Hebrides Tour - Day 8

Homeward bound:

Yesterday's ride ended fairly late so I missed the opportunity to visit Vatersay, the most southerly island in the Outer Hebridean chain. The morning ferry was at 8:00am so a pre-ferry excursion to Vatersay wasn't going to happen.

The evening at the Dunard hostel right on the shoreline at Castlebay and just a stones throw from the ferry terminal was a convivial one.  The hostel was full with visitors from Ayrshire, Dundee, Berkshire and the USA.  I also bumped into an intrepid traveller from South Korea who I'd also seen at the hostel in Tarbert on Harris. He was a late arrival and settled for the only accommodation available which was the sofa in the lounge.

My 4 bed bunk room was compact to say the least and for the first time in the week I was assigned to an upper bunk.  The bunk bed was one of those fragile looking tubular metal affairs which sqeaked and distorted massively as I climbed the ladder.  I feared for the safety of the elderly gentleman below. Also in the the room was the chap from Reading who was hunkering down for the night with eye shades and ear plugs as I got ready for bed.  The final room mate was a young American woman whose verbose drawl could be heard from anywhere in the hostel.  It's the 3rd time this week that I've been in a mixed dorm, I hadn't realised that this was quite common now.  

My return to 'civilisation' awaits:

It's often the case that those closest to a meeting point are the last to arrive and so it was, as I casually loaded my panniers on to the bike I glanced over my shoulder to see the line of cars actually boarding the ferry.  I set off in hot pursuit, of-course the access road I could see from the hostel wasn't the one I needed, it was a one-way system.  I had to climb a hill and go round the back of the terminal causing yet another last minute flap. I made it and settled in for the four and three quarter hour return to Oban.  It struck me that I can fly from the UK to the Middle East in the time it takes for the ferry from Barra to mainland Scotland.

It was a beautiful day to be cruising down the Sound of Mull.

A few scraps of snow remaining on Ben More on the Isle of Mull.  The Islands highest peak and the very first Munro I climbed many years ago.

As my journey nears it's end, for others it's just beginning.

The port of Oban:

I expected Oban to be busy, at least by comparison to the Islands I'd left behind but I wasn't prepared for the masses of tourists, throng of cars or the deafening sound of pneumatic drills and clouds of dust from the town centre road works.

I joined the line of traffic and aimed for the southern end of town stopping only at a busy petrol station to pick up some lunch before climbing the hill out of town bound for a 16 mile afternoon route I'd planned to kill some time before I could get into the night's accommodation.

After 5 miles I was able to leave the busy road, immediately the reduction in stress was apparent and soon I adopted the mindset of a cycle tourer as opposed to the survival instinct of a cycle commuter. 

I stopped for my sandwich at Loch Nell, a pleasant spot which in normal circumstances would be considered scenic but being spoilt by the Hebridean sights, it seemed less than impressive.

Continuing northwards on a succession of steep ups and downs I eventually arrive back on the coast at the estuary of Loch Etive at the Connell bridge.

The very fast flowing outlet of the Loch was being used for swift water rescue practise as each member of the crew took their turn in being dropped in the water and subsequently picked up by the others.

I then joined the busy A85 for the journey back to Oban.  Not enjoying the fast road I was pleased after a couple of miles to see a sign for a cycle path for Oban.  I followed the sign and after a little flummoxing around in a housing estate I picked up the track and enjoyed a traffic free route to the outskirts of town.

The cycle path popped out at Ganavan bay, where a typical British seaside scene unfolded.  I bought an ice-cream and sat for a while enjoying the sunshine.

Back into Oban and my final and unwanted stop-over before my train for home at 5:20 in the morning. I'd booked into the cheapest hotel in town by way of a treat after a week spent in hostels. What a stupid move, I'm sure Oban's Youth hostel would have been a better choice!

   The hotels only saving graces were it's proximity to a bike shop and a chippy, neither of which I was in need of.  

The room had 3 huge sash windows, 1 facing south and 2 west. Only 1 window opened, the other 2 were painted shut so the full heat of this unseasonal sunshine had raised the temperature to that of a furnace.

The room was the sort of dubious place I often encounter abroad but for half the price.  No en-suite, no breakfast, no charm.  My Hebridean heaven was well and truly over.

A 4:15am alarm had me away on the final leg of my journey. 

