose to remain locked in the circle.

Happy Love. Is It necessary?
Tact and judgment force silence
As if it were a scandal of the high spheres of life.

Perfectly good children are born without its help.
It couldn’t populate the planet in a million years,
it comes along so rarely.

Let the people who never find true love
keep saying that there’s no such thing.

Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.


Who stole my coat? by BLUE

Who stole my coat? by BLUE

Who stole my coat?


Yesterday I was so happy and warm with my beautiful and long hair “look at my brunette what kills hair” and today made a miserable without a coat and with no dignity at all.


! I feel naked!

I don’t mind knots in my hair.

I ‘m not bothered by the seeds that are hooked to my hair.

I don’t mind not being perfectly combed like those cheesy city grandmother dogs.

I don’t mind taking eons to dry.



Who stole my coat?


I’m not worth excuses


Who stole my coat?






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EL CAMINITO DEL REY (Málaga) and María Victoria Atencia

EL CAMINITO DEL REY (Málaga) and María Victoria Atencia

El Caminito del Rey is one of those magical places that Andalucia offers. A place where you feel bird and rock, flight and abyss, stone and water.

In the heart of the Sierra Malagueña, the River Guadalhorce dug the gorge of the Gaitanes, which was used to build a reservoir inaugurated by King Alfonso XIII in 1921. A hydroelectric station was built taking advantage of the inclination of the terrain but to move around the area they had to build a footbridges directly located in the wall of the rock.

In 2014, after years of abandonment and deterioration, the Junta de Andalucía has rebuilt these three kilometres of footbridge over the steep abyss of the gorge.

A place where you feel like a bird or a rock.

Suitable for those who do not have vertigo, or dominate…



The way

Since access to visitors is restricted, tickets must be purchased as soon as possible. And get ready to invest about 5 or 6 hours in the eight kilometers of the tour.

The road goes in one direction, so there are two areas to leave the car. You always walk from the North Access (gorge of the Gaitanejo) and you exit to the South access. There are almost-free buses to access the parking lot where you left your car.

A beautiful forest welcomes you in the almost three kilometres of travel before reaching the entrance to the gorge. A path curdled with small blue lagoons, the river running calmly, a transparent air and the thousands of birds that now in February begin to prepare the nests.

Already at the entrance door begins the most beautiful part of the road and also the least solitary. The tour is accompanied by a guide of the path that explains all the details of the route. His information is interesting, but if you read the guide, you document on how it was built, the reasons for the path, the milestones and peculiarities, you can enjoy a little more solitude.

The groups with their guides leave every 20 minutes from the access door. They are groups of 20 people, driving along a narrow and winding road. Something crowded the walkers.

I decided to slow down a bit about the group (despite the insistence of the guide to stay together) to enjoy in solitude the captivating and unique landscape.

To be able to observe the lizards walking the rocks, the ants passing the scarce spaces of earth and grass, the flight of the birds crossing tirelessly the abyss that opens to your feet and the wind whistling between the walls of rock.

In some sections the catwalk hanging over the abyss produces vertigo, despite being tremendously safe, well anchored to the rocks and with steel wires bordering the abyss. In the silence of the path you imagine the men who built the original footbridges and feel admiration for them.

The river a bird’s eye view

All the way, hanging over the abyss, you can see the river, a radiant blue, down, very low.

In some sections, as you can see in this picture, both paths, the old and the new, run parallel to the rock wall.


Here’s a map of the Caminito.

Do you want a bird’s eye view of the King’s path?

watch this video shot with drone by Lev Vakulin

Happy to have overcome the vertigo on the way.

You want some advice?

You are next to a beautiful city built on a hill: Alora

Spend a couple of hours walking the streets, you won’t be disappointed.

In my rearview mirror, the Church of Our Lady of the Incarnation.

Malaga is the cradle of a great poet: María Victoria Atencia.

If you want to read his poems, here

Some poems by María Victoria Atencia


It’s all in season. I feel made,
I know woman and nail to the ground
Deep root, and I tend in flight
The branch, certain in you, of its harvest.

