I sort of knew before opening the tent; knew from how dull it was, that the morning would be cloudy. Then standing outside first thing looking at the sky, see rain: a dark curtain of diagonal shafts moving in off to the east, moving my way.

My tent and sleeping-bag is a nice crisp dry after setting up camp early yesterday, everything having remained damp since the last rain a few days ago.

I am on the road in nice time, hoping to reach Avila well before midday, when a late breakfast would be welcome. And hopefully find a bike shop and keep my word about buying a helmet, I gave to the Garda Civil man. Brake-pads are sorely necessary also, as I descend the remainder of the way down to the plain, where it is all crop stubble, or cultivated with next year's cereal crop in the ground, not an easy place to camp, which is why I had stopped early yesterday, where it was wooded to the sides high up.

Heart

0

Comment

0

Link

Log in to comment or reply

Once down on the level, it is a good straight road and the kilometres count down rapidly, from one national road kilometre marker to the next, while rain envelope hills off to my right.

Even though I've come down a fair bit, I'm still about a thousand metres about sea-level, or well over three-thousand feet; which, is higher than the highest mountaintops in Ireland; and those hills to the side are about five-thousand feet in old money. While it is sunless here, dull with the coming rain, there's a chill in the air. I can only imagine what winter is like; certainly harsh, with hard frosts and snow.

Nearing the city, I remember this is where I crossed on my way north during my 2011 tour, coming in from the south on a N502, which come in at an angle on my right and I've just pasted where it converses and am now on the same road.

Avila is another walled citadel crowning a hilltop with a wall continuing down the slope on this side alongside which, the turnoff to the centre climbs, the final bit upon cobblestones. There is a big tourist presences, with a big tour-group walking behind a guide with a raised un-open brolly to show where she is to those at the tail-end, as the line presses on along the crowded pavement. And a motorised sightseeing train with toy locomotive.

I pass a few expensive looking eating places and continue until coming to a more down to earth café, with a few locals sat on stools by the bar. where I have tostas, (toast) with butter and jam with my coffee. Then spot a free wifi logo on the glass door. So go out to the bike and get my computer, come back, get the code from the girl behind the bar who points out a power-point to plug the computer in to charge, while having a look at this site and checking out hostels in Madrid. I download maps for two.

The sun breaks through for a while as I sit inside. I order a second coffee and a big slice of apple cake, intent on making this do for lunch as it is now after one.

I reckon it would take too much time cycling around looking for a bike shop and any way, I've come this far without a helmet and I've only got one more day riding in Spain. I don't want to be packing a helmet when I fly to South America. I will be only packing necessaries and getting rid of stuff I deem I won't need, or can cheaply replace, in order to get all my gear in the bike box alongside my bike. The more I tour, the less I realise I need and helmets are one of those things.

The road on, CL505 (for the province of Castel & Leon), climbs off up to open moorland with a steady eighteen kilometres long climb and the rain is soon on, spitting at first, steadily increasing to persistent and heavy. The few cars that pass, pass in a slosh of black soaked road. And a row of wind-turbine to the side are barely visible in the fog of low caressing dirty grey cloud. All around is treeless and bleak.

Just after summiting and the beginning of a hellish descent with my spongy brakes just about slowing me, no more, I pass through the village of La Cañada, where I'm hoping there is a hotel, but there is none.

Further down the road enters forest, where I duck in and after a scout around for a level spot, quickly pitch the tent.

This evening as I write, the rain still hasn't let up. I've left myself with ninety kilometres to Madrid to ride tomorrow and I forebode waking in the morning to the patter of rain still on my tent.