Under the Aragon sun, I sit on the smooth pebbles of a deserted river beach. Monty the podenco’s pointy ears prick as he listens to the clatter of storks nesting in the trees.
This river is where I come for peace and solitude. Its banks are my backdrop for mini-adventures with Monty on weekday mornings, and this gentle meander is where I swim on hot summer days. And the fact that it’s been on quite the journey before it reaches this point, “my” stretch, is a big part of what makes it restful, reassuring, cleansing, and inspiring.
Its name, Gállego, springs from the same root as “Gaul” or “Gallia”, as the lands on the other side of the natural barrier of the Pyrenees were once known. That’s down to the fact that these waters first see the light of day way up in the mountains, almost exactly on the Spanish-French border, just by the Portalet pass.
A trickle of water emerges onto the mountainside in an area popular with locals on both sides of the border, us included, for skiing and snowshoeing in the winter, and hiking when the temperatures rise and the snow melts away into the streams.
Rolling back down from the heights of 2200m in Lola, our trusty campervan, we follow the course of the “French” river for the first part of the journey, passing the first of many reservoirs, which has Lanuza, a picture-perfect stone village, perched on its shore.
Through the towns of Sallent and Biescas, communities that swell with hikers and holidaymakers, it cuts south before starting to drift west, leaving the peaks of the Pyrenees proper behind. But the possibilities for adventure — in the water and around it — and the dramatic landscapes don’t stop there.
We’ve wild camped in Lola by the Peña reservoir and watched rafters braving the rapids around Murillo de Gállego in the spring. We’ve hiked to the tops of the startlingly beautiful Mallos de Riglos, conglomerate rock formations which rise vertically from the river banks to tower over the quaint village below.
From there, the water flows on, striking out for the south again, now through flatter lands as it forges its way towards the mighty Ebro. Eventually, the droplets of water that emerged on a mountaintop and carry the freshness and energy of the Pyrenees peaks with them, reach the stretch of river I’ve come to know so well.
Living in a small town just a kilometre or two from its banks, from which you can see the snowy mountaintops on a clear day, Monty and I are drawn to the same river we’ve gravitated to further upstream. There’s something almost magnetic about it.
Adjusting to a new environment can be tricky, but when we moved from a Zaragoza city-centre flat on the banks of the Ebro out to this quieter roost, the river helped me feel right at home. There are no popular, well-known river beaches here, so finding the best spots to access the water was down to us. And find them we did.
On runs and walks that often topped 10km, as we tried out new path after new path, we were rewarded with hidden gems. The land that lies between our town and the Gállego is all cultivated, but by the river there are pockets of untouched wilderness, havens for storks and kites, where you feel intrepid as you vault fallen logs and duck under branches hanging low across the path.
Of the three river beaches I discovered on those winding walks, one in particular has a touch of magic to it.
There’s a bend in the river where the water slows its onward march and deepens, cutting into tall cliffs on the far bank, inviting me in for a dip while Monty cools off, hunting water boatmen and imaginary frogs in the shallows.
Nearly always deserted, it’s the perfect spot to appreciate the changing of the seasons. I come to see the leaves fade to gold in the autumn, then drift down into the river, all the better to see the storks perching in the trees on winter days, when the river swells with snow melt. I come to see the fresh green leaves unfurl in the spring, and the water drift by at a lazier pace in summer.
From here, I know it’ll plough on south, cascading over impressive weirs, lined by paths popular with walkers, runners and cyclists, and finally blending with the Ebro, that great river making its stately way to the Mediterranean.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to fresh water, particularly mountain streams and waterfalls. I grew up listening to the babble of the English stream that ran behind our house.
So when the Gállego became part of my life, it was no surprise to find that a river can be so much more than it seems on the surface. It can be a companion, a comfort, a goal, a welcome rest and reward. It can make you feel like part of the landscape, like you belong.
And it can remind you we’re all on a journey, with adventure and possibility at our fingertips, even if we’re just on a midweek dog walk. Life flows on, and the freedom and soaring heights of the mountains, or the depths of the Mediterranean, are just around the river bend.