How the branch grows and what right!
Everything is today in my trunk a single yearning
To live and live: To tend to heaven,
Upright, like the arrow

That is thrown into the cloud. So upright
That your voice has learned the skill
of opening it smiling and flourishing.

I’m shaking your voice. For her I feel
That the warped branch straightens out
And the fruit of my voice grows in the wind.


Under my bed are shells, algae, sands:
start your cold where my sheets end.
Would graze a seine with unhooking arms
and his network would tend to the mast-top
of this floating bed between coffin and Tina.
When I close my eyes, they cover me with scales.

When I close my eyes, the wind of the Strait
It puts Guinea smell on wet clothes,
put salt in a basket of flowers and bunches
of green and black grapes on top of my pillow,
it puts swelling insomnia, and in a stringer then
I feel with my dream to see the water pass by.


Epitaph for a Girl

Because you were denied the time of bliss
your heart rests so oblivious to the roses.
Your blood and flesh were your richest dress
and the earth did not know the firmness of your passage.

Here begins your sowing and ends together
-such is buried with a vanquished at the end of the bout-,
where the water in November is your tenderness
and the bark of a dog has a voice of omen.

Still your life all to the touch of death,
that the seeds can and curtails the buds,
you stayed in unopened cocoon, and you never
You’ll know the spring floral burst.




Why this title?

We little ones have power in front of big ones.

A handful of ants in front of a green worm…

A Yorkie in front of a female stalker.

Small? Yes, but brave.

It makes a beautiful winter sun day, and although chilly, we headed towards the Sierra de Madrid.

La Pedriza, which is named for the enormity of granite boulders, is one of mommy’s favorite places to walk, sit down by the river and think about her things.

I like a lot of running around, the river and meadows are full of bugs, smells, clues. Running over the huge stones, defying gravity, is one of my passions.

A swim of sand?

We had walked a while following the course of the river upwards, a river that this time was soft and tame, with little current, but with very cold water. That’s not too much of a problem for me to get in a bit, freshen up and take the smell of river, clear water and comfortable.

Of course I then filled with mud and dry on the sand beds… To Mommy’s chagrin, she scolds me.

A few ants and a green worm

We had stopped to rest awhile on a huge stone on the river and take the sandwich (do not think well, I’m on a diet because they say I’m fat, I? Fat?), good thing that Mommy gave me two bits of loin of hers. And there I was, on a stone and attentive to the generosity of mommy, when I see a green worm crawling, so curious in that worms move, now I support the head, arch the body, I spread a bit, I advance the legs of the tail , and again I support the head…

A so strange way of walking, that I kept looking at him. I’m not too interested in worms, there’s no way to run them, they’re boring.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, little black ants begin to appear and surround the worm. !They’re having a party, I thought! Not really I realize that the ants begin to peck at the worm, everywhere, the poor is stirred and tries to advance faster in his crazy walk, but the ants get up on him, they move on his spine while they continue biting, follow him , they bite him, they hurt him.

And I, a little scared, start barking. Mommy then realizes what’s going on in our stone, and tells me it’s none of my business, not to do anything, still Blue!, while she also observes how the ants go corralling the worm that progresses slower and faster! He is so tired!

After a few minutes the worm stops moving, and that is when the ants, in an organized way (no idea how they are organized so beautifully) begin to transport the worm stone down.

I don’t know anything about calculus or math, but it seems to me that every ant is dragging more than five times its weight. ! Amazing!

In a few minutes the worm, dragged by the ants, arrives at the gates of the Anthill. Then they start to go out, as if they had called them, a lot of ants, and among all they are introducing the body of the worm in the tiny entrance hole to the Anthill.

The worm, so large, has been defeated by a few ants.

It’s the triumph of the little ones, Blue, says Mommy, like the story of David and Goliath. I don’t know who those two are, but I like the triumph of the little ones.

And I’m really sorry for the worm that’s gone to the Ants ‘ winter pantry.

! I’m already emboldened with the triumph of the little ones!

I’m small and brave. I have to defend mommy, so I walk and run around her, I always know where she is and I can smell the problems at a distance. If the worms were smarter, they’d take some kind of Yorkie dog with them.

