The barman in Ainsa where I stopped for breakfast was exceptionally friendly. I must point out at this stage that Dave Lyons kindly gave me the flat cloth cap that I had borrowed from him for our Andy & Steve (ASStock) party, and having worn it again to reprise the role of cloth-capped, brow- smocked removal man at Bestival I have since kept it upon my head for the rest of the trip (Sab, if it’s the size of a man’s head that does it for you, mine’s exactly the same size as Dave’s…). Anyway, the barman was terribly excited about the fact that I was wearing the cap because it was so quintessentially English; “Ingles! Ingles!” he kept saying as he laughed and pointed at it and thus dashing any illusions I may have had that I had taken on the look of one of those swarthy Spanish/Italian peasant types that roam the olive-groved hills of their respective countries with a shotgun hooked over their arms and grabbing each other’s facial cheeks occasionally and saying “Eh! You like a brother to me!” Instead, I realised, that with the growing stubble I had on my chin, if I’d donned a white shirt and braces I could have passed for either Chas or Dave.
Headed to Barasona today through and over some more magnificent scenery. The pass that I took today was 1020 metres, a mere trifle, I did however reach the exciting and adrenaline pumping speed of 61.4km/h (49.12mp/h). My god it was scary! I could have gone faster but I was much, much too frightened; it’s at that sort of speed that your mind begins to start asking what would happen if you got a puncture or your brake-cables were to snap, and your fingers invariably find themselves reaching for the brake-levers. I’ve promised myself I won’t do those kinds of speeds again, I don’t want to spend another prolonged period in a Spanish hospital.
After a short but uphill 15km ride to Benabarre I stopped for brunch. After sitting staring into space for a long long time, possibly with my mouth hanging open and saliva dripping onto the table, I realised that I was absolutely knackered. When I got up to leave, my legs would barely respond, waves of tiredness coursed through them whenever I attempted to do anything in the least bit strenuous. I got on my bike and began to pedal but had barely enough energy to do so, and so I decided I would just rest here for the day and get a campsite. On a whim I decided to check out the prices of rooms in the hotel that I was outside of and was surprised to find that they were only thirteen euros. Suspiciously I asked to be taken to see one and the friendly proprietress happily indulged me; it was lovely, with patio doors out on to a little balcony that overlooked crooked, salmon pink roof tiles and the green hills beyond. Without hesitation I threw my bags on the bed and accepted it. As I sat supping wine in the bar downstairs, I realised that I had cycled over three mountain passes in as many days, all of them over (one of them distictly over) 1000 meteres. And I’d also cycled everyday (aside for Bestival which was hardly restful and a day in Pau) for over a month. No wonder I was tired. I decided to stay for two nights.
Benabarre is a small town, obviously on a hill, with a castle keeping a watchful eye over it at the top. There were no tourists and I liked it. There was just a handful of shops, one of which was, surprisingly, an internet café, so I was able to check up on what was happening in the world at large. I don’t wish to speak about West Ham.
I seriously indulged myself at dinner. The starter was a huge sausage served with fried eggs and chips, followed by rabbit stew with seared asparagus and garlic dressing (with chips) and yogurty cheesecake for dessert. Mmm hmmm. I was deliriously happy, sated and perfectly happy to sit in the dining room with the two old blokes who conversed by grunting and burping and ate with their mouths open. I then sat in the bar mesmerised, as were all of the other men in the bar, by the Spanish version of “Strictly Come Dancing”. No Spanish bar is complete without a loud TV on in the corner.
I felt decidedly decadent lying in a bed this morning with the knowledge that I was going to do nothing but lounge around drinking wine, reading and writing. So I got up and went for a hike. Not too far mind you, just up and around the castle, which had some beautiful views. Then I lounged around drinking wine etc.
Dinner was onion tart for starter, which was delicious, followed by venison in chocolate sauce. I was a little trepditious about this particular choice, but never having tried a main course with chocolate as one of its main ingredients I was compelled to try it (a masochistic rule imposed upon myself that means I have to try anything off the menu that I haven’t tried before has led to some unfortunate culinary incidents; a sheep’s head being a memory that I am still trying to banish). It was really good: rich and dark but not sweet or too chocolatey. The chocolate itself is made in Benabarre; I bought some, it’s nice but has a hint of cinamon to it and I’m not very keen on that particular spice.
