September 24, 2011
A Milestone of Sorts.
Low rainy sky and a shadow-less morning on the ground as I cycled onwards, following the aforesaid road shown on the map, the one with the green outline denoting scenic route. Flocks of white birds made a musical tweeter, then with a sudden flap of wings flew out of their olive tree roosts and flew away.
Shortly before ten o'clock, I had cycled into a small place called Gandesa, where I halted outside a small supermercado pressed between two shops on the main street. Having shopped Friday evening, I wasn't looking for much, which was as well, since there wasn't a great selection. Everything was in plastic bags, where even if what I bough kept, I'd be browned off eating it for a week. I did buy bread which was already quite hard, cheese which I'd have for lunch, olives and a packet of mixed vegetables for evening. And of coarse a big bottle of coke, a packet of crisps and a can of beer to have there and then.
Riding away and onwards, the sun first made an appearance at eleven thirty-ish with sudden shadows cast from roadside crash barrier and dwarf pines as the road gradually ascended up towards a line of hilltop wind turbines. And by noon, the cloud had all but cleared and it had warmed up significantly, while the road had reached a high plateau with a view long and far to a blue horizon. Lots more wind turbines lined the heights; the propeller blades lazily turning upon tall white props on those up close.
The sharp descend that followed with the trailer pushing hard from behind, causing a slight speed wobble, brought to light why I'm going off the idea of trailer-touring. Coming down most hills, it feels as though I've hitched a heavily loaded bike to the back of my light unloaded bike. Why would you do it? It could even be described as feeling like a heavy bike jolting from behind and making the bike feel unstable. I have ridden lots of long journeys with panniers before buying the trailer a few years ago; enough to know that, a strong frame holding everything together and the gear packed in panniers around the two wheels is far better. And there's also the other gripes I have with the Bob; they require smooth paved roads as the body is not robust and eventually breaks on rough stuff; they're difficult maneuvered, both when pushing in town to park outside a shop for example, and stealth camping where it maybe necessary to get over a stock fence. In short its a quick-fix for someone, for-whatever-reason, that doesn't want to invest in a proper touring bike.
I was glad when the road began to level out and I could ease my grip on the brakes. I rolled down towards a band of willows, then over a long bridge spanning a slow marshy river and began to climb yet again.
So far there are not many picnic-rest-areas on Spanish roads. The roads are of a good modern standard but without much thought given for the need to stop and, topographical features means there isn't much shade. After a few kilometres though, I rode up to a lay-by on the right by a big elongated heap of subsoil. There were three well weathered concrete tables and benches under some yew trees where Is glad to sit, and I wasn't going to ride any further until I'd eaten. But it became obvious what car-drivers had been doing behind the heap of subsoil because of the swarms of flies. I tried as best I could to keep the cheese covered. They even lit on my tea, where I took delight in seeing them scald themselves. I couldn't even stretch-out and relax a while after my hastily and guarded lunch, instead, packing up immediately and making a quick getaway.
I needn't have suffered the flies however, as riding on, it was only a kilometre more to a village, small enough to not be on the map. I rode into a Repsol petrol station on the way in, where the gruff attendant barked "alla" and pointed to the side of the shop when I'd asked was there a water-tap. I filled two coke bottles of water totaling five litres and rolled them inside my roll-mat to keep them cool, and had drank most of the water by evening such was the warm day.
Everything was shut for the afternoon as I rode along the village street, except for bars which it being a Saturday were alive with chatter under their awning covered pavement seating.
The road kept it's high path and the afternoon was pretty uneventful, except for crossing a meridian, aroundabout three o'clock, which I wouldn't have known about if I hadn't of come to a pink coloured sign with the words "Meridiano Cero" and Greenwich underneath in brackets.
At five o'clock, I had reached the tee-junction much looked forward to since lunchtime. And therein lay a dilemma whether to turn right or left. Looking at the map, the road left (or south) took me to where there are lots of green outlined roads: in other words scenic countryside; but, the roads are all thin, white and of a wriggle nature which would suggest small tortuously steep mountain roads I may not be able to handle on my single-speed; or right (north), a mere twenty kilometre to the city of A..., where the main route turns south west. In one last moment's indecision, I rode a few hundred metres south, before u-turning and riding back north, thereby sticking to the straightforward way south west.
The land now fell away on the right of the road with a view down on a dusty dry hollow, with some olive-groves, though mainly dry scrubland and in the middle, a scattering of flat roofed houses amid which was a church with a tall bell-tower, looking somewhat like the cowboys-eye-view down on a Mexican village from the edge of a height.
Descending sharply again and braking in an effort not to go too fast and lose control, with the enevitable feeling of not being able to stop and knowing that it's going to hurt: you think of bailing out, but too late you're being hurled in slow-motion waiting for that unavoidable nasty contact with tarmac, roadrash, blood and stinging pain not to mention potato-crisp-wheels and mangled-bike.
The rear-brake squeeled as I pass down by the first houses terraced up the rocky slope on the inside, while down below was a mellow snaking river with green tree-lined city embankment. I turned off at a roundabout, following a sign for El Centro, and cycle thereafter down a bumpy urban street.
A... was a tranquil, nice place for a city; laid-back, seemingly still siesta though it was half past six. I stopped at a corner on an avenue on the river-front and peered up a narrow cobble-stone street climbing steeply up the hill with open windows letting in the warm evening air. There was a spick-and-span sign here pointing further up the avenue, some type of tourist information sign for accommodation, yellow and blue with an icon, a man with a walking stick and the words "Camino del Santiago". An idea of following the pilgrims trail crossed my mind.
I began again, turning left at the lights, then rode over a bridge spanning the wide river and followed signs for Zaragosa and Terual: cycling through a roundabout then another, passing by the autopista slip-road for Zaragosa and continued on toward Terual. There was a tall crop of maize on one side, olive groves on the other and not much possibility of camping. I would just have to keep going till the next village, fourteen kilometres toward the brown rim of hills ahead. But then I passed the end of the maize, and saw a dry rutted tractor track along the edge of the tall green crop to and beyond a heap of mature. I cycled off and discreetly reached the cover of the heap before the next car came and passed.
The chicken mature was old and dry and as such didn't smell. It was ready to spread on the land after the maize harvest. But this evening it provided cover for the tent from the view of passing cars.
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