Only remaining, the hassle of lugging the bike on and off 2 trains, the confusion of crossing Glasgow and the final 10 mile ride home from Preston station.

Another tour comes to an end.  I finally made it to the Outer Hebrides, I'd hoped to get there to do some walking but now never will. I think aboard a bike is a good way to see the islands, their open spaces lend themselves well to the pace of cycle travel.  A car is too fast, you miss too much and walking would be too slow for the less interesting sections.

Although not a difficult tour compared to some previous outings it certainly had that essential element for travel, a degree of uncertainty. This time it was whether I could complete the tour, I'd almost cancelled the trip due to health issues and was resigned to an early abandonment although there was no contingency plan.  Admittedly the possession of a phone and a credit card make outings somewhat less of an adventure than they may otherwise be but nonetheless I'm glad the tour went ahead and a lesson was reinforced. Just give it a go.

I regret not seeing anything of the Isle of Lewis, of not staying in an old Black House as planned and of not having more time to explore other corners of the islands.

I'd like to say I've eaten well on this tour but it's more a case of well, I've eaten.  I've scoffed more Scotch Pies, bags of crisps, Chicken curry pies and drunk enough Irn Bru to sink a battleship.  I treated myself to a curry on the last night in Oban, I wish I hadn't.

So, my tour of the Hebrides will live in my memory for as long as my faculties last.  Will I return, probably not, too many other places to see and not enough time.

My tours are usually all too short but a great joy is the anticipation and planning of the next one. It won't be long before I embark on my next excursion, back to my beloved Andalusia.  

I'll happily settle for the weather I've had the past few days if not the food.

I wish you well on your journeys.

Mark

Hebrides Tour - Day 4

The Ends justifies the means:

Friday night was spent at the 'Boutique' Cowshed bunkhouse (oxymoron?) in Uig. Now its a while since I stayed in a bunkhouse in Scotland but I don't  remember them looking like this!

It was very good indeed with small dorms, each bunk having its own little shelf, light and socket for the recharging of those modern travel essentials.  I even had a full curtain so I could blog in private.  The curtain however didn't keep out the light when someone burst through  the door 'western saloon syle' at god knows what time. The main room light stayed on for 10 minutes while the offender faffed with rustling
carrier bags and zips before leaving the roomd with the light still on.  10 minutes later I got up to switch the light off, the culprit returned soon after but clearly resisted the temptation to reoffend.

It may not have been the same person, although I suspect it was (a young oriental gentleman) that got up early in the morning, disappeared to the bathroom for 5 minutes, came back and sprayed half a can of deodorant on himself and around the room. I'm afraid the Lynx effect was lost on me, I could have kneecapped the little shit.

It was a glorious evening in Uig, sunny but too early in the season for midges.

The following morning also started promisingly but was windy and cold.

I could see the ferry I needed to catch for the Isle of Harris from the host so it was just a quick mile downhill to catch it.

The crossing to Tarbert is around an hour and 40 minutes, most of it was spent in the cabin as it was freezing and blowing a hoolie on deck.

I stocked  up on lunch in Tarbert and headed off on my planned route out to the west of Harris, I'd heard the road out to Huisnis was one of the most scenic in the Hebrides.  Progress was slow heading initially north as there was a vicious northerly blowing, The trip was an out and back route of around 30 miles with lots of hills enroute.  After a few miles struggling with the gales it didn't look good but then what else could I do with the day, the hostel wasn't open until 5pm.

I stopped for lunch at the only shelter for miles around, the end of a wall provided a bit of shelter from the Arctic blast.  I dined in style making the most of the finest local produce, a Scotch pie, packet of McCoys crisps and a can of Irn Bru.

Some views on the road to Huisnis:

                                                                 Highland Coos:


The return trip was just as cold and arduous as the outward one so were it not for the splendours of Huisnis, it may not have been worthwhile.

The Sausage butty run

An early start this morning wasn't early enough to succesfully fit Nick's newly arrived pannier rack to his bike so the day before the tour commences we still have untried hardware.

Today was the Sunday edition of the thrice weekly ex pat ride from the Zurgena and Arboleas areas to the small town of Cantoria further up the Almanzora valley.

Although only a 20 mile return trip by the shortest route it was a good and final opportunity to trial our newly repaired and serviced bikes.

The trial soon proved necessary as my brakes were rubbing and my gears seemed to have been upgraded to automatic as highlighted by frequent unrequested gear changes. A few minor tweeks seemed to rectify these issues.

