To Llançà

October 31, 2024

So is it Llanca, or Llançà? I listened to a couple of pronunciation clips - of the Spanish version (on the left), which is pronounced like Yonka with the accent on the first syllable; and the Catalan version, which is pronounced Yontsa, with the accent on the second. And which should we use here? This helpful hint clarified the situation for us when we crossed the border from France on the climb from Portbou:

So that’s clarifying. The Catalans are our hosts for the next few weeks and seem to care, so we’ll go with their version.

But that’s getting ahead of things so let’s go back and catch up: back to this morning, when we were deciding whether to leave our apartment in time to bike back to Argelès-sur-Mer to catch the train (for my sixth crossing over those two annoying ridges!); or better yet, back to the day before yesterday when we were deciding whether to take the train today at all, for rhe record setting twenty-ninth time on this tour.

Several considerations went into this decision, but the main one was deciding whether we should just bike the whole way from here to Llançà, something we likely would have done even two or three years ago. It’s not an especially long ride at 26 miles, but it comes with a lot of pain - nearly 3,000’ of climbing as the road along the gorgeous Vermillion Coast climbs steeply over one headland after another before dropping to the sea again at each of the half dozen towns tucked into the intervening coves here.

You’ll surely have noticed that Team Anderson pretty much scrapped the idea of challenging rides like this when we’re carrying a load, going back at least a few months to when we left the Netherlands. Sickness didn’t help of course - it just didn’t seem smart to do much strenuous cycling when I was recovering from pneumonia - and there’s no denying that aging has slowed us both down in the last few years. A really significant consideration though is that riding a bike has gotten painful for Rachael recently. It especially hurts her right wrist, and we’re wondering if she’s getting arthritis. She’ll be speaking to a doctor about it when we get home, and we might try fitting her bike with flat handlebars rather than the drop ones she’s always ridden to see if taking the pressure off helps. She loves hiking now of course, but wrist pain is one of the main reasons she seldom bikes now except on travel days.

So biking across the lumpy eastern snout of the Pyrenees is out, given that the train is an convenient option. When we planned out this part of the tour we assumed we’d take the train from Collioure to Portbou and then bike the last seven miles to Llançà from there, but when we tried to purchase tickets through the SNCF app two days ago we were surprised to find that the train didn’t actually stop in Collioure. It looked like we’d need to bike back to Argelès and board there - so a 12 mile ride, five back to Argelès, train to Portbou, and then seven more to Llançà. We plunked down our €3 each for seats on the 11:13 train, and informed our hosts here that we’d leave at ten this morning. They’re fine with that, and say they’ll be over at ten to pick up the keys.

That was yesterday. This morning though, we think about the schedule some more and decide we’ve cut things too close. I message our hosts that we want to leave by 9:30 instead. They’re fine with that and say they’ll be over at 9:20 to pick up the keys.

And then it finally occurs to me to check the weather and I see that unexpectedly the skies look like this in Collioure this morning:

I think we can afford to wait this one out.

It’s supposed to start raining at nine, continuing until noon or one with the threat of thunderstorms. Trains leave for Portbou about every two hours all day long, so it makes no sense to bike the five miles to Argelès in the rain. We’ll just wait it out, so I send a third message to our hosts apologizing for our flightiness but we don’t want to leave until 11 now, the latest option they offer. They’re fine with that and say they’ll be over at eleven to pick up the keys.

And finally, almost immediately after we hear back from them Rachael brings up the SNCF app to see when later trains leave, and we’re both surprised to see that in fact the train does stop in Collioure, which changes everything. It’s not a five mile ride in the rain that’s at stake now, it’s just a few hundred yards. So I steel myself for the embarrassment of contacting the hosts again that now we want to leave at ten, and we really, really mean it this time. They’re fine with that and say they’ll be over at ten to pick up the keys.

And they are, and we’re out the door on the way to the station a few minutes later, happy that it’s dry for the moment. We say our cheerful goodbyes and thank them for hosting us when we leave, but really I don’t think I want to see these folks again.

Five or ten minutes later we arrive at the very comfortable, virtually empty Collioure train station, hang out there for about an hour, and then enjoy probably the least stressful train journey of the whole tour. The train is virtually empty, it’s an easy roll on/roll off situation, no sweat.

Very comfortable; and there’s even a clean, free rest room for us to use while we wait.

We anxiously wait for our train to appear, hoping it arrives before the sky breaks open.

Not sure what’s happening here, but I think she’s comparing our two made in the USA bikes and wondering why hers has an American flag decal and mine doesn’t.

