September 8, 2009
Cafayate
The hotel was the first place to stay on the way into Cafayate as darkness set in yesterday evening. I am the only guest and apart from the woman who set-up breakfast this morning and then made the bed and hoovered, I've nobody to talk to and it's been a bit boring, The owner, I cannot talk to him: he's a grumpy overweight bald man who speaks with a croak through laboured breathing. Life hasn't it seems treated him well. There's reminders about the place of what was once a florishing cosy hotel which now is a shadow of it's former self, as the paint is flakey, there's cobwebs in the restaurant and grime in the kitchen.
I set about doing some jobs on the bike first thing in the courtyard at the rear; replacing the front tyre with my spare tyre as I've been needing to put air in the front wheel in the mornings and again before starting in the afternoon for a week now: a slow puncture which I discovered to be caused by the tyre's inside being damaged from a previous thorn puncture, the rough bit having corroded into the innertube. The back wheel I deflated to check that no part of the innertube was stuck underneath the tyre's stiff beading against the rim. There was as I expected a long thin strip showing; so, I reinflated the tube a few blasts of air, enough that it filled the shape of the tyre. Then with both hands using fingers and thumbs, which were still raw after yesterday, I levered the tyre up off the rim increasing the space between beading and rim so that the offening rubber sticking out popped back into place. I put both wheels back on the bike again and pushed the bike through the hotel reception, out to the street. I needed to fine a bike shop.
The day was overcast grey with an icy chill wind, reminding me of when Is last in Northern Iceland. There the wind was cutting when it came from the north west, straight off the Greenland icecap. Today in Cafayate people were rapped up warmly, some wearing balaclavas against the chill wind. I wore both my fleeces one over the other, my rainjacket, trousers over cycling-tights, a winter wooly hat and ski-glovers. I cycled along the street towards the plaza, as I remember previously seeing a bike-hire place just one block before the plaza. When I got there the proprietor who was also mechanic, broke off from repairing a puncture and took up my rear wheel and with the proper tool plus an adjustable spanner, tightened the cassette's lock-ring, which remember had worked itself loose yesterday. I bought an innertube by way of thanks as the job was too small for payment.
I cycled back and then out to the winery by the turn-off for Salta on the town's northern margen. Farther north I could see snow sprinkled mountains peeping over brown haze, looked like a sand storm in that direction. The rows of vines were totally bare as it was not yet the growing season. I headed up the main drive and into the big white colonial era building with its arched colonade veranda and domed church tower. Inside there were rows of oak vats and the fruity smell of fermenting grapes. Through a door in the next room was a roller convere and the hum of the bottling plant. By myself there wasn't much more I could see and minutes later, back outside before returning to town, I walked round the side for a final look and saw stacked pallets and then the loading bay where a forklift was conveying a heavy leaden pallet of boxed wine with a low whine as it drove inside the back of a truck. At the end of my travels I thought I would return as part of a guided tour and find what it is that makes the Cafayate wine.
| Rate this entry's writing | Heart | 0 |
| Comment on this entry | Comment | 0 |