The Last Post

Destination reached, now about getting home?

I left the hostal in Garrucha feeling a bit strange, excited about reaching journeys end and seeing my family but somehow sad the adventure was coming to an end.  It's been the best part of five weeks since I disembarked from the ferry in Santander.  I have no idea how many miles I've done and dread to think of the number of feet of ascent but that's not important.

The journey was what it was all about and I've enjoyed it immensely.

There were some hard days, some trying times for a fat bloke in his fifties.  If I'd really understood how hilly the route would be I may have chosen a different one but I'm glad I didn't.

The final day typified the rest of the trip, some navigational issues with poor sign posting, a long stretch in the afternoon sun and a challenging climb within an hour of the end, I'd have been disappointed if the day had been too easy.

I'm now being spoilt rotten by my wonderful family and fattened up to my original proportions which I'm sure will happen quickly enough.  I've yet to figure out how and when I'll be heading home.  I could fly, get a bus or train to Rosas near Barcelona and pick-up the 'Bike Express' bus to the UK or maybe I could ride home - no, that's a ridiculous idea!

I did think about trying to summarise my thoughts on the trip, I thought about talking of:-

The warm sun, cooling sea breeze and laid back locals on my arrival in Santander,

The choppy waters of crossing of the bay on a small boat, 'The Tank' precariously tied to the deck,

The first day of cycling, Somo to Laredo and the freedom of the road,

The second day of cycling, 35 degrees, dubious signage and hills too numerous to remember,

Bilbao, the glittering Guggenheim surpassing expectations,

The journey inland, the start of the adventure, up, up and up on to the central plateau,

The friendly offer to take my warm clothes home,

The change in the weather the following day,

Wind and rain at 5000 feet, chilled to the bone and shaken,

The descent in to the warmth,

The old men, benches, Fuentes, lunches and nesting clucking Storks of the Plaza Mayors of Old Castilla,

The tortuous days in the central mountains, the dry mouth and dripping head on the long hot afternoons,

The desperate drinking at village fountains, the ritual drenching of the screaming toes of the right foot,

The exhilaration of the descents, feathering brakes until the realisation that the bend was coming too soon,

The glorious deserted roads high up in the forested mountains,

How could I forget the glorious views from hostal bedrooms!

The promises of swimming pools, the attitudes of receptionists,

The Dark Secret of Santa Euphemia?

Into the Alpujarras, home again, familiar faces,

The Ants, the flies and the sodding Mozzies,

The quiet roads, courteous drivers and the joy of not ending a cycling day thinking 'I survived'

The exciting beginning, the middle when the end seemed so far away and the end I didn't want to face,

I thought about writing of these things but instead I came across a piece of prose from classical Spanish

literature which I think conveys my thoughts on this intriguing country and the nuances of it's culture more eruditely than I ever could:-

Oh, this year I`m off to sunny Spain, eviva Espana,
I`m taking the Costa Brava plane, eviva Espana.
If you`d like to chat a matador, in some cool cabana,
and meet senoritas by the score, Espana por favor. 

Thanks to those who've read and enjoyed the blog.

This is the final post, 'probably'?

Hasta Luego,  Mark 

Back to 'Civilisation'

People, cars and Irish Bars:

I left the camp site at Las Negras soon forgetting my sleepless night and the dozen or so Mozzie bites.

I knew the first few kilometres was uphill as I'd descended the same road the day before.  The hills are not big on the Cabo de Gata peninsula but from sea level, it was enough to work up a good sweat.

I had my usual accompaniment of flies along the way.  I can usually out run them on the level and on the fast descents they are no trouble but on the slow climbs, when I'm mouth agape, gasping in as much air as possible they are a real blight.  I've swallowed several over the past few weeks.  Passing through Trevelez a few days ago I almost choked on one, I had to stop and for 4 or 5 seconds I coughed, spluttered and heaved until finally the fly was expelled and flew away, it was like a scene from 'The Green Mile'.

