Northward / France Ho!

A visit to the Regional Tourist Office in Barcelona revealed a former narrow gauge railway line now re- dedicated to green cycling all way from the coast just north of here (Blanes) almost to the base of the Pyrenees. So that’s my route via Blanes, Llagostera, Girona, Olot, Ripol; across into France then back into Spanish Font Romeu before the final descent into Foix and who knows what.

It appears my lost laptop broadband modem was never going to work in France anyway; (franchises being what they are) so this may be my last update for several days, given my ' less well travelled' route.

Bvarthelona (Barcelona)

More on Bvarthelona later but it had the best camping shop in the world (Decathlon) at very reasonable price.This included camping gaz cylinder of every type, so I am finally set to cook ‘a belle etoille.’

My stay with S’s multilingual family has been a delight.

Leaving Valencia

More on this later but one of the highlights being following Helen Mirren and friend through the ticket barriers coming through Valencia railway station. She didn’t have her bike with her this time so we didn’t get round to chatting .

French Real Estate agents

With the limited web access available to me on my iPhone I thought to line up a short term base in France for my house hunting endeavours. I was amazed to find that the same real estate agents so eager to sell me stuff previously were less eager to help me find such a base. Not a good start. Had I broken some protocol I pondered, or was it just ‘the French?’

Fortunately an email to the English owner of a house I'd previously been looking at, literally  a bucket's slops throw above the River Tarn, was happy to let me use his place as a base for a modest rent for the week. Camping can be only so much fun, speciallly on a 'house hunting' trip.

Final final day in Erehwon

Just when I’d figured out my internet connection problem my USB modem did a bunk. A chance discovery revealed a ‘Function’ key on the keyboard of which I was previously unaware, that turned the modem on an off. I’d obviously hit it by mistake. Murphy’s Law I guess, but solving the problem at least bouyed me a little.

I’d forgotten how comforting the internet can be when you are on your own. The world is still yours, your affairs can be kept in check, plans can be set in store, French Real Estate browsed, and you can catch up with family and with friends (both of them) one way or another. You can even still buy stuff on eBay that you don’t need, though where to direct it becomes a problem.

So I searched the house and my luggage twice to no avail. I can only assume it dropped from my pocket in the town below the day before. Another Euro 20 down the gurgler.

A visit to the local ‘Town Hall’ the next village up, which I had been assured offered free wi-fi came to nought since it was closed. The visit brought its own light relief: First by way of a fellow my age sitting alone outside a bar. When I asked him where I’d find the ‘Ajuntamiento’ he replied in German that that was all he spoke. Glad of the opportunity to give mine an airing we chatted for a while. He expressed no interest in the local cultural offerings, castles etc, nor in the area’s many walking trails. I left wondering what it was had brought him here. He also expressed his disapproval of the English and the French but reserved his judgement on Australians. I didn’t even mention the war.

The next person I made enquiries of on the street answered me in ‘Derbyshire’ Spanish. I chatted with her briefly in English then pedalled off thinking what a coincidence I’d met a second person here from Derbyshire. I thought later that people more often come in pairs then realised she must have been the better half of the fellow who minded J’s house.

Later that evenning desperate for company I visited the local bar (it was empty) and stuck up a conversation with the ‘bar maid’ who after complimenting my Spanish said she was busy (the bar being empty) so I left pondering how lonely solitary life can be. Something I’d only once previously experienced long ago.

So without company, TV or internet to amuse me I settled in for the rest of the evening with a few bursts on the bagpipe chanter (not wishing to further disturb the neighbours). I finished the evening pondering whether to watch another of my stock of movies or have an early night, ready for a dawn start straight through to Barcelona where I had a friendly former neighbour expecting / welcoming me (hopefully).

Meet the neighbours (again)

Once again the Spanish neighbours invited me over for the evening where we discussed the worlds’ problems in general and the history of the Spanish Civil War, and the this area’s part in it (against Franco).

Mario astonished me with the news that he (like me) was a great fan of Julie Christie, who apparently has a house in the next village up the valley.

A trip to the only bar in the village later in the evening saw me introduced to the local electrician, from Marlow Bottom (almost) where my brother lives.

My adventure in these parts complete and more foul weather expected in coming days I set a course (ashamedly mostly by train) to Barcelona and the approaches to the Pyrenees where I had promised myself to ride the beast beyond exclusively and shun further attractions of public transport.