Emailed Henry to see if he was going to be around in the next few days as I was due to collide with Tarragona very soon. He replied and invited me to Ibiza for the weekend where he and a friend were going cycling. I was sorely tempted but it would have meant getting a train to Barcelona from Tremp, which was still a good cycle ride away, and I was still enjoying cycling the route south. There was also a ridiculous part of me that felt I’d be cheating by getting a train the final part to the coast; so I declined the offer. I would meet up with him on Monday.
It was a hard slog over the next pass to Tremp, 1080 metres, but beautiful and massive landscapes kept my mind from the gruelling climb. It was infuriatingly difficult to take any pictures that captured the grandeur as it was all just too darned big. I stopped for lunch at the top (cheese and anchovy sandwich, I’m gonna have to watch it, Carlos V of Spain ended his days hobbling around with gout after he retired to a monastrey and did nothing but drink beer and consume anchovies) and watched a rain-storm gather force in the north and begin to head south. I was headed east and thought I’d better carry on that way before I got wet. Well the thing only went and changed direction! I saw it with my own eyes, it caught sight of me over its shoulder and did a 90 degree turn and tried to head me off. Well I could see it was going to be a closely fought race as we both headed for Tremp. It had a couple of kilometres to go and I had about ten, but it was all downhill. Well I abandoned my rule about not going at ridiculous speeds down these treachorous roads and went for it. I made it to the nearest bar only slightly damp, before the full force of the storm hit and we agreed to call it a draw. I found some woods just outside of town after the storm had passed and set up camp there.
Tuesday 5th October 2006
It was cold this morning and my hands were frozen by the time I had cycled the few kilometres back in to Tremp. I sat in a bar drinking coffee and waited for the sun to do its job. I watched a trend that I had seen ever since arriving on the continent; which was that almost every man who bought a coffee, even at the earliest of hours of the morning, invariably had a shot of alcohol of some description poured in to it. It’s an admirable trait and I applaud those brave men.
I ate my cheese and anchovy sandwich at a gorgeous little rest area in a canyon on the way to Camarasa. There, amongst these beautiful surroundings and next to the river was a monument made up of three steel tubes that were about twenty metres in length. They stood on their ends at equal distances from each other of about five metres, and leaned in and rested together at the top. From three spouts near the bottom of each tube, water poured forth in continuous streams and car upon car pulled up with people armed with many plastic containers to fill up with this aquatic supply; I saw one man fill at least twenty, five gallon containers. This must be good water indeed thought I, and so emptied my various containers and re-filled them with this aqua viva. Indeed it was good, and I can now cycle at seventy five miles an hour and leap mountains in a single bound.
I have to tell you about my current hero from the thoroughly enertaining pages of Spanish history. His name was General Navarez and was from Andalucia in the crazy and anarchic days of the mid nineteenth century. Taking advantage of the mayhem around at that time, and the respectability that his military ranking afforded him, he managed to wheedle his way into parliament by sheer cheek and force of personality; once storming into the Council of Ministers with no other authority than his own audacity and announcing “Gentlemen, by royal order you have all been relieved of your functions.” He ended up being prime-minister five times, and on his death bed when the priest asked him if he had forgiven his enemies, he replied “I have no enemies father, I have had them all shot”.
The beautiful scenery on the way to Camarasa helped to take my mind off the long and drawn out hill that took me over the 671 metre pass on the way to Camarasa, and the river that the road occasionally peered over was bright turquoise. I eventually made it to my destination despite the map showing Camarasa to be other than where it in fact was, and stopped in a bar for refreshments. I got talking to a guy called Raul who was there with his brothers, uncles and father; they went there whenever they got the chance and his father had been going there since he was a child. It was indeed a stunning spot to come to and I asked what the occasion this time was. Apparently there was a holy holiday all over Spain this week, I didn’t catch the name of the festival, but it was a time to visit cemetries and graveyards and pay your respects to your dead ancestors.
