If anyone had wanted to order worse weather for our trip, they probably would have struggled to come up with anything more monumental than the storm that swept up the valley and leapt onto the refuge that first night. Thank god we weren’t in a cave. Rain and wind pounded the walls, stories learned from internet reports were banded about and our chocolate supplies were hit hard.

We lit the fire, dried our sweaty clothes from the uphill, drank countless cups of tea and were grateful not to be in the kind of accommodation we had imagined prior to the trip. At this point I cracked out my phone and reported home, which really did create quite some commotion amongst those who had left their posh iPhones at home. My text read, “Rain never going to stop. Aston doing handstands and press ups and Pedro is explaining the universe. Victor had enough, grunting something about technology.”

We slept well and long, and eventually rose somewhere near noon. Or at least that is all we could guess at. With no idea of the time it was hard to know, but our well–rested body clocks told us that we quite possibly hadn’t been as motivated as may have been expected. In our defence, the 35mm of rain that had been predicted to fall during the night and right through the morning had well and truly landed, so we had only done as any sensible adventurer would have – stayed in bed all morning and then had many (more) cups of tea.

By the time both the rain had cleared and group motivation had been rediscovered it had become quite some afternoon, with the clear skies and fresh air that typically follow a big storm. We rode the sublime trail from the previous day and took in a few ‘extreme’ lines down some of the bizarre rock formations that make the Natural Park such an intriguing place. Down at the foot of the trail we avoided rivers in flood and headed straight to the station café for round number three–hundred–and–forty–six of coffee and toastadas (Spanish toast typically served with fresh tomato puree, olive oil and salt).

Steep tarmac is never the most enticing of prospects, however after so much eating and such relatively little bicycle riding it’s hard not to jump at the opportunity to punish oneself by way of a 45º slope. We headed upward and toward ‘the Swiss house’ – a landmark we had been told to head for if we fancied our chances at finding trail bike bullion.

We did find the Swiss house, and we found the trail. It had rained, a lot. Streams gushed out across the trail, then onto it, and we were covered head–to–toe in white mud, our teeth and eyes were filled with grit. I smiled the entire way down that trail.

Our ride ended near some cliffs and gave us a view over a perilous walkway that King Alfonso the 8^th had ordered to be built early in the 20^th century. After some minutes of staring at the walkway wondering how many poor souls died during its construction, we decided to call in at El Chorro’s campsite to see what went on there. Having eaten cheap and decent pizza at the bar (the only establishment in the vicinity regularly open on an evening), we jumped right in and ordered four large cervezas. “Mamma Mia!” was the reaction of our friendly barman who then shook our hands. He thrust litre sized bottles at us and waddled off. The sign of a good evening to come.

Several hours later and we were at a party that catered for all types – from crusty climbers to…well, crustier ones. We were still covered in mud, most probably stinking (after a couple of days it’s hard to know where the smells are coming from) and delirious not through the hardships we had expected prior to the trip but thanks to sheer gluttony and excessive caffeine intake. More beers were consumed and carload–after–carload of wiry, dreadlocked and leathery mountain folk came out of the darkness, parking all down the El Chorro road and mostly in or across it. Not that it mattered, the only people likely to be within 20 miles would only have been on their way to the party too.

Eventually we wobbled up the dark mountain once again, this time with little fear of wild beasts (they were still at the party). We stopped to contemplate (argue about) the direction of Malaga (and therefore the coast) on more than one occasion. No iPhone could save the day this time.>>