It’s late March and the villagers of the Jerte valley in Extremadura, Spain’s wild west, are twitchy – as if they’re hosting a party and wondering if all the guests will show up. The event they’re waiting for is the flowering of the valley’s cherry trees, which number about two million. So far, only a handful – a variety called Royal Tioga – have dared to don their frilly spring frocks. The rest are still clutching their drab grey winter garb.
Predicting the arrival of blossom is always tricky, but thanks to an unseasonably wet March the trees are three weeks late when I visit. With snow still cloaking the surrounding sierras, the tourist office in Cabezuela del Valle, halfway up the valley, is hastily finding alternative activities for the coachloads of blossom-seekers from Madrid. As with any nature-reliant activity, such as whale watching or aurora hunting, timing is challenging. But unlike hit-and-miss spectacles involving wild animals, at least I know the blossoming will happen eventually. (Sadly wildfires later affected parts of the Jerte valley last summer, but thankfully few cherry trees were affected.)
The nation most associated with cherry blossom is, of course, Japan. There, the sakura, or ornamental cherry blossom tree, has for centuries symbolised the transient nature of life, and for a few weeks in springtime, its delicate pink confetti blossom sprinkles streets and temple gardens. Millions join hanami, or flower viewings across the country.
Spain’s display is different. This is a rural spectacle rather than a mostly urban one – and has the big advantage, for me at least, of being a lot closer to the UK. I’ve travelled by train from my Devon village and I’m also hoping the journey might be as fun as the destination.
It is. There’s the sunrise over a milky River Teign as we glide through Teignmouth, and by teatime I’m in Paris, eating a glossy coffee religieuse – doubledecker eclairs that look like nuns in habits – on a sunlit boulevard. A dawn start the next day takes me, via TGV, along the French Riviera, past palm-fringed resorts, onwards to Barcelona and finally to Plasencia, in Extremadura. It’s 11pm, yet the Plaza Mayor in its historic walled heart still echoes to the chatter of animated locals digging into raciones of Iberian ham and paprika-flecked grilled octopus.
Next morning, I ascend the valley to the peaceful village of Jerte and its hospedería – one of Extremadura’s network of hotels which, like the national paradores network, are all housed in restored historic buildings. The squat white-washed building was once a leather-tanning factory, but later became an oil press. My room looks out on the vocal River Jerte, and beyond to hillsides crisscrossed with terraces planted with cherry trees. At least I have a ringside seat as their buds strain to unfurl.
I join the collective waiting game, passing the hours by roaming Jerte’s cobbled streets beneath the geranium-draped balconies of its half-timbered houses. One afternoon I tackle the rugged mountain trail taken by Holy Roman emperor and King of Spain Carlos V to reach the monastery he chose for his retirement in 1556. The poor emperor was so riddled with gout he had to be carried on a sedan chair over the mountains and across a vigorous river at a point now marked by a stone bridge known as the Puente Nuevo. My circuit culminates in the high drama of Los Pilones, a jumble of granite boulders that have been eroded and bleached by the river to form crystalline bowl-shaped pools.
Back in Jerte there are cherry products to sample – from liqueurs to jams and bottled fruit. In the hospedería, a knockout cherry and pistachio dessert rounds off the regional tasting menu – remarkable value at €45. In summer, local people marry cherries with tomatoes to make a variation on gazpacho. Edible cherries, of course, are the big difference between the Jerte and Japan: Japan’s trees are ornamental, whereas the Jerte’s are fruiters, and the main source of income for the valley’s inhabitants. Had I time to linger another couple of months, I could witness the area’s second annual spectacle – trees laden with the lipstick-red fruit. That calls for more festivities so, from a tourism point of view, Jerte has two bites at the cherry.
At the processing factory down the valley towards Plasencia, I see white-coated workers cleaning the machinery, ready to wash, grade and pack Jerte’s cherries from late May to late July. “This is family agriculture,” says Mónica Tierno Díaz, who directs a collective of 15 local cherry farming cooperatives. “Cherries are our way of life. Picking them is how I learned to count as a kid. Most growers in the valley have just a few hectares and pick the cherries by hand into chestnut wooden baskets. But marketing and selling their fruit is difficult. So we do that for them, our key markets being Britain and Germany.”
Alongside commercial varieties, such as Lapins and Van, Jerte produces a small stalkless one called Picota, which is unique to the region and has protected designation of origin certification. Pop into your local supermarket in June and you may well spot these tiny, slightly crunchy jewels. “Many people got used to black gobstopper cherries, so getting them to buy these smaller, paler cherries was a challenge,” says Mónica. “But once people taste them and realise how sweet they are, they’re hooked.”
Next morning, I drive down the valley to the hillside village of El Torno and witness a Jerte transformed; it’s as if snow has silently fallen during the night. The trees have finally put on their floral finery, the party has begun. I explore the orchards on foot – the best way to experience them – following one of the valley’s many well-marked footpaths, and settle beneath the blossom-laden trees for a hanami picnic, Spanish-style. I’m grateful for my early start, for I’m soon joined by a boisterous crowd of blossom-baggers who have followed one of the tourist office’s cherry-viewing driving routes and are now posing for the ultimate floral selfie. As well as El Torno, the 50km motoring circuit takes in neighbouring Rebollar and villages such as Valdastillas, Piornal and Cabrero on the other side of the valley, while the equally spectacular 30km linear route traces the main road down the valley.
With each passing day, the blossom edges up the valley like a frothy white wave, finally reaching the village of Tornavacas at the top. Donning my walking boots again, I head there from Jerte along the Ruta Cerezo en Flor (the cherry blossom trail), and from its mirador (viewpoint), I gaze at the sea of blossom below. (Incidentally, if you tire of blossom-gaping, the tourist office runs a two-week Cherry Blossom festival – part of a six-week spring festival – with an ambitious lineup of events across the valley’s villages, from folk dancing to concerts and exhibitions; 27 March-11 April.) Returning to my hotel in Jerte, I notice the streets and bars are buzzing. Time, I think, for a celebratory tot of the local cherry liqueur.
I’m sad to leave this magical valley. But as I journey home, I console myself that in a few months I’ll hopefully be savouring Jerte’s Picotas at home, a sweet, equally fleeting reminder of Spain’s very own sakura.
The trip was provided by the Extremadura tourist board and the Spanish tourist office in London. The Hospedería Valle del Jerte has doubles from around €135 B&B. Travel was provided by Rail Europe; an Interrail Global pass starts from €318 for five days travel over a month for adults