Last days in Erehwon

I think someone is looking out for me and anticipating my problems. When I returned to the only bike shop in town I immediately spotted a brand new rear wheel of exactly the right size and gear-set fitting that I needed. It was the only spare wheel in the shop. And available for less than half the cost it would have cost me in Australia. The only mechanic in the place amidst the crowd of waiting broken down moped riders was very accommodating in removing my stiff gear-set and leaving me to my own devices in the middle of the workshop to do the rest. And the cashier addressed my in ‘Valenciano’ (aka Catalan); a difficult accent to get your ears round.

So I pedalled off into town finally confident to tackle the Pyrenees, knowing the only dubious part of my plans now solved; dubious because the rear which carries most of my 75kg burden and my 15kg odd of luggage. But here was I now with brand new wheel bearing, rim and spokes. I also discovered that the slight wheel imbalance I’d previously put down to a dodgy tyre fit was also gone.

Stranger still the check-out chick in the local supermarket answered my (clearly imperfectly accented Spanish) enquires re the whereabouts of the local Vodafone office (or lack of) in a London accent, she being from those parts, and claiming to be glad of the rare opportunity to speak English for a change.

My trusty iPhone ‘GPS soon got me to the road out of town and on the return journey I harvested a bagful of windfall oranges (being Valencia) lying along the roadside in readiness for a litre of fresh orange for tomorrow’s breakfast.

Laying siege to El Castillio

I was determined to visit the local castle ‘cos I could see it from the roof. I assumed like all monuments it was accessible to the public, but apparently not.

Some locked gates with no signs were my first obstacle and after climbing them thought there must be an easier way so I decided to just climb the rockface / ridge up to the nearest tower. Half way up the almost vertical rockface, covered in scratches I pondered; here I am, nobody knows I’m here, I probably shouldn’t be here, I’ve got no climbing gear and is it worth it anyway. I might even dislodge a rock and have to cut my arm off then have to make a movie about it.

I later found a very narrow hidden overgrown track that finally got me there, tho’ it became obvious that this monument was not for the feint hearted and a definitely not for tourists. So I rambled amidst the towers and unfenced multi 100m drops and other hazards and decided my bike (left in the bush below) needed me.

I was later informed that the grounds are patrolled by two Alsatians but they were not in evidence on my adventure (lucky for them) and that nobody had visited the place in years. Apart from me.

On the way back the rear wheel bearing that I’d replaced the day before my departure started to grind and it became obvious a new back wheel was required because the wheel hub bearing surface was obviously past it.

Fortunately the previous the day I’d got a lift down to the town below for some supplies and located the only local bike shop which sold me the spare gear cable I needed for one third the cost in Australia.

So I spent the rest of the day fixing J’s roof leak – a greater problem than I’d earlier thought, dismantling and diagnosing the wheel bearing, and trying to figure out why my bloody internet connection had suddenly died.

Unos dias encatadores

Being Easter and all (Semana Santa) there were few opportunities to amuse myself so I had to take matters into my own hands. All the shops were closed and so too even the only bar in town. So come Sunday evening Michael up the road was my fist victim. Turning up on his doorstep with a bottle of wine in my pocket was a bit of a slick strategy. Mike is a retired Electrical Engineer who has worked in England, Brazil and Colombia and we spent two bottles of wine discussing such projects and the other English exiles in the village. Mike had the foresight of buying a house here 30 years ago and now prefers here to England.

In the morning I set off in search of El Castillo but took a wrong turn and ended up in the high sierras studying some interesting crystalline rock samples. I left them by the roadside where I couldn’t miss them on my return, but miss them I did.

A trip to the ‘corner store’ three villages up the valley found it closed so I biked it down to the large town below where I was at least able to buy a baguette from a petrol station and top up my mobile phone for my GPS. Sadly on the long haul back to Erehwon I broke a gear cable. Bit of a worry it being it new and only 170km on the clock but at least its default position is low gear. And at least I have a spare with me.

Having consumed all my own supplies and those I had set in for Jean I discovered it’s amazing what you can conjure up with some rice and two stock cubes (thanks Jean – I’ll re-strock  before I go).