I was having such an interesting chat with Raul that I completely forgot about what time it was and when I looked out of the window I saw that it was getting dark. I hadn’t yet found anywhere to camp so I said my goodbyes and hurried off. It was a fantastically surreal ride down through a narrow gorge; the sun had almost set and the mauve sky lit the rocky sides of the canyon with a strange glow which was further enhanced by the full moon shining across the dark waters of the river. I arrived at a campsite in complete blackness, threw the tent up, ate and read.
I got it all so wrong this morning. Having arrived at the campsite so late last night, reception had been closed, so I’d decided that I would get up and leave early in the morning, thereby avoiding paying (Spanish campsites had so far been fairly expensive) and also getting to see the sunrise into the bargain. Somehow, however, when I’d set my alarm for 6.45 in the morning I’d also managed to put my clock forwards an hour. So I actually got up at 5.45. I had been somewhat surprised when I’d emerged from the shower to find that it was still pitch black but blamed it on the mountains and continued to pack away. When I reached the entrance I found the gates firmly locked; having had previous experience with Spanish gates and fences I was certainly not about to try scaling them. And then as I stood there wondering what to do, the owner turned up outside to unlock them. I was caught and had to fork out ten euros, approximately one euro for every hour I was there. Having now foregone my lie-in, I trundled off in to the cold and dark and absent sun-rise.
The road to Tarrega was through fairly flat and uninteresting agricultural land, it was also busy with large, thundering trucks that threatened to suck me under their wheels and so I decided to turn off on to some smaller roads towards Montblanc, my destination for the day. I wish I hadn’t though, because I could have avoided the dark, dank bar with the deaf, talkative barman who sounded unfortunately like a dog that had just been viciously kicked, and where I wouldn’t have filled my water resevoir from the tap in the toilet which gave me a distinctly dodgy stomach. I’d had this experience before, in Egypt when I’d been severely de-hydrated and out of desperation in the middle of the night and despite being told not to, had drunk water from the tap; my belly had immediately bubbled and I knew I had done the wrong thing. Sure enough I had shat through the eye of needle for several days afterwards. My belly had done the same thing this time and I immediately poured the water away and filled up with fresh from the next bar. It was touch and go for the rest of the ride and I was unsure as to which end I would be expelling toxins from. I felt decidedly weak too and so on arrival at Montblanc I booked in to a hotel; I wanted an inside room and an en-suite should things take a turn for the worst.
Montblanc is a 12th century town with an impressive fortified wall around the perimeter and a gothic church standing proudly in the centre. The streets were satisfyingly narrow and cobbled, and the houses suitably medieval. Unable to gain access to the church I settled for the museum which was a wealth of information about the area and the town, all of which I couldn’t understand as it was in Spanish. Still, there were some fine exhibits nonetheless and I suspect that it probably had more to say than its counterpart in Camembert.
Pleased to say that I made it through the night without needing the urgent use of the en-suite and felt a lot better by the morning. Still unable to gain access to any of the churches I took this as a sign that I’m definitely going to hell and went to a bar for a bracer before facing the last set of mountains before Tarragona. It was only a few kilometres to the top of the 520 metre pass and the incline wasn’t too bad. There was an overturned lorry on the way up, it was lying on its side against the crash barriers on my side of the road and must have only just happened because there was still plenty of dust and the blackened driver was wandering around in a bit of a daze. He must have been very pleased that the crash barrier was there because there was a long drop on the other side of it. I on the other hand was pleased that I had applied sun-cream. It was already quite hot when I’d started up the hill and I had stopped to apply some lotion. I’m sure that the five minutes I spent rubbing in that sun-cream prevented me from being in front of that lorry when it came sliding down around the bend. We shall never know, but it just goes to show that sun-cream can save lives kids… Anyway, I did what any caring and compassionate person would have done in the same position and took some photos and left. There was somebody already helping, honest.
Cracking view from the top, I could just about make out the Mediterranean shimmering in the distance and so I stopped in the bar they had so thoughtfully built there, to celebrate my first view of that sea and my latest narrow escape from death since the Evil Bike-shop Man. Took it relatively easy on the way down and was passed by dozens of motorcyclists zooming in the opposite direction. What is it about motorcyclists that they all have to travel around in large groups? Surely if there’s that many of you, you could just chip together and get a minbus, it’d be a lot cheaper.