We arrive at Portbou a half hour later and are soon coasting steeply down to the center of town. I consider steering us out of the way to the waterfront for a look at the spot where we were forced to stay overnight here 27 years ago because we locked our bikes together on the waterfront while we had lunch but lost the key, but think better of it. Its still my favorite story from all our travels though (best told here), and the image of two topless women walking on their hands and knees patting the sand helping us look for the lost key is as clear in my mind now as it was nearly three decades ago.

Deadlocked in Port Bou, after losing the key to our U-bolt. This is perhaps my favorite travel story of all time - it ranks up there with the time I locked Rachael in a dank outhouse in France and had to carve the lock out of the door with my Swiss Army knife to liberate her.

In the Portbou station, a surprisingly large one for such a small town. It’s a border control point, with both Spanish and French police standing guard. It’s also a transition point: French trains come and go to the east, and Spanish/Catalan ones to the west. There are no thru trains though because the rail gauges change at the border.

I probably soft-pedaled the climb out of Portbou to Rachael or she might have lobbied for transferring to the Catalan train for the final seven miles because it’s actually a stiff climb. And the Garmins make it look much worse than it actually is - about five hundred feet in the next mile - because Garmin doesn’t know that we’re lopping off the top 300 feet by going through a series of three tunnels. I’m feeling the threat of another volley of Rockydarts®️ aimed at my back until we round a bend and see the first tunnel ahead, and then the threat recedes.

Too warm for a climb like this, so we stop and shed our rain jackets. If this were a clearer shot you could see the road dropping steeply in the distance after crossing the last headland in France, between Cerbere and Portbou. At least we’re not climbing that one too today or I’d really be in trouble.

Spain or Catalonia, either way there’s a climb ahead.

Sound track: Twilight On Prince George's Avenue, by John Fahey

Looking down on tiny Portbou and its little bay.

Hooray! Actually, it’s thanks to the Classens that we’ve come this way since they did it last year and claimed the tunnels were safe. In our first time through I’m pretty sure we went over the top on the older high road.

Seven miles later we’re done with that climb and then a second but easier one and finally drop into Llançà, our work done for the day. It’s 1:30, and we stop for lunch at the first attractive menu we see posted when we bike into town along the waterfront. We can’t check in to our apartment for another two hours so we settle in for a long stay. We split a salad and enjoy our mains, and then I hold the table while Rachael walks to the grocery store to provision us for our stay at the apartment.

When she returns I order a dessert for us to share - we ask for tiramisu but it’s not available today so we settle for chocolate mousse, a treat for me but one Rachael just tolerates so I’m stuck with most of it. And then I order a coffee to buy us some more time and then finally we leave so the manager can close up for the afternoon. And we both remember to say adios instead of au revoir when we leave, because we’ve crossed a language border today too.

First Catalan restaurant in over eight months.

While we wait for our orders to arrive I walk out onto the beach for a first look.

The view east toward France. Things look better here.

We’ll have to take a walk out to the small headland one of these evenings to see if we can catch a sunset.

Cordero and chips. We’ve crossed a cuisine border too.

For those chocolate mousse fans out there.

Rachael always laughs when I order one of these thimble-sized espressos at the end of a meal.

We’re about twenty minutes early when we arrive at our apartment, but our host comes right down when we call. He warns us that he’s just finished the room and the floor is still damp, but we’re fine with that.

We’ve been apprehensive about this place ever since Rachael read the fine print on our booking and saw that we need to have €200 in cash handy as a deposit when we arrive, a detail we overlooked when we made the booking or we’d have probably looked elsewhere. It’s not a problem though, once the owner sees we have arrived by bike. It turns out he’s a biker also, doesn’t actually care if we leave a deposit, and is very simpatico. I take my bike up the one floor to our apartment in the small elevator that’s happily here, while he carries Rachael’s loaded bike up the stairs.

And the apartment is excellent. Spacious, clean, the heat works, it’s all on one level (we lost track of how many times we went up and down the stairs back in Collioure, but it was way too many), is comfortably furnished, and has a nice view of the beach only two blocks away. We’ll be here four nights, which at the moment sounds like an outstanding plan.

This should work fine for the next four nights.

Today's ride: 8 miles (13 km)
Total: 4,547 miles (7,318 km)

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Patrick O'HaraThat "Liar" video is pure gold. I could almost see the Rockydarts sticking out of your back~all couples who tour understand that sometimes darts do get flung.
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1 month ago

Rachael AndersonTo Patrick O'HaraThanks. I think I need to replenish my Rocky darts. I’m sure glad I have my GoPro!
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1 month ago

Ben ParkeYou know, Azub makes a recumbent called the Origami that folds and fits conveniently in a Tern Airporter suitcase. I used one for a couple tours in Europe before switching to riding velomobile. Dual 20” wheels like your Bike Fridays and would entirely take the pressure off Rocky’s poor wrists. Just a thought. She’d probably still shoot rocky darts at you for stiff climbs though.
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1 month ago