A couple of hours later, already in the vicinity of La Charca Verde, we stop for a while to rest and see how the river precipitates in waterfalls.

It is a place with huge rocks and from where you can see the river and you hear the raging sound of the water falling through the pools and the cliffs. It’s one of the places that mommy likes most, she sits there to watch the evening fall while she reads a little. She doesn’t have my sense of smell, and nowhere near the danger.

I was lying down under the sun while Mommy was reading. Suddenly I noticed a smell like “macho”, and I went out to investigate: a human was spying on mommy behind some bushes. I know that before I existed, when I sat down to read or write a while I always had “eyes in the back of the neck” to be aware of whether someone came to him with bad intentions. I don’t know if you’ve lived, but there’s a lot of stalkers behind a lonely woman

! and Mummy is almost sixty years old, you can imagine if the woman is young!

So I ran behind the stalker, barking as high as my lungs allow me. Mommy got up worried about my barking to find a damn half-naked stalker in the bushes.

! Get him, Blue!, he yelled at me.

The guy ran out, half holding his pants by the knee and jumping from rock to rock until he disappeared between the stones.

I, if Mummy had wanted it, would have left a memory of my teeth in his calves, but she told me to leave him go.

And then he congratulated me and gave me some water, which I had remained dry from so much bark.

Always on the lookout for mommy, I’m her little squire.

You know what mommy writes about me?

Well, read, because for me it’s a pride:

Then came Blue, my Yorkshire, and changed the way I used to go down the mountain: I am no longer inclined to any noise, a strange moving branch, a strange shadow among the thickets. Now my eyes and my ears are Blue.

He’s a small dog, he can’t kill anyone, but he’s my keeper. If a family comes to me, a couple, barks soft and runs out to say “hello”, if anyone approaches is a man or a group of men, his bark is dangerous. He runs around and draws a circle with his careers, leaving me at the center.

To you men, this gesture may seem foolish to me, it means a lot.

I can sit back and read without having eyes on the head, and I do not need to carry a cane to protect me from all those who believe that being a woman are at your disposal, and return from my walk when I want, not because an imbecile has decided to harass me.

We came home happy after a day of sunshine and nature and knowing that small, when we have to be, we are giants.

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It’s February, it’s a beautiful sunshine morning and I wake up thinking, craving, a little green, of nature. Living in Lavapiés is great. But I miss trees, green grass, clean air and nature.

I have only three hours, so I discard the idea of escaping to the mountain: you have to find another solution to tread earth, feel the touch of the tree trunk.

Perhaps the Retiro, too “domesticated”, perhapsCasa de Campo , too winter…

And suddenly I remember that in the midst of high buildings, in the heart of the city of Madrid, there is an oasis: the Quinta de los Molinos Park, is also now an oasis in bloom. It is mid-February, almond trees will be beginning to blossom…

In just half an hour, in Metro, Suances stop, we are Blue and I scamper between the aroma of the millions of almond blossoms, surrounded by the songs of birds that seem to sing to this early spring, the thousands of insects that flutter among the flowers, the Bumblebees pollinating the trees. Life, with capital letters.

If you want to know more about this park, its origins, flora and its walks look here parque Quinta de los Molinos,

Get there

In just half an hour’s journey in Metro, Suances stop, we are Blue and I scamper between the aroma of the millions of almond blossoms, surrounded by the songs of birds that seem to sing to this early spring, the thousands of insects that flutter among the flowers, the Bumblebees pollinating the trees. Life, with capital letters.

If you want to know more about this park, its origins, flora and its walks look here parque Quinta de los Molinos,


Almond Perfume

While Blue, my yorkie and squire, scamper behind the daring Magpies (who do not have any fear, because they fly and he does not), I close my eyes and let my nose guide me. I get carried away by the scent of the thousands of flowers that impregnate the air with that fresh perfume of almond blossom.