While this concoction simmered I decided to regale the village from Jean’s rooftop with a few jigs and reels on me pipes: Only after a few numbers did I spot two astonished people on the adjacent rooftop who invited me over for a wine or two. A good strategy I thought of theirs to silence me. A trip to the closed bar ‘back door’ on the way for an illicit bottle of red saw me right for the night.

Marte (Maria Teresa) and Mario and I spent the evening discussing the local English community among other things. No problem there apparently - its just the French.

Marte is a Public Servant and Mario an Industrial Engineer with a consultancy in Quality Assurance so we all got on like a house on fire with only the odd fishing trip for a word here and there - they having only a handful of English words between them.

An odd rule re mushroom picking - not allowed on Friday and Saturday.

Come evening I discovered several Spanish and other movies lurking on my laptop that I had not previously had the opportunity to watch so I settled in for the night, sadly aware the foul weather had finally moved on and patches of blue sky determined time approached for me to move on too.

Refuelling

All fuelled up and ready to go...

An Easter Satur ‘day out’

Being down to my last two meals and not wanting raid Jean’s larder, (lean as it is) I decided to go in search of food. The very nice Frenchman next door assured me of a small shop 4km up the road in the next town (he was wrong but close).

As I set off (on the wrong side of the road) a flock (I suppose that would be a peloton) of cyclists streaked down the road.

This was the flavour of the whole day – I had unwittingly stumbled upon one of the most popular cycling climbs in the region. Further up the hill a ‘peloton?’ of about ten touring cyclists sped down – all weighed down by panniers like mine (although not for me today, being out shopping and travelling light). They all seemed to be the same difficult / dangerous age as me and nearly all blokes.

I found the shop two towns further up the pass.  Its fare included wine at Euro 1.25 a bottle and everything else I needed but for the elusive camping gaz with screw top. Even nicer everyone I spoke in town seemed to catch what I said first time and replied in lovely clear Spanish.

Having got that far up the pass I decided to go for the summit. On the way I actually passed a lycra clad fellow of my similar difficult age on a racing bike, I gave him the benefit of doubt that he did not have the low ‘granny gear’ that I had. I never saw him again – perhaps he was having a coronary somewhere behind / below me but being stoic about it.

A bit further up my speedo registered by first 100km. By the time I reached the top (cima) of the pass (that would ‘col’) the rain had set in and my downhill run was a cold and soggy affair.

On the way down I spotted an information board relating to the cave paintings walk and Eight Villages walk in the surrounding mountains. I wonder I never heard of this gem of a place before – Erehwon - certainly the nicest part of Spain I have ever come across.

Jean’s House

Jean, whom I know from my time in the Maldives, kindly let me use her house for R&R (after only 5 days on the road) while she is working in Dubai. The mountains (former coral reefs) that tower over the town are stunning.

Sadly my attempts to ‘engage’ with several of the local English community came to nothing.  I blame my slight ‘Orstralian’ accent which I expect puts me in the ‘colonial’ (rather than English) camp now.  So I settled in for another night without any company. At least I have my blog to attend to and a decent book to read. And I get the opportunity to try to fugure out where all my data went that I backed up onto my external hard drive before I left.

STOP PRESS: After several visits to the only bar in the village, I stumbled across several of my compatriots who quickly dispelled my earlier fears - all funny English accents accepted apparently. What did strike me as odd though was that none of them seemed to have much of a command of Spanish. I felt quite smug.

I didn’t realise before how lonely solitary travel can be. I realise now I’m not cut out for it. Whatever came over me when I thought to ‘stealth’ camp alone. Come to that whatever came over me when I thought to travel such long distances by bike alone. I didn’t realise I was such a ‘people person’ before. People may disagree of course.

So the day went well, my clothes freshly washed, a decent bed to sleep in. And my mobile phone internet is now working.

But I won’t stay long. I need to salvage the key bits of trip having wavered from my original plan so far.

An oddly no one seems to miss me or email me. ‘Alec’s gone off on one again so just leave him be’ seems to be the general view. Ahhh.

The road to Erehwon

After 10km I rewarded myself with a muesli bar for being such a good bike builder. It ran like a charm.

Sadly the coast is like all tourist coasts (Surfers Paradise being among the worst) so I decided to take the highway (but not the tollway). My iPhone GPS turned out to be a handy asset here and there.