The big climb was followed by an exhilarating descent to a much flatter section.  The quiet road between Fernan Perez and Agua Amarga was a delight, flat and straight giving an opportunity to soak up the remote desert scenery.  A short section of relatively busy 'N' road led into Carboneras.  I stocked up on lunch and headed eastwards remembering a dramatic road climb ahead from previous trips (in the car!).

I stopped for lunch on my very own deserted beach.

After my customary lunch of ham, cheese, tomato and fresh crusty bread which after a month I still haven't tired of, I decided to take a swim.  I took off my cycling shoes and socks and immediately had to put the shoes back on, the sand was too hot to walk on.  I got to the waters edge and saw that just 3 metres out the beach shelved steeply into inky depths.  I didn't like the thought of the undertow and of drifting slowly out into the Med watching my faithful companion 'The Tank' get smaller and smaller.  I wimped out and went for a paddle up to my knees which I enjoyed anyway.

The 2 photos below were taken from the same spot, my preferred option - the beach down to the right and the actual onward route, the road above to the left!

And there's more!

Looking back at some of the climb, it really wasn't too bad, a fairly forgiving gradient.

I dropped down into the resort of Mojacar, the culture shock was immense, lots of people, cars, buildings.  It was like getting back to Manchester after a week in the highlands, a little overwhelming.  I eventually found the camp site in town and was registering when I asked about the bar, shop, restaurant etc 'all closed' - they don't bother to tell you this unless you ask.  I employed my UK booking Agent (Claire) to have a look on the Internet for a Hostal.  she quickly found one, didn't book it but gave me the address and said the place was fairly central.  It was on the Avenida Mediteraneo which is around 7 miles long and when I eventually gave up searching and stopped to ask I was told it was a further 3km to the east.

                                                         Proper big building, cars and all that!!

                                                                 And real people, dozens of em?

Probably unnoticed by many of Mojacar's visitors, the resort is overlooked by an impressive mountain range, the Sierra de Cabrera.

I'd planned to spend 2 nights in Mojacar and therefore have a rest day but the hostal was full for the following night so I moved just a few mile up the coast to Garrucha for the next night.  That left me with just 20 odd miles to head inland to my brothers and sisters places the following day. 

One last day of riding and my emotions were all over the place!

The winged tormentors of Andalusia

Pests, with wings and in cars:

Having skirted Almeria I headed towards the Cabo de Gata peninsula. I've walked this coast line over 3 days and it really is an unexpected treat, as far from the idea of typical Spanish Costas as you can get. It's an area of impressive craggy hills which plunge steeply in to the sea and secluded coves, many only accessible on foot.

The roads are few and have to run inland due to the terrain so I knew that a bike wasn't the best option to explore this area. Nevertheless it's a beautiful and quiet area with little traffic. It's not a hospitable place, this is the hottest part of Spain and along with the area around Tabernas inland it is said to be the only area of true desert in Europe.

                                                       

    In to the 'Badlands' of Almeria

There are few villages, none of the welcoming Plaza Mayor's of central Spain with their refreshing Fuentes and convenient benches. For the first time on the trip I had lunch by the roadside. I'd been riding for 4 or 5 hours, it was hot and I was 'done-in' – I just pulled in and sat under the shade of a tree, my bike discarded at the side of the road.

I'd pressed on further than intended, I was a little early to stop at the camp sites at Cabo de Gata and San Jose so I rode on to the site at Los Escullos. The site looked ok, the pitches were stoney as usual but the pool was open. Unfortunately the bar, shop and restaurant were closed all day for an annual government inspection. I pressed on to the next option another few miles down the road at Las Negras.

I've stayed in Las Negras before, it's a picture box seaside village, not the real Spain for me, too many posh Villas and modern Apartments. I followed signs for the camp site on the edge of the village.

The site was allegedly 200 metres from this point? It didn't look too promising.

 

But there it was, set just above an idyllic cove and also with a pool.

I'd planned to spend 2 nights here so I was well pleased with the prospect of a rest day in what looked like a great little site.