On arriving in Tarragona, I of course headed for a bar to get my bearings. It was here that I learned that England were playing this evening, as were Spain. After a brief huddle over a newspaper with the owner we discovered to each other’s delight that both games would be shown on terrestrial television and wouldn’t be clashing. With much back slapping he agreed that he would indeed be showing them both and with that decided I headed off to find a hotel and would return later. Found a cheap place that was on a lovely main square, for twenty two euros a night. From my room I could see the ruins of the old Roman theatre and the Meditteranean beyond it. Perfect.
A splendid evening followed a couple of disappointing games of football as I wandered around Tarragona. Ate tapas and drank more wine in several establishments into the wee hours while watching the Spaniards go about their Saturday night mating rituals.
Sunday 8th October 2006
Woke up to some woman rabbitting away on a microphone outside at 8.45 in the morning. Aren’t Sundays supposed to be sacred or something to Catholics? I rose and took my hangover downstairs to see what was going on and strangely, there was nothing. No woman on a microphone, nothing. A little confused, I had a couple of cups of coffee and bought The Sunday Independent with no supplements for four euros sodding fifty, I don’t even like the paper anymore. It was at this point that I heard drums and followed them. I was led by the sound into old-town and the cathedral. It was the festival of Saint Rosen and there were many tall mannequins of king, queens and saints bobbing around with a troupe of drummers occasionally thrashing out a rhythm or two (I hadn’t imagined them). After much general expectation and malingering on behalf of myself and the gathered crowd, a statue of the Virgin Mary was carried out from within the cathedral upon the shoulders of several ladies. The drummers began drumming once again, the big mannequins formed an orderly line and headed off followed by the troupe and Mary for an hour of parading around the city. The drums were beginning to interfere with my Sunday morning hangover and so I took the opportunity to duck into the cathedral where it would be a bit more peaceful. It was indeed very quiet, very big and exceptionally lovely. I would bore you with the details therein but lucky for you I have no knowledge of the jargon for the various areas and bits of the building and so lets leave it at that. I had intended on staying for a bit of the service that was supposed to follow the return of the procession, just to give it a go. I don’t often find myself in a cathedral on a Sunday morning, I’m usually malingering outside of the Cask waiting for it to open, so I thought while I was there and everything… But then I remembered that I’d been tricked into a building by some christians once before and they’d barred the exits and trapped me; they’re very cunning these christians. So I bolted.
9th-11th October 2006
Henry was a most generous and gracious host and despite a couple of escape attempts on his part, to 'visit family' and 'work' I managed to impose myself upon him all the same. In my time there, I ate all of his food, drank all of his booze, hogged his computer and took over his living room. He must have been very relieved that he doesn't currently have a girlfriend or who knows...He has no girlfriend because as you can see from the photo, he has taken vows and now lives a life of chastity; he loves only the lord.
I spent most of my time relaxing in his lovely apartment, updating website stuff and enjoying unlimited access to the net. I don't wish to talk about West Ham. In the few hours that Henry wasn't tampering wildly with the human genome in his Dr Frankenstein-like laboratory we met up for lunch and spent an evening in Tarragona central (but a five minute cycle ride from his conveniently located home). We had been trying for a few days to discern if the England game would be shown on TV but had eventually given hope. We had of course forgotten the cardinal rule, which is that there is an Irish bar in every city and they invariably have Sky. Thankfully this one did and we settled at the bar to watch it. We weren't the only ones who had been trying to watch the England v Croatia game, it soon became apparent that I was sat next to a Croat of all people. So there we were, an Englishman, Spaniard and Croat in an Irish bar in Tarragona, watching the painful and excrutiating game that we had all sought so hard to see. The Croat whose name I could barely pronounce and let alone remember was very gracious in victory but I bottled him anyway, and Henry and I departed quickly from the area.