The highlight of the trip was the town of Pego where a full Ester parade was in full swing. I’d forgotten it was Easter. I assume it was an Easter Parade, if not it was a procession of rival Klu Klux Klans.

After Pego the road started to climb steeply and was clearly a favourite among the cycle groups, most of whom oddly seemed to be women. The scenery in this area is spectacular and to my eye former coral reef – a terrain I know well. The last kilometre of my non stop 90km trip was in ‘granny gear’ all the way.

The lead up to the trip to Erehwon

I met two couples today in the camp site.  A retired couple and I struck up a conversation waiting for the bus into Valencia and met again in the camp bar later on the day where they, like I, were dealing with their IT matters and emails etc. David (I think) and Brenda were from Plymouth (although Brenda was and ‘Essex girl’ from Snaresbrook / Woodford Green, close to my later boyhood home.

As we chatted and commented on the gale force winds (almost) battering the trees outside they mentioned they had a 32 foot yacht which they often raced across the Bay of Biscay. We compared my Sydney to Hobart experience. As they left we neither thought to swap contact details. Was I crazy? A couple with a 32 ft yacht who were always happy to have friends join them as crew and I didn’t exchange contact details with them. I chastised myself for  this oversight all the way to Benirrama the next day and will hit my head against the wall tonight.

They were also kind enough to pass me two novels after I mentioned I had nothing to read and had even forgotten my standby book of Daily Telegraph cryptic crossword puzzles.

The other couple were Uni students hitch hiking from London to Marrakesh for charity. He was from (somewhere in) Devon and she from Bury St Edmunds. I liked their pluck but not their level of personal security awareness. Maybe I’m too paranoid. I thought later I should have got a photo of them (if only for the missing person files) but forgot given my several distraction, including thoughts of my first bike hike in bad conditions.

That night there was a deluge that flooded the campsite but my tent proved up to the mark. There must have been a lightning strike very very close - I thought I smelted burning (another camper?) and discovered the circuit blown in my rear bike flasher – the lightning turned in on but nothing would turn it off short of removing the batteries.

As it turned out the weather had almost cleared by the morning so I had my first longish bike hike ahead.

Leaving Valencia hopefully

So tomorrow I leave at dawn.

The weather is foul with a gale force winds and rain. I have in front of me tomorrow 80kms along the coast, then 20kms straight uphill. All with a heavily laden bike and going in the opposite direction to my intended route.

Am I mad or what? 

But at least I spent an interesting evening with a retired couple from Plymouth and Woodford Green respectively who sail the Bay of Biscay frequently in their 32 ft yacht .

And a young couple from Devon and Bury St Edmunds respectively who are hitch hikiing from London (I think) to Marakesh for charity.

A description of Valencia.

Nice. But not on a rainy day. And its raining today and will tomorrow and the next few days too.

The central market is nice but so are all central markets in old cities.

Everyone in Spain smokes it seems specially the women. Maybe that’s why they are all so stylishly thin; while they live.

The joys of languages

Sometimes I think it’s a joy to speak several languages (most badly) ‘cos the strangeness of Valencia is no worse than the strangeness of a day in an English town previously unvisited (Barrow in Furness comes to mind for some reason) with a strong accent.

On the bus back from Valencia I had a nice long friendly conversation in German with an East German couple my age who though well educated spoke no English (Russian yes). I don’t know if any of us knew what the conversation was actually about but it went very well. I think it was about dogs mostly – they having one with them that is very aggressive. Funny way to travel.

IT Problems problems problems

It’s been a steep learning curve. I’ll probably laugh about it later. Navigating the Spanish SIM card options in Spanish for my iPhone was certainly an experience. Next problem was the ‘Col Vert’ campsite in Valencia which charges by the hour for web access. Annoying. The Campsite in Madrid didn’t but it had other drawbacks. And of course tent sites don’t come with power. And campsites don’t have community rooms as I expected. So far I’ve had few opportunities to connect to power and the web at the same time. Leaving my lap top on and running it flat twice has not helped. Nor did Haydon in pinching my mouse. The first opportunities I had to connect to the web in the campsite bar coincided with the Spanish Cup Final playing to a full bar audience on TV above me.

So today I spent another day in Valencia shopping for a mini mouse and a Vodafone mobile phone type modem so I can use my laptop anywhere, electricity willing (and navigation the installation instructions in Spanish).