In my head, I begin to build a poem:

I write white verses like silver on

Like the bustle glutton of a bumblebee

In the still tender flowers of the almond tree

Contrasts that touch you

The trunk of the almond tree has a dark, almost black tone, like a piece of burnt wood that does not shelter life, but when February comes and covering itself with flowers becomes the perfect example of the Yin and Yan, the two opposite faces, but complementary, of existence: they are the shadow and the light, the cold the heat, the movement and the stillness.



Today I was accompanied by the verses of Batania/Neorrabioso

I love this man, for his sensibility, for his way of teaching us his world, ours, from another perspective.

There is nothing more to be added, than to defend the poems alone.

If you want to read him, look here, these are his blogs:



In his own words: When I started in poetry I was made the same criticism from many angles: my poems, they said, were so violent that they were not understood in a democracy. “You write too rabid,” they pointed out, and I added the Neo -more by self-parody than by aggressive intent.

The satiated

They don’t spit worms at ties.
They don’t attack the pure strands of silence.
They don’t launch releases on the funerals
They don’t hesitate or erase the news.
They don’t risk their nobody in the dungeons.
They don’t stain shop windows or the methacrylate.
They don’t jump the police fences.
They don’t shout slogans against the seats.
They don’t infringe the laws of strychnine.
They don’t cut the streets nor invade the squares
They don’t burn flags they don’t write pamphlets
They don’t demand justice don’t run don’t escape
They don’t suffer don’t insist don’t cry don’t fight.

They don’t.



Only with you did I understand
The bone of philosophy
(your clitoris always wet)
The knot of concepts
(Your approaching body)
The cavern of meanings
(Your lips sweeping mine)

I love you

How hard it is to say iloveyou again
After launching iloveyou to other women
That they left like smoke carnation’s or ships in flames,
Women who now neither know nor remind me
Or remind me as a black iron
Burning on the tip of his heart,
And besides, believe me,
It’s not the same to say iloveyou at twenty
That now at forty four years,
Already covered my dirty water pond,
And I know I’m going to laugh by saying it
And you’re going to laugh too…

But what’s the difference?
I’ll say it again by squeezing a stone
And trembling in front of your wolf’s eyes.
I’ll repeat what the wind tells me
When the red of the sky is as red as seeing you.
When your voice rises in the air
And falter the hinges of the gates, I will say I love you.
I’ll say I love you here and in Athens, I love you
In London and in Acapulco, I love you
To the future and to the past,
In the ascent and in the fall,
Like a submarine I love you,
When you are a ship I will continue loving you
And when you are shipwreck I will throw you
My fifteen and five hundred hands.

I love you and no matter what December,
I love you and what a beetle in your eyes,
I love you and what a good night does
To read verses and open zippers.


How it was going to last the love between two crackpots with flute
That boasted to get wet with a fire hose,
So goobers that they were losing acorns down the street
And they became preceptors in powder-strewn fields,

How it would last the love between the mirror and the mirrors,
Between the rebel alwaysego and the alwaysego breakdowns,
Between ensign mollusc of hand pumps
And the happy reader of the poison handbook,

How it would last
If they both wanted to be capital-leters
If they both wanted to be big-thumbs
If both of us preferred play to be God between clouds
To put his love in curfew,
If you never saw mice or mouse
With such smoky eagles, how
You were going to last!!!


Of many errors I am responsible,
But I’ve never tried to be a man.

I have no children. I have no property.
I don’t belong to anything.
I have not signed contracts
That would limit my freedom

I’ve always felt strange between them.
They’re going to vote, I don’t vote.
Go on vacation, I’ll stay.
They relate and have friends, I don’t have.
Their mother dies and they cry, I don’t cry.
They square before their flag, I don’t picture.
They get excited about their anthem, I’m not thrilled.
As much as I search,
I find no proof
To link me to that species.

I don’t even know them.
A hit of “click” I see documentaries about them
And I observe that they are creatures born to flock.
The females look a little cleaner, that’s all.

I’m responsible for some failures, yes.
of some weaknesses and falls.
of many errata in my writing.

But I’ve never tried to be a man.

The hardest part… Translating these verses into English (Ozú)

!Si, quiero la Guía!

Responsable Marisol Torres.

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