We got back to Casa Enrique just in time; the Weather Gods had tracked me down and attacked us with a vicious storm. It was a blistering assault and luckily, the closest they got to a strike was hitting a nearby tree which promptly burst in to flames; it was all very impressive and we retired from the balcony shortly after it moved on. The electricity came back on just in time for the Spain v Argentina friendly which Spain won; Henry wryly informed me that Spain only wins against good opponents when it doesn't matter.
I had a thoroughly enjoyable time and will intrude on Henry again without invitation at a later date.
Thanks Henry
After Henry had finally kicked me out of his flat I picked myself and my things off the floor and attempted to get to Reus without going on the motorway, unfortunately this didn't happen and I rode several miles buffetted by traffic going far quicker than myself. I got there twelve kilometres later just as it was starting to rain. There was nothing for it other than to duck into a bar and wait it out. They have a habit here in Spain of leaving a bottle of wine on the table with your lunch and just charging you afterwards, I feel this just encourages the weak-willed alcoholic such as myself. l left the bar somewhat and somehow later.
In Mora d'Ebre I found a B&B and duly knocked upon its door. "Hola" I greeted the man who opened the door. He replied in a distinctly Welsh accent and we relaxed into English. They were very laid back at this particular establishment, so relaxed in fact that nobody was around to sell me a room; the Welshman being a resident. He advised me to go to the bar down the road where I would find so-and-so who knew thingy who could call such-and -such who knew the owner. Never needing to be told twice to go to a bar, I headed there. Now, having spent a few days with Henry I was fluent in four or five words of Spanish, "Donde es el proprietor...." I managed to get to before the barmaid interrupted me with "It's alright love, you can speak English here." Kenny, to my right, introduced himself and all of a sudden I found myself in an English pub full of expats. Despite their friendliness I was a little overwhelmed by so much conversation and after Tracey the barmaid made some phonecalls for me I went back to meet Maggie at the B&B. Maggie was a cute 18 year old looking after the place for the English manager who was in England; her boyfriend's gushing admiration for my trip became a little embarrasing and I disappeared to my room with my free drink before my ego burst.
The Welshman and his room-mate had absconded in the early hours of the morning, without paying, and left their room in an extreme mess. The rent for the room was supposed to be for Maggie's wages and she wasn't very happy. She'd moved here with her parents a few years ago but was missing England because "...where else can I go at eighteen years old and get absolutely paryletic with my mates and it doesn't matter?" I couldn't argue with her logic.
Being so mountainous, Spain has been very difficult to free-camp in; soft flat fields have been hard to come by. Recently it has just been exposed olive groves with little opportunity to sling a tent up without anyone noticing. There have also been very few campsites about, and so with great reluctance I have been forced to stay in hotels. As I have already mentioned, campsites in spain have been fairly expensive, whereas the hostals, pensions and even three star hotels have been comparatively cheap. So, having been very frugal all the way through France (because they were never open to sell me anything) I felt morally and financially justified staying in hotels anyway; hotels were the way forward. So I was a bit disappointed when I found that all of Calaceite's hotels were full. And there was no campsite. And it was a long, long, desolate and mountainous route to the next town with a hotel. And the sun was setting. I quckly picked up some provisions and headed off, hoping to find somewhere to pitch a tent. When I become Supreme Ruler of the World I shall make it obligatory to have a level piece of putting-green quality grass every kilometre along any road.
I must have stopped a dozen times trying to find somewhere and each time it was, for one reason or another impossible. Eventually as the sky's bright pink clouds began to turn to grey I found a flattish spot next to a river. I pitched quickly and was about to begin cooking dinner when I noticed an angry buzzing. I had put my tent up with the entrance no further than a foot and a half away from a bees' nest. With all my clumping around I had awoken them and they wanted to know what all the bloody noise was. Not for the first time since I'd begun this trip, I beat a hasty retreat into my cocoon.; leaving it only once, fully clothed, to have a very quiet piss in the middle of the night. It was a crisp and clear night, and the Milky Way was clearly visible.
