Hell to Heaven, in 1 hour

It's 5 Euros extra for the attitude!

I left my abysmal accommodation in Aguilar in the province of Cordoba sustained for a day grinding the Tank up big hills by a slice of toast and margarine.  For a hostal that provides breakfast the shocked look on their faces when I asked for butter and jam of some sort confused me a little,  They scraped around and found an old tub of margarine from the owners fridge but the jam was a step too far.  

I headed east, easily at first but not for long.  I had a major climb up in to the Sierra Subbetica range, again the morning was a challenge I enjoyed, attacking the big climb with confidence and vigour, sadly the hills and the afternoon sun woefully outweigh any vigour I have.  I reached  a point where I was just 8km away from Priego de Cordoba where I was sure I'd find a hostal but ever conscious of costs I was tempted by a camp site sign I saw.  I detoured a mile or so to the north but then stopped to assess how far out of my way I was heading.  It looked liked I was faced with a big climb which, going in the wrong overall direction didn't make sense,

I stopped a local passing in his 4x4, he said the camp site was closed anyway!  He suggested another camp site around 10km to the south so I headed for that.  I was low on water but thought that 10km/6 miles, that's no problem, it was.  The climb south of the main road to the village of Carcabuey was a grueller in the afternoon sun.  The onward route to Los Villaros was a torment, the heat was intense and any climbing resulted in laboured breathing,  

I eventually reached the village, such as it was.  I found signs for a camp site but it wasn't obvious where it was.  I explored several tracks including one which led to a hut where tranquil Spanish guitar music was being playing but no one was there, just a big lazy Alsatian which didn't stir as I passed.  There was a house beyond, I knocked on all 3 doors but got no response.  Maybe they were having a siesta?  I couldn't hang around, there seemed to be no water available so I decided to go to Priego after all.

A sign I came across said 8km to Priego, the same distance I'd seen 2 hours before.  Normally an 8km bike ride wouldn't even register but my experience in Spain has changed all that.  I now expect big climbs and sure enough it was a big pull from Los Villaros to head towards Priego.  2 of my 3 water bottles were empty and the 3rd was down to the last dregs.  I grinded up the big climb, my mouth, tongue and lips so dry that I couldn't swallow.  The whole roof of my mouth was one big blister from the dry heat, just like when you've drunk a boiling hot cup of tea.  I passed a few houses with small swimming pools but as usual I saw no one, everywhere seemed locked up.  After several rests I made the high point.  What remained was just a 5km descent to Priego.

It's hard to convey how difficult a descent can be.  Because of the heat I was breathing heavily, even in descent.  I was breathing in hot air which desiccates the mouth so much I was choking, unable to swallow.  I had to stop every 2 minutes to take the smallest of sips of my meagre water supply.  I'd swill it around my mouth but there would be none left to swallow.  I took a look around at the landscape and realised what a hostile environment it can be.

 No place to be without water!

I squeezed into the side of the road to let a jeep go past and in doing so shredded my hand on some spiky bushes.  Bleeding, sweating and unable to swallow I pressed on squeezing hard on my brakes for the tight hairpins and willing away every metre to reach Priego and get some fluid.

Finally the twisting descent came to an end and I joined a main road into Priego, of course it was a climb to get into town but gentle and doable.  I stopped at a Petrol station on the way into town and grabbed a can of Sprite from the fridge, it didn't touch the sides.

I arrived in town in no mood for the cruise around to find a Hostal, I just stopped and asked a local who gestured over my shoulder where there was a Hotel, directly opposite the small bus station.  The location wasn't good but I was desperate.  I rang the bell and was buzzed in.  The effort of climbing 1 flight of stairs to reception was more than I wanted, the welcome or rather lack of one was definitely not what I wanted.   A snooty receptionist gave me a disapproving look, I felt compelled to say I'd been cycling all day and it was very hot by way of an apology for my bedraggled state.  She wasn't impressed, nor was I.

I asked the price, 30 euros.  I gave my best poverty stricken cyclist look but she wouldn't shift on price.  'This is an Hotel' she said, 'not a hostal'.  The difference generally seems to be 5 euros.  I really didn't want to stay at this place, bad attitude, bus station, 30 euros and no bar that I could see.  She was very clearly unhappy when I asked about other 'Hostals' in town.  She said there was one in the centre, when I asked the name she could barely disguise her anger.  I gave her my cynical smile as I left and headed in search for Hostal Rafi, happy in the knowledge that I would never see this woman again.

I stopped and asked an old chap, El Centro?  EL CENTRO??  He didn't understand, is my pronunciation really that bad?  Another chap joined in and gave me directions to the centre.  The old man tapped his forehead with the heal of his hand and said 'El Centro, el Centro'  obviously feeling bad that he hadn't understood.  I gave the old man my genuine smile, thanked them both and headed on.

After asking twice again and even finding a shop that sold Alcohol de Quemar (meths for my stove)  I found Hostal Rafi, well hidden away in a back street.  A warm welcome, a bar with a good selection of Tapas, 25 euros, no bus station and no attitude.  

I wheeled the Tank into the internal patio and treated my self to a couple of Cervezas before going up to my room.  I sat with a cold beer, a Tapa, and then Hotel California came on the sound system.  Heaven.