April 9, 2012
Riding via Ourense towards Monforte
more Minho
It seems my bedroom window in the Buena Vista pension has misted up; then I open it and everything looks the same. Low clouds hang over the nearby trees and the valley is lost. It all looks pretty chilly, drab and miserable out there. What a load of crap.
After having breakfast and doing a bit of writing, it's gone 11:30 and as luck would have it, mercifully, the sun has come out and burnt off the early mist. The sky is a cloudless blue; the Lycra leggings I'd put on after showering to keep warm on today's ride seemed superfluous.
Outside, it's actually nippy in the shade, but the OU-402 is dead quiet and is a lot nicer after a good night's rest. It goes through woods and mostly follows the contours of the southern side of the Minho valley, the opposite side of which I notice at one point down the route is blanketed with a purple shrub: heather perhaps?
After a few minutes' cycling a roundabout sign points straight ahead to Castrelo, not too far away -- it'll be about lunch time when I get there.
It's actually one o'clock and a new-ish boat club complex right by the lake - or perhaps a swollen part of the Minho - looks an especially good spot to chill out for a while, so I go in but get disappointed when all they have is an anemic looking cheese and ham sandwich. I have one anyway with a can of fizzy orange, although stop a short while afterwards at a gas station and buy a Coke and a Mars bar... my body needs a bit of more energy. Breakfast had been a meager slice of toast and jam.
Just 4 km from Orense I come to a halt yet again. A café lures me in with a wooden terrace that overlooks the river and sitting outside is something that appealed and, besides, my body tells me it requires yet more calories.
Spurning my toasted sandwich habit, the daily special looks good for 11 euros so that's what I order While dining on my yummy salad starter, I notice below the terrace a sand-coloured bike path, a gritty trail that appears to follow the river. The waiter confirms it goes to Orense, so I follow it once I'd finished off lunch with a small cup of milky coffee.
What's the point of going into Orense? No doubt it has lots to attract tourists, but it does't really appeal, so I keep on the south side of the Minho, follow the cycle path through the town without seeing much of it and come out the other side, where things get a little bit tricky.
The path ends and, not really knowing where to go due to an absence of signs, I ride across a hydro dam, look around for a continuation of the cycle path, don't see one, then turned back, get lost in a network of little lanes that don't really lead anywhere until, eventually, after walking up a steep climb, I find a road.
A woman in a café where I pop in for a cold Fanta says yes, it heads to Monforte - total directo... or something like that. The town is my goal. A sign a bit later confirms it, giving the distance at over 40 km, which is quite a bit more than my legs want to do.
The small, wonderful road isn't shown on my Michelin map - just the busy main route is, which, due to the noise of traffic whizzing along it that I hear a when the two routes get close, is something that seems nasty. My route is higher, further from the water, but with better views and no stress. It's a superb ride; not too steep when it rises and with hardly any vehicles at all.
My odometer read 70 km when there's an accommodation sign. The 20-odd houses are collectively named Penalva and the stone building is tucked down a path off the C - 456 and I walk my bike down it as it's so steep.
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The room rate is far more than expected, but it's a divine place overlooking the wooded valley and the winding river. It's an old dwelling with stone walls a couple of feet thick that's been renovated with careful thought and a generous dab of panache. The bedroom has a large balcony and the ground floor is a restaurant and the receptionist says there's Wi-fi: I'm going no further.
My bottled beer is simply labeled 1906 and has, in Spanish, special reserve printed on it. It goes down a treat, while dinner is a gourmet feast. I'll see the bill in the morning.
My room has antique furniture and the decoration is upmarket chic. A painter and decorator would call it 'cutting-in' and it's been done with a professional hand -- the electric pink of the walls not infringing a single millimeter onto any part of the beamed ceiling. It reminds me, bizarrely and conversely, of rural Morocco, where the painting of walls was done slap-dash with a foot-wide roller, resulting in ceilings and walls being sometimes hard to differentiate. That's not to say one is any better; it's simply something you notice in countries as you travel: things are not the same.
Today's ride: 70 km (43 miles)
Total: 1,848 km (1,148 miles)
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