Saturday 14th October 2006
Very carefully and very gently, while murmuring soothing placations I packed up my things and took them to a safe distance from the bees' nest before assembling them back on to my bike. There were hundreds of the little critters buzzing in and out of their front door but happily they left me alone and I returned the favour. Once saddled up I peddaled on and before I'd even covered a kilometre I discovered to my dismay a picnic area by the side of the road. It was the ideal campsite; there was smooth, soft, level grass. A few picnic tables overlooked the picturesque blue river below; indeed there was even a hide for observing the many and varied types of bird-life. Beautiful, topless women paraded up and down the area carrying placards informing the weary traveller of the free, erotic massages that they provided. Shaking my fist at the Gods I continued on my way to Valdetorno for coffee.
After Valdetorno I rode along the top of a ridge that then descended into a desolate, desert-like landscape which seemed to stretch on forever. The view from the ridge was superb if not a little daunting and it was hard to believe that I would soon be a tiny little two-wheeled dot traversing such a barren landscape. Then it was all downhill to Alcaniz where I stopped for lunch and to stock up on provisions; it looked like I would be nowhere near civilization for a while.
The tiny dot on the map called Castellote turned out to be a reasonably sized and very pretty village tucked into the top of a mountain. You entered it through a tunnel carved out of the rock-face and found yourself in a pretty plaza with glimpses, inbetween the houses, of a stunning vista down into the valley. I booked into a hotel and went out for a stroll armed with my camera.
After the obligatory photos I ducked into a bar for the obligatory drinks. SInce I had recently abandoned my morals and started eating meat again, I was curious to see how I would react to a bullfight now that I was a heartless barbarian. I had my chance to see now, as they were showing one on the TV in the bar. I had been reading a fair bit about Spain recently and the author of one travelogue had been speaking so highly of the magnificence of this noble sport that I was beginning to be swayed. So I stood at the bar with the old boys and and watched several over-dressed ponces, taunting and distracting a beautiful bull while another peacocked pratt took credit for plunging sharp objects into the poor thing. It was disgusting and I could only wish for the bull to castrate the sick bastard. Once again I was appalled that a nation could claim this cruel and barbaric spectacle as their national sport. I don't care if I don't understand the subtle nuances or appreciate the heroism and skill involved, it's wrong. I crossed out 'matador' from my list of potential careers and decided instead to concentrate solely on becoming Benevolent Dictator of the World. I had been cruelly overlooked for the job of Pope.
Sunday 15th October 2006
A lazy morning; had a couple of coffees and ate a sandwich from the balcony of my room. It was a cracking view and I could see a barrier of mountains in the distance, topped with hundreds of windmills. They were twenty kilometres away and I knew that this was my halfway point for the day.
I set off into a strong headwind and wished I'd been able to find some children to sacrifice this morning. Despite the anger of the Weather Gods though, it was incredible scenery. Look, for repetition's sake, to save me from using up my small quota of superlatives and my poor descriptive skills could we just assume it is beautiful and stunning scenery most of the time? That the sun is invariably making the walls of the rocky gorges glow golden, and that the turqoise rivers juxtaposed with these valleys create a stunning visual contrast that cannot be done justice by camera or the written word. Lets just leave it that I'll let you know when it's rubbish scenery and I'll have a go at descibing that instead. So anyway, stunning blah blah blah. Eventually after a lot of altitude I reached the windmills. I love these magnificent structures and don't know how people can protest against them. Apart from the free energy that they produce, I think they only enhance the environment. They're surreal and majestic and somehow suggest harmony with, rather than the raping of the landscape that power stations represent. Would these wealthy country folk prefer a few cooling towers chugging away on their doorsteps? I think not.
I had a fair few miles to do today considering the mountainous terrain and so I was very disappointed when I stopped at one of the few restaurants on my way, in the picturesque walled town of Mirambel, for a snack and found it to be a lovely rustic old place that was serving only a three course menu and no snacks. I was able to order only a starter, but everythng looked and smelled so good. I had paella which was substantial in itself and cooked to perfection with prawns, chicken, mussels and rabbit. I wished I could have stayed and eaten everything but I still had a long way to go before dark, and I also couldn't have moved if I'd had three courses. Reluctantly I left this place and set off on what I knew was going to be a tough climb to Cantavieja.
