March 20, 2012
Morón de la Frontera via Coripe
northwards into a strong wind
It's all a blur, with one white village - pueblo blanca - mixed in with the other. Perhaps we never actually cycled up to 10 years ago; certainly nothing seems familiar to me as my brakes squeal while coping with easing carefully me down its steep lanes. But then again, going in the opposite direction - as I was - gives you, quite literally, a different perspective.
It's really more than fleece-jacket weather and although the sunshine is bright, there's a wintry nip in the air at 10 o'clock as I head for Algodonales, a village just a dozen kilometers away, en route to Coripe and Morón. No problem.
To reach Algodonales involves a short climb, which is a mistake, as I soon discover after asking a local motorist who subsequently leads me back the way I've just ridden, back down to the main A-376: a two-kilometre detour for nothing. My bike computer reads 14 km when I get to the right turn-off with a sign saying Coripe 17 km, and Morón 40 km.
The rural CA 339 route offers a stiff little climb straight off and my jacket becomes too much, although my arm-warmers soon get pulled out of a pannier and put on. The swathe of cacti lining the rocky verve testifies that the temperature must climb high in the summer months, but just now it feels like its just in the low teens.
There are practically no cars on the road, which crosses into Seville Province and back into Cadiz as I ride north. Once I'd gone 25 km, the route swoops down a 6% drop that lasts a good 5 km, near the bottom of which is a sign for a Verde Route - a cycle/hiking path that has a dusty surface. Ready for lunch - it's one already - I follow a sign for a restaurant, which turns out to the old railway station of Coripe.
Sitting outside, I can see the cycle route, obviously tracing the old line, vanishing into a nearby tunnel. Later, I see it from the top of a climb, going over viaduct and the waiter tells me it's a famous path, clearly flat as railways are, and that a lot of people use it.
Sometimes it's hard to define what's different about a foreign country, but what I've noticed in Spain is the excellent table service; simple things like when Juan, the young waiter, pours my Fanta into a glass: he does it as though it's a vintage wine. And the table, after I'd opted to sit outside in the sun, is laid with a cloth, neatly clipped down to stop it blowing away. And here am I, on a bike, clad in Lycra shorts which in many places - certainly in England - would mean attracting a dismissive attitude.
I choose something with cheese and the dish is a wonderful treat, something Juan's mother has prepared in the kitchen. Nestled on a salad scattered with almonds, the two lightly fried balls are covered with a delicate coating that contains melted goats cheese. Fab. After that, Juan asks I'd like a sweet, and, feeling decadent, I ask for something with chocolate. Five minutes later he brings out a brownie floating in a sea of sauce which is yellow and has a hint of ginger. I'm sure I wouldn't have eaten any better in a Michelin star place.
Feeling quite pleased with my self, I soon climb out of the railway valley, but then the wind becomes quite fierce. It blows right at me as I ride up Coripe's main drag, an empty road that has no-one at all on it - it's like being in one those cowboy films when the baddie rides into town.
I know what I'm looking for and find it at the far end of the straight drag, the municipal welcome sign - a tiled structure that hasn't changed a bit in the decade since we were here - they don't seem to have vandals in Spain. I hold up the snap of the three of us, take a photo and then get going as my plan is to get to Morón, where we stayed back in 2002.
The wind is relentless, so strong at times I think I might fall off. It's just a matter of counting down the kilometers and the landscape becomes flatter and eventually I ride into the labyrinth of alleys that make up central Morón.
The tourism office closed at one, so I head for the old church, thinking they'll be a hostal in the area. There isn't, according to woman I ask, so I pedal to the north part of town, in the general direction of Seville and asked a guy sat on a bench, who turns out to be a tour guide. He can't help me enough.
The Hotel Morón is a kilometer away and is actually called The Grand Hotel Morón. It seems a motel more than anything, situated on the far edge of the town, opposite a petrol station. It's not that grand really; more like bland.
The room rate comes down from 47 euros to 40 and, feeling pretty much done in, I opt to stay, thinking to myself that I'll ride to Seville tomorrow, on what will be another 60-odd and likely windy kilometres away.
Today's ride: 60 km (37 miles)
Total: 557 km (346 miles)
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