I left the following morning, sleep deprived and complaining to the receptionist.

I did get to swim in the Med which was wonderful, it seemed like only 5 minutes since I was on the Atlantic coast!!!

I cooked at the tent which was fine until I realised that I was being bitten by Mozzies, by the time I could clear everything away and take refuge in my tent it was too late. I had dozens of bytes and had to lie in a very hot tent itching all over. The worst were on the soles of my feet and the backs of my hands, it was purgatory.

I spent a good 15 minutes zapping all the mozzies I could in the tent. I need my head torch and glasses of course to splat the things, when I'm happy that I've got them all I turn off my torch and lie back. A few minutes later the dreaded high pitched buzz whizzes past my ear and the killing campaign has to continue.

Things had cooled a little by around 10pm and I was desperate to sleep. Little did I know that this was Spain's noisiest camp site. The noise, including general partying and annoyingly cars moving around the site went on until was after midnight. A campervan arrived at 11:45 and parked 'on' my pitch!

I left in the morning and informed the lady on reception that the site was terrible and that I would never return, I don't think she was overly concerned!

The tiny fishing hamlet of Isleta del Moro, I once spent a cold and lonely night in the hostal here in December, definately the only tourist in the village.

The Cabo de Gata coastline.

Las Negras:

 

The road towards Agua Amarga was deserted and bizarrely for Spain, FLAT!

Closing in on the Med

 From the Alpujarras to the Cabo de Gata peninsula east of Almeria:

The eastern Alpujarras turned out to be more picturesque than I remembered, and more hilly!  The long descent from Laroles was inevitably followed by a big climb.  I skirted around the northern flanks of the Sierra de Gador on my way to a pleasant stop-over at the spa town of Alhama de Almeria.

                                      
                                        The camp site at Laroles, if only all sites were this quiet!

                                                                 And the pool was open!

Looking back to Laroles, great descent to start the day.

The ubiquitous roadside Oleander bushes.

Last of the snows on the eastern Sierra Nevada above the Puerta de la Ragua road pass.

More climbing!

I somehow felt I should turn right here but it was straight on!

2 photos of the Sierra de Gador, northwest of Almeria.

The journey from my overnight stay in Alhama involved circumnavigating Almeria, a big city I didn't intend cycling through.  It proved very straightforward sticking to very minor roads to the north and east.  I was soon past the airport and heading to my favourite Spanish coastline, the Natural park of Cabo de Gata.

The caution of an ageing cyclist

Nice and steady does it!

I'll start this post by apologising if I'm beginning to repeat myself.  I think of stuff to write on the long hours on the bike then can't remember if I've written it already or just thought it.  I'm certainly not going to read all the blog to find out.  I now feel justified in repeating myself.

My rest day at the Laroles camp site was much needed, although in theory I should be fitter and stronger after a month of daily cycling I just seem to be tired.  Full of vim and vigour (well a bit anyway) in the mornings but ready for a siesta by early afternoon.  

When I holiday in a hot climate it seems a natural pattern to grab an hours kip in the heat of the afternoon but that's not an option for me, I think it would do me good.

I left Laroles and unusually didn't have to pedal for the first 15 minutes or so, a wonderful flowing descent but requiring total concentration.  Some of the descents on this trip have been amazing, long and fast.  Not that I can descend on a bike, survival is much too important to me and an oncoming car on a blind bend would leave no time to correct things.  

Some of the drops are vertigo inducing, I approached one sweeping left hand bend aware of a huge void directly in front of me.  I didn't dare look, I just concentrated on my line and making the turn.  I glanced down once I'd straightened out and shuddered at thought of not making the turn.

Many of the exposed sections of mountain roads are protected by the concrete blocks, fine for cars but for a wobbling cyclists the gaps are easily big enough to guarantee an unhappy ending!

Also on the fast descents the Arm co is at just the right height to catapult a rider over the top, hence my over heating brakes.  On some of the long descents I've had to stop several times to allow the front rim to cool down despite trying to share the braking with the back.  It's an opportunity to admire the scenary.

