GET THE FLOCK OUTTA HERE

Alex Rayner discovers a peculiar folk practice in the hills of Fuerteventura. Photography by Tim Kavanagh

There is, as any snowboarding Morris dancer will tell you, very little common ground between adrenalin sports and folk arts.

Looking for that elusive free-diving/ basket-weaving hybrid? You’re out of luck. Crave a pastime that combines the historical significance of macramé with the peerless rush of BMXing? No dice, my friend. Bodhrans and base-jumping? Perhaps next year.

But if you hanker after the timeless, pastoral traditions of shepherd crafts and, simultaneously, still want the thrill of freeclimbing, scree-running and pole-vaulting, you should book a flight to the Canary Islands sometime soon.

Here, away from the black pumice beaches and surfing hotspots, the hills are alive with jumping goat herders. They practice “salto del pastor”, or shepherd leaping, a little-known side of mid-Atlantic rustic life that seems not just kilometres, but worlds, apart from the modern sunbathers’ paradise that draws most visitors to these islands.

Our trip to Fuerteventura to track down this intriguing practice begins like so many others. The photographer Tim, and I, touch down on the rocky winter sun spot and immediately appreciate the 20-odd-degree temperature difference compared with the freezing weather at Liverpool when we left. We pick up our hire car, a carbon-friendly Toyota Prius, from Hertz, and drive to the Barceló Fuerteventura, a luxurious hotel in the beachside town of Caleta de Fuste, with its own spa, pools and mini-golf course.

Yet, rather than make straight for the sun loungers and poolside bar, we strike out towards Casillas del Angel, in the island’s centre. This agricultural hamlet, replete with almond trees, craft workshops, farms and a chapel, is a picturesque spot. Unlike the lush agricultural villages of northern Europe, Casillas del Angel has its own beauty, which combines the bucolic charm of southern Spain’s “pueblos blancos” with the Canaries’ own sparse, volcanic, near-lunar landscape. And it is here, on the forecourt of Casillas’ solitary petrol station that we meet our guide to the acrobatic hillside herdsmen and their strange tradition.

“Shepherds used to use sticks to jump around the hills and follow their goats. It’s quicker than walking around obstacles that the goats can climb all over,” explains islander Patricia who, having picked us up in her 4x4, is now driving us out into the Fuerteventuran hinterland.

Dailos (left) and Juan Manuel get stuck in with their giant poles. In my head I imagine lots of Little Bo Peeps on pogo sticks as Patricia goes on to explain the importance of goats roaming free on the island. Although the animals can be kept penned – as they are on many farms the world over – letting the herd wander about the rocky hillsides improves the taste of their milk, cheese and meat. The foraging goats nibble on an array of wild plants, all of which lend their produce a salty, sea flavour. Fuerteventura’s tangy goats’ cheese has won acclaim across the globe.

Exactly how the aforementioned sticks come into play doesn’t become wholly clear until Patricia pulls over in a rocky gully and introduces us to Guille Pedromo, a 45-year-old folk culture expert, Dailos Paniagua, a 30-yearold Fuerteventuran martial artist and salto del pastor practitioner, and Juan Manuel Vera, a 17- year-old shepherd and pole-leaping champion.

Alex gets to grips with his pole! The origins of salto del pastor are obscure, though it may pre-date the 15th century Spanish conquest of the islands. Guille explains that for hundreds of years, shepherds used these wooden, steel-tipped poles or “lances” to follow their herd, pushing themselves up rocky outcrops, vaulting over small crevices and breaking their fall, like a kind of portable fireman’s pole, when they jump from high to low terrain.

The length of the lance varies, depending on the island. Those on the ravine-riddled La Gomera require a longer one than herders orienteering about the flatter islands like Fuerteventura. The lance’s tip design also suits the territory, with a slimmer spike for the rich red earth of Fuerteventura and a tapering end for the rocks of Gran Canaria.

If all this sounds a bit too much like Sunday craft-fair territory, it’s far from what Dailos and Juan Manuel proceed to show us. Their athletic leaps, climbs and vaults look less like a rural heritage exposition and more like a kind of iron-age Motocross.

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