Right out of Spaghetti Western.

September 25, 2011

The rain in Spain falls always on the plain: so it's said; just it doesn't fall often enough. And so the maize crop alongside my campsite had a great tubular steel rain-machine spanning over it which set to work at sunset, hissing and raining down on the leafy crop, all-night-long, and was still going-when I woke this morning. I looked out upon the crop, at jets spurting out in an interwoven line, which presently had moved up to the crop's edge where rain overshot soaking the ground just short of the tent.

I retreated into the tent, had breakfast of yesterday's hard bread and the last of the half melted cheese, then began packing everything ready to make it out of the tent. But then I heard a car approach. I thought it was coming to a small concrete house with solar-panels on it's roof close-by which presumably was the irrigation powerhouse. I sat put waiting but the car had stopped. I heard a car door shut, then nothing for what seemed like five minutes when I peeked out but my view was blocked by chicken manure. The silence was broken when, the car-door opened and shut again. The car then started-up and slowly drove away.

Safely hidden from the gaze of the road behind the heap of chicken manure, I was feeling lucky that I'd found my campsite, as there wasn't much potential wild-camping for quite a long way. After fourteen kilometres I cycled through the village of Calanda, then the road followed across scrubland edged by flat tabular hills; and further on, climbed up to and through a gap in a rocky escarpment, dropping down the other side into a valley as arid as what preceded it.

It was ten o'clock and I'd just reached the edge of a small town: Alcarisa, where there was a Repsol petrol station and a cafe. I rode in over the forecourt to the cafes front, left the bike and entered a room full of loud conversation: old men sat round tables over their coffee. I moved into the jollity around the bar, shout, una cafe grande con leche, and returned out to the peace of an outside table under a parasol. The young woman that came out with my coffee, I asked would there be a supermercado open today, replied smugly, "No. No hay nada!" I paid her one Euro ten which is cheap when compared with France, where the same coffee would be two to three Euros. I filled up the water bottles for the day, at the outside tap and bough a big bottle of coke in the shop before riding on through town, whose people too were all out in cafes enjoying Sunday morning coffee.

Coming round to noon, the road climbed again without causing much difficulty, as the gradient was a steady five per cent up to and around rocky escarpment, where it then leveled out and turning a corner a view opened out to the right, down into a great deep hollow and across at towering rocky pillars opposite. It looked straight out of South America, or the American west, the Western Movies even. Is prompted to hum the haunting wailing-cry and bassy guitar themes of such movies as I cycled along in historic time warp of rugged characters in dramatic unearthly country.

Descending down, I turned a corner and saw, a small cluster of flat-roof houses spread around the outside of a sweeping bend ahead. I stopped to take a photograph. Focusing on the white parapet of the first house, there was a figure or something outside the door. Then I saw it was a bike with loaded panniers. I put the camera away and began riding towards the house, thinking that it was just another touring cyclist; But no, there was only one other cyclist on this road, as I came face to face with Maurizio astride his bike with his head turned grinning at my approach.

Last-night he told me, he stayed in Alcarisa in a refugio type hostel. "I saw the sign for berger......" he said something here in German and continued, "... thought why not stay here. I stayed in them when I made my tour to Santiago. I got a wash, charged batteries and this morning had a good breakfast with lots of coffee."

The building we stood outside had the words "Productos Regionales y Artinesales" above the door on the white parapet, with a painting of a pig underneath. To the side of the door on top of crates were boxes of apples and peaches. I picked two peaches and an apple and as I was going in to pay, Maurizio asked, "you stop for lunch here?" I intend to ride on until I find a place in the shade, I told him. "I started late,...and I stop at next village", he said showing me his map, where his index finger trawled a red line and stopped at a circle: Montaban.

Inside the farmer's market, the woman behind the glass counter display of cheeses, hams, chorizo and bacon, smiled when I went to pay and nodded saying "son regales". A customer thinking I'd misunderstood, turned and with a warm smile that reflected the woman's smile, said "gratis": confirming what I'd heard.

Back out the door in the sunshine, Maurizio was no place to be seen. He has cycled on, on-toward Montaban Is thinking, so without any-more-ado, I set off myself, past the other few houses of the village, out the road which straightaway began descending.