The sad thing is of course is that now I’ve forked out all this money for travelling IT, none of it is any good once I get over the border into France, so I have to start all over again!

But that doesn't really matter 'cos I can't get the damn modem to work anyway and have had to resort to the campsite's wifii at the 11th hour to post this.

First days on the road

Travelling with Rob and Dave was real fun, and the offer there to continue with them onto Barcelona. Alas I realized this was not the cycle trip I’d planned (hitching a lift and it would not enable me the opportunity to stay at Jean’s place at Benirrama 100km south of Valencia. It was only when I confirmed there is a rail service from Valencia to Barcelona and that it took bikes that I decided to take up the offer of a few days at Benirrama. And though Jean is away working in Dubai it would be nice to catch up with the local expat English community in the area.

After declining Rob and Dave’s offer of a lift to Barcelona a second visit to the Railway station today revealed that taking the bike on the train is not a simple as I was first advised. You have to get a permit is seems – another future challenge for my Spanish.

I have to confess it’s a bit of a let-down that my cycle trip is not turning out as I planned so far but one look at the country I’ve seen so far has convinced me I took the right decision. Spain is not the cycling heaven I presumed. The fellow cycle travels I assume I would find at each campsite are complimenting their transport options with mobile homes with the bikes an accessory. I am the only idiot is seems to want to travel by bike through these parts.

Another bit of bad news came from an Australian couple I met in the Valencia Campsite. They tell me the roads over the Pyrenees were closed by snow last  week so they are taking a detour via the coast into France.

And the bad new gets worse.  It started raining today and was very windy (neither cyclists friends) and worse expected in coming days, just as I plan to set off on my one day 100km haul to Benirrama. As I sit here in the campsite café I see the flags blowing horizontally. Fortunately at present in the direction I need but who knows what direction tomorrow.

 At least now I have a Spanish SIM in my iPhone which I am now using as my GPS and think I have selected a cycle friendly route.

And another bit of bad news. The Lonely Planet Guide was right. They don’t sell screw type camping gaz cylinders in Spain so my plans for bush camping and using my gaz stove are on hold it seems till France. If ever I get there!

The joys of camping

Here I am in Madrid surrounded by pommie campers, all very accepting of their colonial cousin with the funny accent.

A French couple and I discuss the merits of my favorite movie ‘Les  Choristes’ across swapping between English French and Spanish as it took our fancy.

Rob and Dave are from Leeds and are in a campervan headed for Valencia - one of my options.  Another couple from Northampton – he a retired Geotechnical Engineer and she a teacher are headed for Zaragoza –another of my options.

Alas my plans for Zaragoza are frustrated by the fact that the terrain is dull, my GPS is not working, I don’t have any maps, storms are forecast and I still don’t have some critical gear such as camping gaz.

I debate my options when Rob offers me a lift. One the one hand Valencia offers me the opportunity to stay at the currently vacant holiday home of a friend from the Maldives. Valencia seems the least worst of my options so I accept.

The trip out of Madrid convinced me that cycling along the motorways was a bad idea. In the 3 plus hor trip I did not see a single cyclists but lots if obstacles and dangers for cyclists.

The campsite at Valencia, on a back road and adjacent to a listed bike route, enabled me to do some more post air freight trials with the bike. While the bike proved to be in good order the bike route passed such dreary vistas that I consider taking the Bus to progress northwards. Added to my friends house in the hills behind Valencia turns out to 100km south of Valencia – that is, in the completely opposite direction to my agenda.

.

The joys of air travel.

They allocated me a seat next to five infants of course. One (the nearest) screamed  unabated for the first  5 hours from Sydney.

The man next to me, a sports teacher from Leicester and convert to NZ South Island was an interesting companion, repeating the pilgrimages to aging parent in England that I had done that time.

When the bike box arrived I wondered if it had been shot at as we tracked along the coast of Libya. Part of the bike box were missing completely but miraculously all the contents seemed to arrive intact. An hour resurrecting / re-arming’ the bike and a few ‘circuits’ of the baggage collection area  went fine.

Carrying a fully laden touring bike through the Madrid Metro turned out to be a bit of a challenge but only the odd flight of steps. Madrid seems to be the cleanest and most cycle friendly city I have come across.

