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.


!Si, quiero la Guía!

Responsable Marisol Torres.

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Responsable Marisol Torres.

Aquí nuestra Política de Privacidad.