Nick however would have gladly exchanged his mechanical shortcomings with mine as his gears proved to have the functionality of a bag of shite!

Several stops later and after much theorising as to the cause of the problem, our arrival at the usual hostelry in Cantoria was somewhat delayed.  We thought the most likely issue was the indexing of the rear derailleur, a theory agreed by John, the local velo guru at the bar in Cantoria.

The noisy banter of the ex pat peloton at the bar was interrupted only for the important business of the day, the ordering of cafe con leches all round and of course the local Andalusian delicacy of bocadillo salchichas (sausage butties).

Nick's gears seemed better on the way back to Zurgena but with the benefit of hindsight (we are now on day 2 of the tour) our confidence in Nick's mechanics were misplaced.

Tomorrow is day 1 of the Sierra tour and this evenings weather is a little ominous although the forecast seems good.

                                             Just after an evening thunder storm:

Final preparations

On the Last Minute!

Almost ready for our little adventure now. My brother Nick has been helpfully sorting out my bike with some much needed TLC, I'd sent parts over from Ireland and Germany and after some frantic tracking and a few phone calls my bike now has a host of new parts fitted and after a detailed checkover I've declared it fit for purpose and ready for the Sierra tour.

Were it not for the fact that Nick hasn't yet received the pannier rack he ordered from China a month ago we would be good to go. Oh, and the fact that his bike is broken!

Assuming we get Nick sorted out we'll set off on the 1st leg on Monday 27th.  

Today we visited the local market in Zurgena, a colourful but uninspiring cocktail of fruit and veg, cheap sunglasses and cheap clothes although I didn't find a replacement for my airport trampled shirt.

The local Goatherd doing his early evening rounds outside my brothers place.

A picture from Aguillas, the whole staircase was an intricate tiling mosaic.

Sierra Nevada tour - Shaky start

What could possibly go wrong!

After months of meticulous planning and just 2 days before departure for Spain for my bike tour our beloved devil cat decides to go walkabout and disappear off the face of the earth. Not happy that we'd arranged an all-inclusive boutique feline hotel stay for her she opts instead to cause maximum stress by playing hide and seek for a day and a half.  Only after allowing us to suffer repeated humiliation with the neighbours by standing outside making ridiculous noises to tempt her back in did she condescend to return. Needless to say she was then held under house arrest until she could be unceremoniously thrown into the cat basket and despatched to the cattery.

We arrived at the airport with much time to spare and me questioning why we were so early.  Claire said 'You never know what could go wrong?'
My father-in-law had kindly dropped us off and as I gathered the dismantled wheelchair and cases together amoungst the crowd at the drop-off point I put the shirt I'd been carrying on the roof of the car along with my phone. Immediately I thought, that's not a great idea so I put the phone in my pocket but left the shirt on the the roof saying to Claire 'don't let me forget that'!
I set about putting my wheelchair together. 'Did you pick your shirt up'? Claire said.
Oh shit!  The car was gone, along with my shirt.
Now with the amount of money I spend on clothes the loss of the shirt was of little consequence, the loss of the wallet in the shirt pocket with a couple of hundred euros and a credit card was a little more worrying.  It was my 'backup' wallet, as a seasoned traveller I generally split my worldly goods between 2 wallets.  As a seasoned idiot I left 1 on the roof of the car!

'Quick, phone your dad' I said in the panicked tone that a miser adopts when parted from his cash.  I thought for a second, there was little chance the shirt had stayed on the roof of the car for long so I despatched Claire up the road to look for it whilst I stood by helplessly in quiet mourning.

My resignation increased for 15 minutes and when my mobile rang I suspected the inevitable. 'I've got it'!  Unbelievably Claire had spotted a sorry looking rag off in the distance and against all expectations it was my shirt.  She took her life in to her hands and ventured out on to the busy airport road where numerous cars had mangled my shirt completely oblivious to the contents of the pocket.  A happy reunion soon followed and the wallet was found intact, the only damage being a set of shattered buttons and a well and truly non functional pair of headphones which I'd forgotten were in the other pocket. Claire, you're a star, happy days.

So, we made it to Spain without further mishap other than the misfortune of travelling with Ryanair "we're sorry but we don't have any tea, coffee or hot food on the flight this evening"!

Finally, I opened the shutter in our hotel room this morning and was promptly reminded of my 2012 road trip and my photographic essay on 'Classic views from Spanish hotel rooms'  Enjoy!