I had no idea. As I got closer to my destination, all I could see was a very steep mountain that seemed to be barring my way. And then as I rounded a bend I found Cantavieja, perched on a rocky promontory atop it. I stopped and stared while my brain dealt with the complex and contrasting emotions that this magnificent and daunting sight stirred up. A road wound its way backwards and forwards up the face of the cliff and I moved on towards it after my neck had begun to ache and my gaping mouth had collected a small swarm of flies. I kept hoping as I approached this ridiculously parked town that I would find that it wasn't Cantavieja afterall, Cantavieja would be here on this sensible low plateau, just around this bend. But of course it wasn't to be and I trudged wearily up the road by foot while pushing the bike.
I wasn't sure if I'd found Pension Julian because downstairs it looks like a garage, partly because it's a garage. But I soldiered on past the minibusses and cars and found a little old lady who was prepared to sell me a room. Above the initially dank and dusy setting of the garage was a lovely and ancient building. My abode was a tiny little room that looked like it hadn't been decorated since the civil war. Dead happy, I made myself a cheese and anchovy sandwich and ate it on my window-sill while listening to Jack Johnson.
The town itself was a maze of little streets bordered on three sides by a very long drop. Hidden nooks and crannies, and little enticing archways invariably ended in a heart-stopping drop below. To prevent any danger of vertigo I stopped in a few bars, wine being a well-known remedy to that dizzying affliction; well, I've never had it anyway. One of these bars was a co-operative which I think is a fantastic idea. Maybe Jane and Wranga would like to consider making the Cask such an establishment. I certainly had the cheapest wine that I have purchased since being here at 30p for a very large glass.
The next bar, where I ate some unidentifiable animal legs, was vast and made a fantastic playground for children. The parents watched in raptrous admiration of these young playful little skallywags as they raced and screeched around the tables, only admonishing them for their noise when it approached ear-drum splitting levels. Sadly, they left.
Monday 16th October 2006
Fierce black clouds frowned over the mountains like a furrowed brow and The Weather Gods began to spit on me as I made my way to the cafe this morning. It wasn't looking promising for the four mountain passes I had to cross today before getting to the next nugget of civilization.
On return to my room I was assaulted by some loud, rousing classical music blasting out of speakers around town, this was followed by some gabbled announcement and I'm sure I heard plaza mentioned. Having been haunted by ghostly microphoned jabberings on this trip, I darted out to see what was occurring. Nothing. I reached the plaza to find people going about their normal, everyday business and showing no signs of gathering for a wholly important event: an old lady trailed a shopping trolley behind her, a small child meanered aimlessly about, an old man squinted through the cigarette smoke that drifted beneath the brow of his cap There was a significant amount of nothing in particular going on. Muttering under my breath, I returned to my room to finish packing. I decided that the annoncement must have been a farewell and good luck from the inhabitants of Cantavieja and cheered on by this thought, I left, thanking everybody I saw as I made my way out of town.
Indeed, things were beginning to look good. The small child I had sacrificed after coffee this morning seemed to have done the trick and the Weather Gods gave me a welcome shove up the initial steep climb. Icy as these blasts were, they were a welcome change from yesterday.
I had four passes today, 1420m, 1657m, 1700m and 1507m respectively. The gods had become a little rambunctious by the time I had got to the highest peak and a little twist of irony meant that I could go no faster than 12km/h downhill for fear of being buffetted off the narrow twisting roads into the abyss below; I had been blown across the road several times. On the way up the last peak the child sacrifice had worn off and the wind was steadfastly against me. I made a mental note to move on to virgins as the kids just weren't hacking it.
I arrived in Allepuz at 4pm, very tired but having seen some fantastic (naturally indescribable) scenery. I stayed in a beautiful hostal and enjoyed a well-deserved three course meal. Since being in Spain I've noticed an endearing tendency in the smaller villages to be brought my main course while still enjoying my starter and tonight was no exception. I was still making my way through an enormous seafood salad when my steak arrived, still it was delicious all the same.