First read the instructions

If only I had read the Lonely Planet Guide to Spain before getting on the plane I would never have chosen the route  I originally did.

Only now do I discover that the hinterland route that I'd planned to take from Gibraltar, towards the Pyrenees is described by the Lonely Planet guide as variously depressing, forlorn, bleak, and roads which should be driven along at high speed to lessen the boredom. It’s no wonder no one else has written a book about this route then.

Even today, the very helpful man in the Spanish Tourist Office in Madrid thought  the route I’d planned travelling by bicycle was madness. Once I suggested I should travel up the coast from Valencia via the hinterland and basically through Catalunya his eyes began to shine.

 Quite by chance, camped next to me are Rob and Pete from Leeds.  They are also going to Valencia tomorrow in their campervan which has they tell me sufficient room to accommodate a bicycle and its rider (a bit of a disappointment to the bike thus far). On the one hand, this presents me with a dilemma. My original plan of course was to travel from Gibraltar, using my own energy. The possibility of a 'lift' now  reveals my true  princlples. But as I always say, it is often compromise turns failure into success.

Weights measures and lists

For those interested in these sorts of details, the bike (including tent poles, bike tools, USB dynamo and other things stored within its frame) weighs in at 15kg; average in fact for the more sturdy touring / mountain bike.

The left hand pannier with clothes, first aid kit, toiletries etc (and yes I confess net-book computer and small bagpipes) weighs in at 6kg. 

The right hand pannier with camping, sleeping and cooking gear weighs in at an equal 6kg.

The handle bar bag weghs of iPhone / GPS  and other bits and peices another 1kg.

All up the baggage plus water plus food would be be about 15kg - about the same as the backpack I carried on my last bushwalk into Kosiusko Natiaonal Park.

For those interested in lists of things carried - here's mine - adapted from someone else's.

Naturally everything is quick dry.

Bicycling Clothes 2 short sleeve tops 2 padded lycra cycling shorts 3 pairs socks Sunglasses Nylon wind vest Hi Viz vest	Cold/Wet Weather Clothes Goretex jacket Fleece + down jacket Thermal undies Beanie Rain pants Gloves	After Biking Clothes 1 Tee shirt 1 regular shirt Sandals Zip-off leg pants Shorts Swimming cossie 2 pairs underpants
Sleeping Gear Dwon sleeping bag Self-inflating 3/4 mattress Camp pillow Tent, stakes, poles	Cooking Gear Gas stove/fuel bottle Mess tins Fork/spoon set Sharp knife Cup Can opener Water purification  tablets Pot scrub pad Small cleaning/drying cloth Lighter Camp soap	Tools Small screwdrivers (flat/Phillips) Set of Allen wrenches Small adjustable wrench Multi-tool Chain tool Spoke tool Crank extractor Bottom bracket tool Rear cassette remover Tyre levers Inner tube patch kit Pump
Spares Inner tube Chain lube 4 front spokes 6 rear spokes Brake cable Gear cable Spare bolts and nuts	Personal Items Small scissors/clippers Small mirror Hair brush Toothbrush/paste Sun block Safety razor Needles/thread Mid-size towel Small first aid kit Toilet paper Money/credit cards Medical info/emergency Contact/insurance Driver license/ID/passport	Miscellaneous 3 water bottles Bike lock/cable Flash light/bike light Rear red flashing light Head torch Spare batteries GPS / iPhone + charger Maps Solar battery charger with USB Bike computer Laptop computer and charger Camera Radio Plastic + compression bags Bladder for extra water Lock + cable for bike panniers

How to pack a bike box

Carrying a 'bike box' through the Madrid Metro struck me as a bit of a challenge, as good as the Madrid Metro is. I could have cycled from Madrid Airport across / through Madrid to the DaiBus station I suppose but I'm a bit of  'softie' according to Adventurer Son and others. Plus the fact that Daibus are expecting me to front for the Madrid to Gibraltar bus trip with my bike 'embalada' in a 'caja de carton.'

So what better than a couple of settee castors for the princley sum of $2.50 (plus labour).

I shall actually be sad to abandon my handiwork in Algeciras.

Maybe I can sell the empty bike box as a home or means of transport to a thin less privilidged recent arrival from further south of Gibraltar.