Into Seville

March 21, 2012

bus northwest to Jerez de los Caballeros

The hotel staff are very nice and it's sad there are apparently no other guests. The manager of Gran Hotel blames the Spanish economy and then tells me, as he knows I'm concerned, that the wind has gone.

After some toast and jam, juice and coffee, I'm ready to hit the road at just before 9:00 and the sky has a dull tone to it at this hour, with some low clouds lurking to the west, but basically clear elsewhere.

The road northeast to Seville - the A-360 - is as straight as an arrow on my Michelin map, as though it's been built by the Romans, and the thought of riding along it accompanied by fast traffic while battling a headwind doesn't appeal at all. As it so happens, the traffic isn't too bad, and the manager is right: the air is still, but it's still pretty chilly and while I have my blue fleece jacket on, I wonder about stopping and digging out another layer from my panniers. But no, I reckon it'll warm up soon enough, once the sun gets higher. My toes get painfully cold.

A lone tree by the road looks sublime and I stop to take a snap of it. Before I've got on my bike again, a motorcycle has pulled up right in front of me, which seems strange, as it's basically in the middle of nowhere. But then I notice the air base - across a field to the east - and guess it's Moron, used by the USAF during the Cold War and obviously still a sensitive area. The motorcyclists watches me ride away without saying a word.

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Joyce Kilmer

Not much further ahead is an abandoned railway station. It's clear what it is from the road, as the architecture has that distinctive look; kind of imposing yet utilitarian at the same time. According to blue letter tiles on one wall, it's called El Coronil, yet the actual village, looking at my map, is a handful of kilometers away. The station is in an isolated spot, but perhaps it was built to serve a military base from day one.

There really isn't much to see and I want to get the ride to Seville over with and my speed is between 20 and 30 km/hr. By 11 o'clock, however, I need a coffee break and a petrol station with an adjacent café appears just at the right time.

I try ordering in Spanish, but the young, perky waitress says coffee with milk and after asking her for something with chocolate, she shows me what's on offer and I pick the biggest thing available, a giant heart-shaped pastry that hits the spot.

Unfortunately the ride gets bogged down about a dozen kilometres from the big city. I meet the highway, the A 92, which bikes are banned from, and have to detour through Alcala as there doesn't seem to be a clear route to Seville from here on and I end up on dirt roads that run parallel to it, then a network of construction work messes that up, until, a few kilometres from the centre, I come upon a green painted bicycle path.

I eventually find the tourism office and pick up a map. It's now two o'clock and the young man there marks where the bus station is and also the backstreet hostal Debbie and I stayed in back in 2002.

Seville, as you might expect, is full of sightseeing tourists. A beautiful place, I go in my own direction, however, only stopping a couple of times to take a quick photo as I cycle to the riverside bus station.

The information guy at a desk says there's a departure to Jerez at 3:30, which leaves me about an hour to kill.

Armed with the map, I set off in search of the hostal and find it, after just 10 minutes, tucked down a narrow one-way alley. The red letters are the same, but the word hostal has been changed to the English hotel, although Londres hadn't been translated to London.

I hold up the old snap I have of Debbie from 2002, make a few tries to align it correctly and eventually get it about right before riding back to buy a one-way, ten-euro bus ticket to Jerez.

My heart sinks on the 3:30pm departure as it pulls out of the bus station. Sitting down, looking at the map the tourism office had given me, I notice a sizeable place called Jerez in the south, right next to Cadiz.

The Jerez I want, however, is a small town, to the northwest, actually named Jerez de los Caballeros. I resigned myself to staying in my seat no matter, but what a bummer to be going in the totally wrong direction. Then, seeing the sun to my left (west) as we make our way up the highway, I realise that we were indeed heading north. Sigh.

View at six o'clock from my room's balcony in Jerez

It's almost six when we arrive. Only me gets off at the deserted station and it's a short uphill ride towards an old church spire, where I assume the oldest part of Jerez is and that they'll be a hostal around somewhere. There is. And very nice too.

Today's ride: 72 km (45 miles)
Total: 629 km (391 miles)

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