.There were two different routes I could have taken this morning to get to my destination of Cabra de Mora, and I chose what looked to be the prettier of the two. It was very pretty but I couldn't enjoy it to its fullest as the road was at a distinct incline and the wind was fiercely against me. After an hour and a half I had covered only 10km and still had another 10km to go before I reached the end of this torturous road. So I was distinctly unimpressed to find my way barred by a short, stout lady with a sign. She was wrapped in a flourescent coat, woollen hat and gloves as it was quite cold (I was wearing my snood as a warm hat rather than a neck shade today) and she would not let me pass. We argued for several minutes, neither of us understanding much of what the other was saying and I decided I would go on anyway, I was buggered if I was going to go all of the way back only to climb up the other side of the mountain. I pushed past her while she jabbered at me to stop and mounted my bike. I was about to start pedalling when I was halted by a word that I recognised amongst her other babbled protestations: explosion. I turned around to look at her through narrowed eyes. I wouldn't have put it past her to do this sort of thing as a hobby; fabricating signs and positioning herself halfway down remote valley roads, only to thwart unsuspecting English cyclists from continuing down their preferred road of choice; she looked the type. "Explosion?" I asked, making sure I had heard correctly. She nodded vigorously and I felt that she was taking too much delight in giving me this bad news. I asked her when the explosion would be and how far down the road; 1pm and six kilometres she told me. I looked at the time, it was 12.30. It was tempting, but pushing it. I sighed and looked upwards at the ski-ing resort town of Gudar that nestled into the side of the mountain above us. I told her I'd have some lunch up there and come back after the explosions. The town was shut, she informed me with great satisfaction, and I wouldn't be able to go down the road until at least six. She watched happily as I digested this new information. I waved my arms about angrily and berated the Spanish for their habit of putting their 'road closed' signs halfway down the road instead of at the beginning. It was this particular national predeliction of theirs that had led to me breaking several limbs (two) here five years ago, but that's another story. I ranted and raved for a while before exhausting my three words of Spanish and came to a self-righteous conclusion to the tirade. She shrugged.
The ride back down the road to where I had begun the day was actually quite good fun as it was all downhill, and with the wind behind me I pelted along. It only took me twenty minutes and I must admit that I felt a bit bad about leaving her in a pool of blood like that after such an exhilarating cycle ride, but she was asking for it.
Henry sent me an email today in which he disagreed with my views on bullfighting. He makes some very good points and so I have decided to let you read them for yourself. For the sake of propriety however, I have omitted all of the swearing, insults and threats that he directs at myself and my family. Honestly Henry, you fiery Mediterranean types...
"I read your views on bullfighting on Deliverance, I see your point, but I disagree. Maybe some of my stance is due to the fact that I grew up seeing corridas in the tv every sunday, and I am somehow desensitized, anyhow I believe there is beauty and art in bullfighting, forbidding it would throw away hundreds of years of culture, hundreds of thousands of people would find themselves without what they have build their lives around. All this from the human point of view. From the bull point of view, I think he could not have it better. Since they are born they are left wild in their natural habitat, away from any contact with man, if the summer is dry and the pastures are short they don't starve because they are fed fresh cuttings specially brought for them from Scotland if necessary. If the winter is cold they don't die of hypothermia because they can spend the night in a warm cave specially made for them. They get to shag the hottest cows in the peninsula, and we all know they are the hottest and dirtiest. What more can a bull ask for? Then if one of them is specially majestic and fearsome he gets the chance to kill a man before dying himself and being eaten. He may suffer, but that is life. On the other hand I have never been in a bullring seeing the whole thing in front of my eyes, so I should wait before praising it. Once you are settled we should go to a corrida and see what happens."
I'm hoping the last sentence isn't a veiled threat, and that I'll be lured in and then tossed into the ring by Henry and his bullfighting enthusiast pals.
I have also read that these bulls are a fighting breed which would be likely to die out if there was no corridas to necessitate their existence. It's all very compelling argument that I agree with until I see the bull getting hurt. Apparently though, the bandrellas (the spears which are stuck into the bull's neck) don't hurt them; they are for severing a tendon or muscle that makes the head lower enabling the matador to plunge his sword into the correct place and facillitate a quick and painless death. Of course not all bullfights are so cleanly done and the bull does suffer.
I don't know, I will take up Henry's offer and go to one just to experience it first hand, but I'm not saying I'll like it. Of course I think going to see West Ham at the moment might be more upsetting....