Below are a few pictures of my journey through the eastern Alpujarras, some of you may recognise the name of Yegen, the place where Chris Stewart of Driving over Lemons/Parrot in a Pepper Tree fame is based.

Looking south to the Sierra la Contraviesa, the Mediteranian is just over the hills.

The 3000m ridge line of the western Sierra Nevada in the distance.

 The typical Spanish burial method.

Taking a rest on a big climb too late in the day!

East through the Alpujarras

I enjoyed my rest day in Bubion, high in the Alpujarras but it wasn't enough.  There's no reason I couldn't have stayed another day, I should have. 

It's always good to be in the Alpujarras but it was with a sense of melancholy that I, stick in hand went for a stroll around Bubion for old times sake.  There are great walks all around, deep into the Poqueira valley below or on the steep hill-sides above.  Walks to other villages and walks to the high mountains, I could fill a whole month with walks I've already done in this area and there are more to be discovered but probably not by me.

Inside the Hostal:  Laz Terrazes du Alpujarra, a home from home.  You can see the typical local roofing method of Chestnut beams overlaid with large flat stones and then Loma (loose clay/shale).  They used to leak a lot and the Loma would get washed away in the storms but nowadays they incorporate a waterproof membrane.

Still, I'm grateful that the bike has allowed me to be here once again and when I can no longer ride I'm sure I'll drive here to sit and look.  I was slow to get started on my departure day from Bubion, always reluctant to leave but also still tired.  I seem to sleep until 9am some mornings, it may make more sense to be up early and to finish riding by early afternoon but either finding a hostal or hanging around camp sites in the heat of the afternoon is not appealing so I generally start around 10:30 and ride until I find somewhere, usually around 4 or 5pm.

2 views from the terrace at the hostal, in the top photo you can see the approach road winding up the hillside.

I didn't get away until 11:30am.  There were a few possible camp sites for tonight, the first, a relatively short hop was in Trevelez, allegedly the highest village in Spain, possibly one of several?

A first 'very' distant glimpse of Trevelez (centre of shot) - my journey east through the Alpujarras has to cross the deeply incised valley of the Rio Trevelez, this involves something like a 20km diversion to the north and back south again.  At the northern tip of the road is Trevelez, another wonderful launch pad for numerous walks including the ascent of Mulhacen, at 3474m, mainland Spain's highest peak.

I stopped at the camp site just before Trevelez, it was only 2:30 but it advertised a swimming pool and I was tempted.  With the benefit of hindsight I asked about the pool before I registered, it was closed - to be opened next weekend.  I checked my map and reckoned Laroles, the next place with a camp site was around 2 hours away, no problem.  The day character building, similar to those in the central mountains of Spain.  The final long climb to Laroles was a struggle, it was hot.  I arrived at the camp site at 7:00pm, too knackered to use the pool which was open.  I declared the following day a rest day, even though I'd only ridden 1 day since my last.  Despite re hydrating and eating plenty the night was plagued by severe leg cramps.  If only I had a massage every evening like the Pro's on the race circuit.  if only I had the youth, the talent and the fitness!  I did swim the next day.

Las Apujarras

Coming home:

I didn't know the rest of Spain too well but I know Las Alpujarras.  Having seen quite a bit of Spain the area of hills and valley on the south side of the giant Sierra Nevada range is still a favourite. I'm not sure what it it about this area? To me, it's just special. It has that 'Sense of Place' - I feel at home here, the only other place for me that feels so right is the highlands of Scotland. I love the Lakes, Wales, the Yorkshire dales and many foreign parts but these 2 areas are different, somewhere I could spend out my days.

From the fly mecca of the Suspiro del Moro camp site I headed south through Padul and was comforted by the clear route directions in the town of Durcal:-

I passed through the spa town of Lanjaron, western gateway to the Alpujarras and skirted the bohemian town of Orgiva to start the big pull up to the high white villages, the 'Pueblos Blancos'.