A short tour in Almeria province - Day 3 of 3

Up and over:

I decided to leave the sensible option for another day, Sorbas would have to wait. I girded my loins for a more direct crossing of the Sierra de los Filabres mountain range. I retraced the route from day 1 as far as Uleila del Campo and resisted the temptation to take the outward route in full and head towards Lubrin.

I could see the onward route to Albanchez high on the mountain ahead. It was sufficiently daunting for me to stop and dismount the bike, check my tyres, brakes, water bottle levels and my sanity.

               The onward route can be seen top centre rising across the hillside from left to right:

I passed a sign which said 'Cantoria 38km' – not a great distance in cycling terms but with 40deg C and a mountain range to cross it prompted a moment of concern.

The climb started on the road which skirts the village to the west and continued relentlessly.

I soon abandoned any thought of completing the climb without stopping, the hot still air seemed to provide no fuel for faltering legs. I tried to stop where there was a hint of dappled shade from roadside trees but there was little. What breeze there was would be strongest on the bridges where re-entrants in the mountainside funnelled the air a little so that's where I stopped, baking in the afternoon sun to try to cool down!

                     Brown signs with the word 'Sierra' generally warn of a hard day at the office!

The high point of the pass had been in view for some time, or so I thought. Of course around each bend there was further ascent. I came across the first good patch of shade and stopped to rest for a few minutes. The only food I had was the sticky remains of a bunch of grapes I'd plucked from my sisters terrace the night before departure but they were much needed. At least I had water, warm water!

Everything comes to he who sweats and eventually I reached the Puerto de la Virgen, the Pass of the Virgin.

                                                 My hard earned rendezvous with the Virgin!

I hoped that the ascent had all but ended for the day and after a photo stop on the pass I enjoyed the reward of another flowing descent.

I took a small detour into the village of Albanchez looking for a cold drink and food. As is generally the case it was deserted. I was half way through the village when I heard voices,

I followed them and came into the plaza to find a small stall setup serving drinks and food. The locals stared inquisitively as always as the dripping cyclist slurped his first cold drink.

The food being served was paella and I had a small plateful with a chunk of bread for 1 euro, delicious.

The roller coaster ride continued down the the road between Cantoria and Almanzora which I was familiar with from my local excursions. From there a mixture of Rambla (dry riverbed) and road took me back to Alforquia and a couple of cold bottles before tea.

The trip has opened my mind to further possibilities, it is an option to ride in extreme heat and it's certainly preferable to riding in the wind and rain.

Short days, lots of water and a tolerance of incredulous looks from the locals are the secrets.

A short tour in Almeria province - Day 2 of 3

A short easy day!

Apart from the look of outrage on the face of the barmaid when I asked for my ratatouille type tapa to be heated up a little more, it was a pleasant evening and as usual, considering the number of cerveza/tapa combinations consumed, very reasonably priced. The hostal was £22.50 a night for a room with air-con and included a substantial breakfast buffet.

I partook of the buffet breakfast with gusto, carbo-loading completed, I consulted my road map page and spurning the main road, headed south-east towards the hills. There was a village on the map called Turrillas which looked ideal for the intended short and easy day.

I could see a small hamlet high on the hillside ahead and hoped with every fibre of my body that it wasn't Turrillas. It wasn't, Turrillas was much higher! 

                                                          Part of the climb to Turrillas:

The final approach to the village was tackled with burning thighs and rasping lungs, a fierce warm wind was throwing me off balance until I entered the deserted narrow streets and popped out into the small plaza where surprisingly there was a single market stall selling clothing. More with expected disappointment than hope I continued my fruitless search for boxer shorts sufficiently voluminous for my ample derriere. I travelled to Spain with very little clothing and despite extending my wardrobe at various local markets since have not had much success procuring underwear which doesn't have a tourniquet effect on my neither regions.

With sadness, I left the stall. I topped up my bottles at the fuente and took refuge in the village bar where there were 2 card schools in progress on the terrace outside. If my Spanish was better I'd have asked the fat bloke at the first table where he gets his boxers?

I downed an ice cold coke and poured the remaining ice into my water bottle. I consulted the map as it seemed a shame to drop back down to the hostal directly having expended so much toil to get there. I could head east on a moutain road to a place called Lucainena de las Torres, I'd visited this village once before by car so I scoured the map for other options.

