Not quite Walking on Lemons.

October 4, 2011

On Sunday morning, I kept going, west of Murcia following an autoroute service road. Cars swished by westbound and over the central barrier I saw the tops of oncoming eastbound traffic. There where interchanges every few kilometres to negotiate. And generally there was not much to see other than urban-sprawl alternated with vineyards, lemon and olive groves; and there was smog, brown haze beneath blue sky, trapped in the valley by rocky ridges off to either side. In the afternoon I nearly got soaked to the skin, as dark cloud bank closed in from the south, and before long looking over to the left, the hills were veiled in dirty grey as the rain lashed down. From warm sunshine, to sudden darkened sky, I'd to stop and quickly pull on my warm long-sleeve jersey and rain-jacket, as ahead of the storm blew a chilling breeze and soon big rain-drops splattered the asphalt, releasing the familiar smell of fresh rain soaked tar. In the end the rain didn't amount to much but it remained lashing very heavily off to the left.

Monday started with a glimmer of hope that the day would be a turn-around, as I had left the autoroute in it's densely populated valley behind and was cycling towards more sparsely peopled country. I had entered Andelucia. I read a book once about the region: "Walking on Lemons", in which the author's descriptions of wild mountain scenery and isolated rural places inspired me. Nice to be inspired as an armchair traveler...

Cactus growning wild by the roadside: perhaps originally brough back from America.

Andelucia in the afternoon sun, with paper-white white-out.

...In reality it is the land of the Spanish Villa; evident by hearing English accents and signs in English in two villages past through in the coarse of the morning. And it's perhaps an easy place for them to get around as they drive everywhere. Meanwhile all of the forenoon, I laboured up steep little hills that made the ride up the deep valley Is in really hard work. Between one and two, I reached a lone mountain, visible ahead of me all morning, which reared up at the head of the valley, a giant with steep scree slopes, vertical crags and a table top. The road scaled halfway up up beneath cliffs instead of following a path around the lower slopes which would of been easier. But what do I know about road-building. There was of course a reprieve and much fun after that. The road descended gradually through a pine forest. I had thought to camp but it was only three o'clock. Riding out of the pine trees, still gradually downhill, the road ahead stretching ever so gently down in a long long straight line, bottoming out, then could be seen rising again in a long straight line off into the distance.

That evening, writing in the tent by torchlight I could write that the afternoon had definitely been much better.

Early this morning, I pushed the bike from where I had camped, through the pine plantation back to the road, and cruised down yet another long gradually descend, following my long shadow, cast by the rising sun behind me. About an hour later, approaching the village Huescar having freewheeled most of the way, I was frostily cold and felt a tingle of static electricity in numb fingers when I extended and bent them braking.

I stopped as I needed to stock-up for the day ahead. I've found in Spain that Supermercados don't exactly stand out. I usually expect to spend some time riding around looking. Riding to and fro along narrow cobble-stone streets, still icy cold in shade at half past nine, I before long politely stopped and asked a woman whom directed me to the plaza where there was a small Supermercado, discreetly located in a traditional town house between a bank and an estate agents. I bough what I needed to make a sandwich for lunch, pasta in the evening, water, a bottle of coke and a carton of red wine. I then sat on a bench in the plaza and snacked on pain au chocolate while studying the map: seeing that the road ahead was straight at first, then folds back and forth on top of itself like an intestine which would indicate that, it climbs or descends dramatically.

I packed everything in the trailer-bag and it was visibly heavier as I rode away, being now laden down by six litres of fluids including the coke and wine which would be necessary when the day warmed up, as there was no telling where the next shop would be.

The straight road away from my morning village stop as indicated on the map.

The road away was indeed straight as a die, with a single row of tall trees either side much of the way, providing a corridor of shade for which they were originally planted. But shortly before noon it rose up a hillside to the edge of a precipice. I halted there looking ahead, down into a great hollow which explained why the road showed so folded on the map earlier. From where I stood astride the bike, contemplating the other side rise out of the depths below, across at the faint line of the road I would have to climb up again, and to think, to descent so far down only to have to climb tortuously up and out again.

First of the road dropped and then leveled out, continuing along a ledge below the rim, where my eyes were naturally drawn down into the hollow and across at the slopes opposite. Turning a corner the road dropped steeply again, and coming into view ahead were, rows upon rows of glass fronted and gleaming white holiday homes built up against the inside, like a steep stairway fit for a giant. I was hanging on the brakes the whole-way, not to go too fast and lose control on the sharp bends as I spiraled down to the village Arco. I passed down the steep street: each shop-front at the side lower than the preceding with steps down connecting the pavement in front of each property. As it was around half twelve, the street was bustling, with people under cafe awnings and sat at tables under parasols. I didn't stop nor slow much, squealing on the brake once as a pedestrian strolled in-front, apparently not seeing me.

A grove of some kind of something from the pines I took shelter to lunch.

Just after passing the village's last house, the road leveled out and ahead it climbed gradually while curving-round toward the sloping concrete ramparts of a dam which closed off the valley ahead. I could see that the road crossed the dam-wall to where it began to zig-zag up, feeling relieved since I had descended barely halfway, it still being quite a way down. The road approached a dark tunnel pipe which was nothing more than a short concrete-lined hole through the rock out upon the dam-wall. I was thinking of lunching there in the shade of the rock looking over the placid blue waters of the reservoir, but anxious to climb if not all, part of the road which wound it's way up from the dam before it got much warmer, and before I'd drank some wine.

The climb had me out of the saddle from the start, struggling to turn the single-speed gear which this climb was too steep for, while sweat welled in my eyes, and eyes stung. I struggled on up past olive groves and when it seemed I was halfway, decided to lunch at the side under a clump of dwarf pines. I remained in the cool shade enjoying the wine and reading my book for nearly two hours before starting afresh.

With not many more bends to go, a view back the way I came past the resevior.

Sometime around four o'clock saw me descend again through tall pine forest, carefully taking my eyes off the road to glance down through gaps in the trees at a narrow aqua-marine lake which filled the bottom of the valley; yet another reservoir, the road eventually past along the top of the dam, then down to a small town called Pozo.....

After four in the afternoon, I descend to a village Pozo.....with the opportunaty of a cold drink on my mind but the shops are still shut.

I braked to a halt at a roundabout with a gushing fountain in it's middle, pushing the bike into the shade of a municipal shrubbery on the roundabout's outside. I Looked at the map, deciding that the road to a place called Quesado was the road for me, but it wasn't shown on the signs at this roundabout. All my water was warm and undrinkable while listening to the plopping sound the fountain made. A cold beer then would be like a dream, even cold water would. Just then, a man walked over to what until then looked to be an iron bollard a few metres away. He stooped down over it, then pressed at something while his mouth opened to receive squirting water. I just stirred. By the time he'd drank his fill, he was aware of me watching, turning his head still jaw-ajar and eyes wide open, met my stir. I uttered a hesitant "hola" to no response; instead, he straightening up, turned and walked away seemingly somewhat mystified at the weirdo by the water font.

I drank my fill of cold water but still craved a cold beer. Cycling through the middle of town I past a supermercado still with shutters down at quarter to five, past cafes which were open but I didn't want to pay over two Euros something for a small beer when a can costs so little, as little as fifty cents. I kept cycling and saw the sign for Quesado leaving town, prepared to forgo the desired cold beer. But barely a kilometre onwards there was a petrol station, where I savoured that cool beer sat on the curb out on the forecourt.

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