The pine-trees that now lined the side and clad the hills about, meant that finding a place in the shade to lunch wouldn't be a problem. I swooped down the hill and began climbing anew. The road, like much of the road-network I've seen so far in Spain is pretty much new: no doubt European Union money is behind it all. Still the old road remains sinuously at the side whereas, the new road cuts straight-through leaving bare rocky cuttings. I ran the bike down the bank and struggled-with-it up onto the cracked deteriorating old road with it's abruptly broken edge through the middle. I was aiming for the pine-trees with shed needles underneath and excess unhindered by steel crash barrier on the inside; and, I'd just unrolled my mat to sit under a tree when, along came Maurizio lurching-head-down slowly up the hill. I called out and he crossed over and stopped at the crash-barrier, as I leap down and quickly scrambled up the bank to meet him. We had what would be our last chat, mainly about his bike, the way ahead and a visa for Mauritania, before I wished him luck and said I would follow his progress on the web.

Two hours past quickly under a tree, having eaten and then relaxed reading a chapter of my book; then glancing at the watch, I saw it was past three o'clock and so it felt an effort after so longer sitting comfortable to get up, pack everything away and set off afresh. The afternoon saw me ride a road which was a triumph of engineering through difficult country; which at one point went over an impressive new viaduct high above a deep gorge. Stopping to gaze over the guard-rail, I saw the old road twist it's way steeply down below and thought of the slow progress I'd been saved, climbing back up again underneath where I stood.

Eventually, the road made a sweeping switch-back descend towards the rooftops and church bell-tower of Montabon at the head of a cultivated valley. Not a soul was abroad, nor were there any cars on the narrow street when I past through. And it was another five kilometres on lifeless straight road past maize fields to a big roundabout where the route split. Straight on went to Madrid, but I cycled round past and rode left toward the valley's high enclosing slopes where before long the road crossed Rio Martin and then followed the river up a narrow gorge.

The sun beat down on me as I slowly ground up and around a succession of bends with enclosing rocky slopes either side. I was glad of the distraction when I turned a corner and came to a nameless village. It was though a steeper climb through the streets pass the coffee-drinkers, business now having opened, and then passing out past the edge of town, I rode towards an imposing wall of a sierra with motionless wind-turbines lined-up-against the sky along it's brow.

There was a Repsol petrol station on the left before I left town proper. I filled up on water and was glad to buy a cold beer. Sitting and drinking in the shade, the music that rang out filling the forecourt was eighty-ish: Men at Work. It brought me back listening to the lines "I met a straight lady. She made me nervous. She took me in and made me breakfast. I come from a land of-ola...."; or, was it the beer was taking it's effect on my dehydrated self. Whatever, there isn't anything so soul soothing as listening to music of your youth.

I didn't quite expect the hardship of the inevitable climb ahead. The sign by the roadside with the wedge showed seven per cent for six kilometres: not for me the most brutal of climbs. On the upwards slope away from the petrol station on the edge of town, I soon came to a sign with a black arrow pointed ahead and a branch split-off left: Barrio Industrial. The road that split-left, ran downhill across the valley to a black hill of spoil by a great, concrete, hulk with a chimney, standing tall and cylindrical with a wisp of white smoke drifting from the top in stark contrast to the wild sierra in the background. I went up past the mine on the left, with the line of wind turbines on the brow ahead, and the yellow line on the map, showed an elbow, but was more a long gradual curve around the slope on the right.

The occasional car laboured up past me. The metal crash-barrier on my right now cast a shadow alongside which Is glad to ride on because it felt a little cooler. Sweat ran down and salt stung my eyes as I ground the little ring gear, while knees ached and leg muscles felt stiff and heavy after the beer, notwithstanding having only drank a can. The curve slowly brought me round parallel with the wind turbine hill whose slow turning blades were now close enough to see thin shadows float across the slope; and glancing back the mine chimney was looking smaller, stuck-up from the middle of the road and, on a subsequent glance-back had disappeared into the slope on the inside. The sign with the wedge reappeared then, with two kilometres now, and after a slow torturous stretch, it cropped up again, this time with one kilometre. Jubilantly, there was no more, no more climbing as I rode through a short tunnel to emerge out on a mesa and come to a halt by a sign: Alt 1520msnm.

Soaked with sweat I suddenly felt a chill, so I pulled on a long-sleeve jersey and put on my rain-jacket. It was now gone seven o'clock and I would have to find a place to camp, but wanted to drop down somewhat as I would most probably wake up freezing cold at this altitude. The road onwards didn't descent though, so I took my chances when I came to a dry stream with dwarf pine-trees on its bank, camping with the expectation of a cold start in the morning.

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