The onward road can be seen half way up the hill, and again at the top.

Looking down from part way up the climb.

I'd been apprehensive about the climb from Orgiva, it was long but the gradient was never too steep so it went easier than expected.

A 'Roadie' enjoying the descent:

                           Crossing one of the many deep valleys descending from the high mountains:

I'm always excited by the first glimpse of the high villages of the Poqueira valley,  my destination was Bubion, the bigger village in the centre.  Pampaneira can be seen below and just a trace of the highest of the 3 villages, Capileira, on the left.

Top right is the church in the village of Bubion, the final pull from Pampaneira was demanding enough but I was sustained by the thought of a cold beer at my favourite watering hole in Bubion, the Teide bar.

After a couple of carbohydrate replacement drinks I checked into my usual hostal, Laz Terrazes du Alpujarra, a warm welcome as always from Francisco and Maria-Angeles and the new family member since my last visit, a very vocal African Grey Parrott. It speaks French as well as Spanish, it say Voulez vous!

A rest day awaits tomorrow, shame it's only one.

South of Granada

Getting closer:

I spent the night at truckers type hostal near the motorway about 20 miles west of Granada.  The room was fairly abysmal but after a day when I'd had to travel further than intended to find a room it was welcoming enough with friendly staff and generously sized tapas so no need to buy dinner as usual.

The view of course was beyond reproach!

I tried the next day to follow the 'Canal de Cacin' which is an irrigation system rather than a navigable canal.  It ran west to east, parallel to and a mile or south of the motorway so would suit my purposes for getting 15 miles or so closer to Granada before heading south.

I'd reluctantly decided not to visit Granada on this trip.  I'd spent time there a few years ago with Claire and have seen the main attractions including the incomparable Alhambra.  I didn't think I'd make the best of it on my bike so I skirted Granada to the west to head towards my beloved Las Alpujarrras.

I had thought of crossing the main Sierra Nevada range on my bike but my legs and lungs thought better of it.  I was also concerned about the breaking spoke situation, I'd had a third in recent days.  It was always a long shot anyway as there is normally too much snow on the route in early June, I was informed that this probably is the case now.

The canal wasn't easy to get started on, I'd been told the accompanying route was a good road although it was shown as a Camino on my road map.  I started on a road but it soon turned off in the wrong direction. 

I found myself on rough, shaley tracks which climbed and descended steeply as the canal went through a series of tunnels and over aqueducts.  The 15 miles would take all day at this rate.  At every property I passed I was welcomed by barking dogs, this gets fairly tiresome after a while.

I stopped at one house where 4 dogs were complaining about my arrival.  I asked a chap in the garden for directions.  He came out and pointed my in the right direction, I had to descend most of the height I'd gained.  He didn't seem to think there was on onward route by the canal so he directed me to the motorway where there is a camino running along side.  This is what they do in Spain when roads get upgraded to motorways, there is usually, but not always  a camino alongside for use by cyclists and local farm traffic.

It was very rough in places, my 'bits' did not approve of the route and it was very time consuming.  The camino came to a sudden end where I had to cross the motorway and continue on roads on the other side.

I crossed the motorway a 2nd time at a junction where I wanted to head south, a few miles west of Granada airport.  Again the roads didn't quite fit in with my map, I was going in the right general direction though and in fact ended up on the canal camino again for a good few miles.

As I got further east, towards Granada I caught my first glimpses of the distant Sierra Nevada range, still with snow on the tops, they were barely visible in the afternoon haze but I could see enough to reminisce about my days on these big mountains and I wondered if I'd get to explore them again.

I headed south with views of the Cumbres Verdes, the limestone foothills of the Sierra Nevada and saw the familiar profile of the impressive hill Trevenque, more memories of days in the hills.

I knew it was just one more night before I'd enter Las Alpujarras, my adopted second home and in particular the high village of Bubion.  I was like a kid on Christmas Eve!