                                   A Mirador (view point) in the village of Turrillas:

To the southwest there was a Radar station on top of a mountain called Colativi. I didn't intend to go all the way in the heat of the afternoon but I thought it would be an interesting ascent and I could turn around at any point.

                                              Heading to the top of the Alhamilla range:

                            
                               Looking south from the watershed, the Mediteranian in the distance:

                                         Getting there, but not as close as it looks!

It was good to sit on the summit of Colativi. It's been a long time since I sat on top of a mountain and although I'd cycled up rather than walked or climbed, it felt like a proper mountain. It had a trig point on top, it had far reaching views and it was blowing a gale. At 1387m, a bit higher than Ben Nevis, I suppose it is a proper mountain.

                                                                        The summit:

                                                                            The view:

The outward route took 2 hours and 45 minutes, the same journey in reverse, 40 minutes including a 5 minute break to cool down my sizzling wheels.

It was an exhilarating descent, I'm beginning to enjoy descending albeit at a modest speed. I've stopped feeling inferior about not going fast downhill and am now a little more relaxed and in control although always there is the knowledge that a small mistake can hurt.

Back at the hostal, again a couple of beers and a short siesta took preference over the piscina.

Tomorrow I would head back to La Alfoquia. I could take the main road east to Sorbas and then head over the lower hills to Lubrin, that would be the sensible option...............

A short tour in Almeria province - Day 1 of 3

Rain wear not required!

Since reaching my destination 2 months ago I've been exploring the local area on short day rides, short mainly due to the heat.  This week I decided to venture a little further afield with a 3 day outing around the area  to the north of the Cabo de Gata coastline, east of the provincial capital Almeria.

I am based temporarily (thanks to the kindness of my sister and brother-in-law) in the village of La Alfoquia which is between the towns of Albox and Huercal Overa.   My brother, who also lives locally was to join me on the first leg of my journey. 

After refitting the indispensable mirror to my bike following yet another repair we were ready for the off.  

A quick stop at the Todo (everything) shop in the village en route to stock up on phone credit 'just in case' and were soon enjoying the level first mile as we know it won't last!

The climb starts on the approach to Zurgena and continues unabated for around 40 minutes.  I'm supposed to be in touring mode but my brother only knows one pace - 'flat out'.  Carying gear for a three day trip I struggle to hang on to his wheel.

The sight of the typical Spanish hill village of Lubrin is a welcome one, the journey is less than 2 hours but not easily gained,  A short steep descent brings us to a favourite local bar on the edge of town where we both order a much needed cold drink and a tostada with tomato.  The humble tostada is something of a ritual in Spain, the local crusty 'Barra' (a big baguette) is halved and spread with grated tomato.  The toasted bread is then vigorously stabbed with a fork so that lashings of olive oil can be poured on and soaked up.  A little salt and pepper completes what is a delicious breakfast.  The local olive oil by the way is said to be the best in the world, of course it's the people of Lubrin who say that! 

I bid farewell to my brother who returns, largely downhill to Zurgena.  My onward journey involves another stiff pull up to El Pilar and then on to Uleila del Campo.  I'm skirting the eastern end of the Sierra de los Filabres mountain range but fortunately crossing the range at a fairly low altitude.  It's hot work but as I'm hosteling and not carrying camping gear, the bike isn't too heavy.

                        The scorched hills between Lubrin and El Pilar following bush fires,

                                     fortunately the road was an effective fire-break.

The small town of Uleila del Campo on the southeastern flanks of the Sierra de los Filabres range

Beyond Uleila del Campo the going is easy down to the main N340 road which leads on to Tabernas which is well known as the main town of the Tabernas dessert, famous as the place where many of the spaghetti westerns along with other films have been shot.

The hostel I'm heading for was described as being 'in' Los Yesos which is marked on my map but turned out to be nothing more than a couple of derelict buildings and a factory at a road junction.

My hostal was a further mile or so along the main road, more of a roadside Motel really but with cold beer, good tapas and staff that were 'largely' friendly!  I had intended to use the pool at the hostal but with an air-conditioned bar and air-conditioned room the outside world had little attraction.  

The past week has been wickedly hot and so 4 hours on the bike is enough sun for 1 day.

I'm at the hostal for 2 nights so I have a day to explore tomorrow.  I came from the north, to the east and west is the main N340 road but to the south, there are hills!  ??

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!